19 Cyrus

19

It's still too early for the Waterfront Inn to be open. The pavement outside has been hosed down and two men in soiled jeans and threadbare sweaters are washing the windows, leaving soap suds at the corners of the glass. Both are smoking roll-your-own cigarettes and talking to each other in a language that I don't recognise.

I wish them good morning and they lower their heads. I remember the illegal camp near Rattray Lighthouse and wonder how many businesses are hiring undocumented migrants and what they're paying them. There must be a labour hire company or a broker organising the workers.

The rear entrance to the pub is in an alley lined with industrial bins and empty beer kegs awaiting collection. A woman appears carrying a rubbish bag in each hand. She tosses them into a wheelie bin and wipes her hands on the back of her jeans, gazing towards the harbour where Filipino crewmen are repairing fishing nets.

The woman returns to the pub, but I manage to wedge my foot in the door before it closes. Stepping inside, I smell the cooking fat and bottled gas and soapy water of a kitchen. Copper pots hang from hooks above the bench and a meat sauce is bubbling on the stove. Chilli con carne.

The woman is cutting up vegetables on a scarred wooden table that reminds me of a piece of polished bone or bleached driftwood.

‘We're not open,' she says, without looking up. ‘There's a café on the corner that does a full Scottish – haggis, tattie scones, eggs, bacon.'

‘Sounds like a heart attack on a plate,' I say.

‘Aye, that's why Scottish life expectancy is falling.' She finally makes eye contact. ‘How can I help you?'

‘My name is Cyrus Haven. I was looking for Sean Murdoch.'

‘He's sleeping.'

‘Are you Mrs Murdoch?'

‘Aye, close enough. I'm Isla Collie.'

‘Any relation to Maureen?'

‘She's my auntie.'

‘Sean helped a friend of mine two nights ago. He walked her back to our guest house. I wanted to thank him.'

‘How did Evie pull up?'

‘Hungover. Embarrassed. She says she's never drinking again.'

Isla smiles. ‘Ah've heard that before. I might have said it myself once or twice.'

I don't move. The silence drags out. ‘I'll pass on your thanks to Sean,' she adds.

‘I'd rather do it personally.'

‘Like I said – he's sleeping.'

‘He used to be a fisherman?'

‘Aye.'

‘Twelve years ago, he skippered a trawler called Neetha Dawn. It rescued the survivors of the Arianna II.'

‘My brother was among them,' says Isla. ‘And my cousins.'

‘The Neetha Dawn picked up another survivor – a nine-year-old girl.'

A different emotion enters her eyes. She reaches for her phone, which is resting on the counter near the knives. She makes a call. Cups the mouthpiece.

‘There's a guy here asking about the Arianna.'

She nods quietly, acknowledging an unseen voice. ‘Yeah, that's him.'

I hear footsteps on the ceiling above our heads and the creaking of weight on the stairs. Moments later, a man appears in the doorway. Half asleep, with pillow creases on his right cheek, he's shirtless, wearing blue sweatpants that sag at the crotch. A short wooden truncheon is hanging from a strap around his right wrist.

‘Who the fuck are you?' he asks.

‘Cyrus Haven. I wanted to talk about the Arianna. You picked up the survivors.'

‘Ancient history. Get out of mah pub.'

‘How did you know that Evie came from Nottingham?'

‘She told me.'

‘No.'

Murdoch takes a step towards me. He flicks his wrist and the truncheon swings into the palm of his hand with a slap.

‘Fuck off! And take the runt of the litter with you.'

Moments later, I'm outside, moving away, hearing his voice call after me.

‘Yeah, that's right. Don't walk. Run.'