FÀILTE GU EILEAN CILL MARAIGH

WELCOME TO THE ISLE OF KILMERAY

My teeth started to chatter as Jaz drove us west along the only road. Away from the lights of Urbost on the southeast coast, population sixty-six, and towards the only other village on this island of two and a half by one and a half miles. Older and smaller, and on a windy headland called Longness, population less than twenty. Blairmore. Goosebumps broke out on my skin as we turned into its only street, Jaz finally stopping outside this pub – long and white with black-painted eaves strung with fairy lights. Too many people moving around inside its bright windows. Its white sign grey in the rapidly fading light: AM BLÀR MÒR.

‘Blàr means “battle” and mòr means “big”. No one knows much more than that, but that’s the islands for you. Mystery is the mother of exaggeration.’ His grin was as oblivious to my chattering teeth and the weight in my stomach as my sudden and desperate urge to say, I know. Because I haven’t just been here before, I’ve been having nightmares about this place my whole life.

And that was when I stopped trying to distract myself with what little I actually knew about the island – its geography and demography – and started trying to tell myself instead that maybe it’d be all right. Maybe no one would remember me. Maybe I could somehow do what I was here to do without them finding out. I didn’t believe it for a second then, either.

The crowded bar lounge is a cosy space with a vast open fire, red walls, dark wood tables, and cushioned stools. I feel both weary and uneasy as I look around, trying to avoid catching anyone’s gaze. Jaz nudges my elbow, making me jump. He nods towards a large group of people on the other side of the room. Most of them are young, the tables around them crowded with half-empty glasses and crisp packets.

‘Archaeologists from Glasgow Uni,’ he says. ‘That was me many moons ago. Came over as a student to work on the Cladh Dubh burial site out near West Point. Was only supposed to be there six months, and here I still am.’ He laughs, shakes his head. ‘They’re reopening the dig. So you’re not the only newbie.’ Another grin. ‘Why don’t you have a drink while I go get Kelly? She’ll be upstairs in her flat.’

I don’t want a drink. After three train journeys, a delayed flight from Stansted, an eleven-hour bus ride from Glasgow, and a ferry from Ullapool, I’m so knackered I feel like I could sleep standing up. Drinking, never mind socialising, feels completely beyond me.

‘Thanks for picking me up, it was really kind of you.’

‘No worries. A taxi would’ve skinned you alive.’

He gives me one last smile before he heads towards a door marked STAFF ONLY. I turn around reluctantly. The bar itself is relatively empty. Two men in fishing gear – yellow bib and brace trousers over thermal vests and safety boots – sit hunched on stools at its other end.