Chapters (43)
- Pronunciation
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Acknowledgments
I felt anger blinding me. All that I had left of my mother was gone. Her ring with the intertwining serpents. Lost for ever. And Peter’s album of cigarette packets. All ties to the past severed for eternity. Burned in petty revenge by Mr. Anderson.
Had I been able, I would have killed that man and never had a moment’s regret.
Twelve
Twelve
Fin was a little uncomfortable. It felt strange to be back in this house, filled as it was with so many childhood memories. The house where he and Artair had been tutored by Mr. Macinnes. The house where they had played as children, best friends since the time they could first walk. A house filled with dark secrets that both had kept by unspoken assent.
To Marsaili it was just the house where she lived. Where she had spent twenty thankless years married to a man she didn’t love, caring for his invalid mother, bringing up their son.
On their return from Stornoway she had invited Fin to eat with her and Fionnlagh, and he had accepted gratefully, spared from the can of soup he had planned to heat on his tiny gas camping stove.
Although it was still light outside, low black cloud had brought a premature end to the day. A fierce wind whistled around doors and windows, driving rain against the glass in unrelenting waves, blowing smoke down the chimney in the sitting room and filling the house with the stinging, toasted scent of peat.
Marsaili had prepared the meal in silence, and Fin had guessed that her whole conscious being was filled with something like guilt for having abandoned her father to a strange bed in a strange place where he knew no one.
“You’re good with him,” she said suddenly, without turning. She kept her focus on the pot on the hob.
Fin sat at the table with a glass of beer. “What do you mean?”
“With my dad. Like you were experienced in dealing with dementia.”
Fin sipped at his beer. “Mona’s mother suffered from early-onset Alzheimer’s, Marsaili. A slow deterioration. Not too bad at first. But then she had a fall and broke her hip, and they hospitalized her at the Victoria Infirmary in Glasgow, and put her in a geriatric ward.”
Marsaili wrinkled her nose. “Bet that wasn’t much fun for her.”
“It was disgusting.” The depth of feeling in his voice made her turn. “It was like something out of Dickens. The place stank of shit and urine, people crying out in the night. Staff who sat on her bed, blocking her view of the TV that she was paying for, watching soap operas while colostomy bags overflowed.”
“Oh my God!” The horror was painted on Marsaili’s face.