Sacrament

'No, I'm just trying to understand what's gone on between you.'

'He murdered Sherwood. That makes him my enemy. But if I had a knife in my hand now, and he was standing in front of me, I couldn't kill him. Not any more.'

'That's pretty much what I thought you'd say,' Frannie said. She had come to a halt and now pointed across the road. 'I spy a fish and chip shop.'

'Before we get to the fish and chips, I want us to finish this conversation. It's important you feel you can trust me.'

'I do. I think. I suppose I'd prefer that you were ready to kill him on sight after what he did. But that wouldn't be very Christian of me. The thing is, we're just ordinary people-'

'No, we're not.'

'I am.'

'You wouldn't be here-'

'I am,' she insisted. 'Really, Will. I'm an ordinary person. When I think about what I'm doing here it puts the fear of God into me. I'm not ready for this; not even a little. I go to church every Sunday; and I listen to the sermon; and do my best to be a good Christian woman for the next seven days. That's the limit of my religious experience.'

'But that's what this is,' Will said. 'You know that, don't you?'

She looked past him. 'Yes. I know that's what this is,' she said. 'I just don't know if I'm ready for that.'

'If we were ready it wouldn't be happening to us,' Will said. 'I think

we have to be afraid. At least a little. We have to feel as if we're out of our depth.'

'Oh Lord,' she said, expelling the words on a sigh. 'Well, we are that.'

'I was hungry when we started this conversation,' Will said. 'Now I'm ravenous.'

'So we can eat?'

'We can eat.'

There were delicious decisions to be made in the fish and chip shop. Fresh haddock or fresh skate? A glutton's portion of chips, or one size larger? Bread and butter with that? And salt and vinegar? And, perhaps the most significant choice of them alclass="underline" whether to eat it on the premises (there was a row of plastic-topped tables along one wall, beneath a mirror decorated with painted fish) or to have it wrapped in yesterday's Scottish Times and devour it al fresco, sitting on the harbour wall? They decided on the former, for practicality's sake. It would be easier to study the brochures Will had been given if they were sitting at a table. But the brochures were neglected for the next fifteen minutes while they ate. It wasn't until Will had subdued the ache in his belly that he started to flip through the Guide to the Islands. It wasn't very illuminating: just a predictably fulsome description of the glories of the Western Isles: their unspoiled beaches, their peerless fishing, their breathtaking scenery. There were thumbnail sketches of each of the islands, accompanied in several cases by a photograph. Skye was 'the island famed in song and legend'; Bute boasted 'the most spectacular Victorian mansion house in Britain'; Tiree, 'whose name means the granary of the islands, is a birdspotter's paradise'.

'Anything interesting?' Frannie asked him.

'Just the usual patter,' Will said.

'You've got ketchup round your mouth.'

Will wiped it off, his gaze returning to the brochure as he did so. What was it about the island of Tiree that kept drawing his attention? Tiree is the most fertile of the inner Hebrides, the brochure said, the granary of the islands.

'I'm so full,' Frannie said.

'Look at this,' Will said, turning the brochure in Frannie's direction and pushing it across the littered table.

'Which part?' she said.

'The piece about Tiree.' She scanned it quickly. 'Does it mean anything to you?'

She shook her head. 'No, I don't believe so. Birdspotting ... white, sandy beaches. It all sounds very nice, but-'

'Granary of the islands!' Will said suddenly, snatching the brochure up. 'That's it! Granary!' He got up.

'Where are we going?'

'Back to the car. We need your book about Simeon!'

The streets had emptied in the time they'd been dining; the windowshoppers returned to their hotels for a night-cap, the lovers to their bed. Rosa had returned too. She was sitting on the pavement with her back to the harbour wall.

'Does the Island of Tiree mean anything to you?' Will asked her. She shook her head.

Frannie had the book out of the car and was flicking through it. 'I remember a lot of references to Rukenau's island,' she said, 'but there weren't any specifics.' She passed it over to Will.

He took it over to the harbour wall, and sat down.

'You smell satisfied,' Rosa remarked. 'Did you eat?'

'Yes,' he said. 'Should we have brought you something?'

She shook her head. 'I'm fasting,' she replied. 'Though I was tempted by some of the fish they were hauling in off the jetty.'

'Raw?' Frannie said.

'It's best that way,' Rosa replied. 'Steep was always good at catching fish. He'd step into a river and tickle them into a stupor-'

'Got it!' Will said, waving the book. 'Here it is!' He paraphrased the passage for Frannie's benefit. Hoping to rediscover a place in Rukenau's affections, Simeon had planned a symbolic painting; one that showed his sometime patron standing amongst piles of grain, 'as befits his island'. 'That's the connection, right there!' he said. 'Rukenau's island is Tiree. Look! It's a granary, just the way Simeon was going to paint it.'

'That's pretty flimsy evidence,' Frannie observed.

Will refused to be deflated. 'It's the place. I know it's the place,' he said. He tossed Dwyer's book over to Frannie and dug the timetable out of his pocket to consult it. 'Tomorrow morning's sailing is to Coll and Tiree, via Tobermory,' he grinned. 'Finally,' he said. 'We got lucky.'

'Do I take it from all this yelping that you know where we're going?' Rosa said.

'I think so,' Will said. He went down on his haunches beside her. 'Will you get back into the car now? You're not doing yourself any favours sitting down there.'

'I'll have you know some Good Samaritan tried to give me money for a bed,' she said to him.

'And you took it,' Will said.

'You know me so well,' Rosa replied wryly, and opened her fist to show him the coinage.

With a little more persuasion Rosa finally consented to be returned to the car, and there the three of them passed what remained of the night. Will slept better than he expected to, doubled up in the driver's seat. He woke only once, his bladder full, and as quietly as he could he got out of the car to relieve himself. It was four-fifteen, and the ferry that would take them out to the islands in the morning, The Claymore, had docked. There were already men at work on deck, and on the quay, loading cargo and preparing for the early sailing. Otherwise, the town was still; the Esplanade deserted. He pissed lavishly in the gutter, scrutinized only by three or four gulls who were idling the night away on the harbour wall. The fishing boats would be coming in soon, he guessed, and they'd have fish scraps to breakfast on. Before returning to the car he lit a cigarette, and begging the pardon of the gulls, sat on the wall gazing out into the dark water that lay beyond the harbour lights. He felt curiously content with his lot. The cold smell of the water, the hot sharp smoke in his lungs; the sailors preparing The Claymore for her little voyage: all were pieces of his happiness. So too was the presence he felt in him as he sat watching the water: the fox spirit whose senses sharpened his, and who was wordlessly advising him: take pleasure, my man. Enjoy the smoke and the silence and the silken water. Take pleasure not because it's fleeting, but because it exists at all.

He finished his cigarette and went back to the car, slipping back into his seat without waking Frannie, whose face was lolling against the window in sleep, her breath rhythmically misting the cold glass. Rosa also appeared to be asleep, but he was not so certain she wasn't pretending, a suspicion he had confirmed when he himself had started to doze again, and heard her whispering at the very limit of audibility behind him. He could not grasp what she was saying, and was too weary to think about it, but just as sleep took him, in one of those flashes of lucidity which come at such times, he deciphered the syllables she was speaking. She was reciting a list of names. And something about the fond way she spoke them, interspersing the list with a sigh here, or oh my sweet there, made him think these were not people she'd met along the way. They were her children. This then was the thought that carried him into sleep: that Rosa was remembering her dead children as she waited for the day, and was reciting their names in the dark, like a prayer that had no text; just a list of the divinities to whom it was directed