None but the Dead by Lin Anderson Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lin Anderson
pot. To cover his discomfort, he immediately set about opening a bottle and pouring the golden
liquid into two glasses. ‘God, it’s wild out there.’
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Rory said. ‘The ferry was pitching like a roller coaster.’ He accepted the glass Erling handed him, put it down on the surface and drew
Erling towards him.
‘We have half an hour before the meal’s ready.’
8
Mike eased his way along the support between the rafters. Above him the wind whistled, skimming the roof, puffs of it catching his face as it found its way below the slates. He
was reminded of when he’d first arrived and had stayed in a caravan parked on site as he’d worked on the main room to make it watertight.
On the Ranger’s first visit, Derek had warned Mike to build a wall round the caravan to stop the wind getting underneath.
‘And weigh her down with rope and blocks.’
Mike had thought the man was exaggerating to make him feel, as an incomer, he knew nothing of the place he’d chosen to come and live. He’d been wrong, as he’d swiftly found
out. At midsummer the wind could be as strong as at midwinter. Waking to the scream of it round the caravan, he’d finally taken refuge in the partly restored building, preferring stone walls
round him, even if rain was coming through the roof.
It had been the dampness on the ceiling that had sent him up here in the first place. Checking the state of the loft, he’d found the layer of peat ash, and the flowers.
Which was why he was back.
His mobile in his right hand, Mike positioned himself to take a photograph. Even now, he recognized this one as quite different from the flower that still sat in its plastic bag on the kitchen
table. He was no gardener, but to his mind this one resembled a budding rose. He took a selection of photographs, then began to crawl towards the next one.
The wind had dropped, or maybe it had only paused for breath.
And in that moment of stillness he heard it again. The sound of children’s voices.
Mike froze, straining to hear, feeling if he moved at all the sound would cease.
For a moment he thought he heard a girl’s voice now separate from the others and she was singing. A rhyme perhaps? A playground rhyme?
When he’d first come to the island, he’d listened intently to the locals talking to one another, only half understanding what was being said. Despite his incomprehension, he loved
the musical sound of the voices, the cadences, the rhythms.
He’d purchased
Sanday Voices – An Oral History
from the heritage centre. Along with the small book came a CD which he’d played over and over again because he took
pleasure in both the stories and the voices themselves.
Is that what was happening to him now?
Was he replaying those voices in the head? Matching them to the wind?
The other thought returned. The one he didn’t like to contemplate.
What if removing the flower from the attic had been a mistake?
What if he had disturbed the soul of a child? A girl?
He began slithering backwards, keen now to get out of the loft. When he reached the trapdoor, he dropped down, his feet searching for the rungs of the ladder. A trick of the light seemed to him
to pick up the row of flowers, six each side of the central plank like a path leading between tiny graves.
Then the light snapped off and all was darkness.
Later, having cooked and eaten his evening meal, Mike downloaded the photographs he’d taken in the loft. The second flower, he realized, was smaller than the first. Did
the size of the flower have anything to do with the age of the child?
He went to view his original painting again and found himself imagining, if it did represent a child, what would he or she have looked like? Picking up his pad and charcoal, he began to
draw.
A heart-shaped face, wide questioning blue eyes, a small nose, dark hair, cut straight at shoulder length. As he drew the mouth, he found himself giving it the hint of a smile.
He
liquid into two glasses. ‘God, it’s wild out there.’
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Rory said. ‘The ferry was pitching like a roller coaster.’ He accepted the glass Erling handed him, put it down on the surface and drew
Erling towards him.
‘We have half an hour before the meal’s ready.’
8
Mike eased his way along the support between the rafters. Above him the wind whistled, skimming the roof, puffs of it catching his face as it found its way below the slates. He
was reminded of when he’d first arrived and had stayed in a caravan parked on site as he’d worked on the main room to make it watertight.
On the Ranger’s first visit, Derek had warned Mike to build a wall round the caravan to stop the wind getting underneath.
‘And weigh her down with rope and blocks.’
Mike had thought the man was exaggerating to make him feel, as an incomer, he knew nothing of the place he’d chosen to come and live. He’d been wrong, as he’d swiftly found
out. At midsummer the wind could be as strong as at midwinter. Waking to the scream of it round the caravan, he’d finally taken refuge in the partly restored building, preferring stone walls
round him, even if rain was coming through the roof.
It had been the dampness on the ceiling that had sent him up here in the first place. Checking the state of the loft, he’d found the layer of peat ash, and the flowers.
Which was why he was back.
His mobile in his right hand, Mike positioned himself to take a photograph. Even now, he recognized this one as quite different from the flower that still sat in its plastic bag on the kitchen
table. He was no gardener, but to his mind this one resembled a budding rose. He took a selection of photographs, then began to crawl towards the next one.
The wind had dropped, or maybe it had only paused for breath.
And in that moment of stillness he heard it again. The sound of children’s voices.
Mike froze, straining to hear, feeling if he moved at all the sound would cease.
For a moment he thought he heard a girl’s voice now separate from the others and she was singing. A rhyme perhaps? A playground rhyme?
When he’d first come to the island, he’d listened intently to the locals talking to one another, only half understanding what was being said. Despite his incomprehension, he loved
the musical sound of the voices, the cadences, the rhythms.
He’d purchased
Sanday Voices – An Oral History
from the heritage centre. Along with the small book came a CD which he’d played over and over again because he took
pleasure in both the stories and the voices themselves.
Is that what was happening to him now?
Was he replaying those voices in the head? Matching them to the wind?
The other thought returned. The one he didn’t like to contemplate.
What if removing the flower from the attic had been a mistake?
What if he had disturbed the soul of a child? A girl?
He began slithering backwards, keen now to get out of the loft. When he reached the trapdoor, he dropped down, his feet searching for the rungs of the ladder. A trick of the light seemed to him
to pick up the row of flowers, six each side of the central plank like a path leading between tiny graves.
Then the light snapped off and all was darkness.
Later, having cooked and eaten his evening meal, Mike downloaded the photographs he’d taken in the loft. The second flower, he realized, was smaller than the first. Did
the size of the flower have anything to do with the age of the child?
He went to view his original painting again and found himself imagining, if it did represent a child, what would he or she have looked like? Picking up his pad and charcoal, he began to
draw.
A heart-shaped face, wide questioning blue eyes, a small nose, dark hair, cut straight at shoulder length. As he drew the mouth, he found himself giving it the hint of a smile.
He