Beyond the Sea (11 page)

FREYA, SITTING AT
the back of the boat, looked out over the ocean. The sky was darkening and the wind was getting up. A storm was brewing. She turned back to see Sam sitting on the bottom of the boat. He was looking down at a map arranged in front of him.

‘I think it could be there, Mum.' Sam pointed to a speck in the middle of a vast expanse of blue.

‘Why do you think that?' Freya asked, moving to kneel beside him.

The map ranged from the western islands of Scotland across the Atlantic to North America.

‘Because it's so far away, it's practically halfway to Greenland. So, the way I see it, it could be the Green Island.'

Freya smiled. There was a certain beautiful logic to what he said, and part of her didn't want to disillusion him. ‘But I thought the Green Island never stayed in one place. That it moved around, floating over the sea, never still for very long, never really wanting to be found.'

Sam was quiet for a while, deep in thought. ‘That's true,' he said at last and removed his finger. ‘So it can't be the Green Island. It wouldn't be on a map.'

‘I think that's right,' Freya murmured, stroking his head. ‘Perhaps it's out there in the vast ocean somewhere,' she circled the Atlantic with the index finger of her free hand, ‘waiting for someone to stumble upon it accidentally.'

‘Hmm,' said Sam, wrinkling his nose and then pointing to the island again. ‘What is that place then?'

‘It's St Kilda,' said Freya, taking in the expanse of water between it and the coast of Scotland. ‘Almost the westernmost point of the United Kingdom.' And with Sam's finger hovering over it, that was just what it looked like – a point, a dot on a map almost submerged by sea, a mere hint of an existence.

Sam was still frowning. ‘Is that where my great-grandmammy was from?'

Freya paused, surprised he remembered. He had been just a baby when she passed. ‘Yes,' she replied. ‘It is.'

Sam nodded. ‘I thought so. That place is filled with death.'

Freya started. It was. She knew that from her grandmother. But how did Sam know? ‘Where did you hear that, darling?'

‘It doesn't matter. The point is that these islands are dangerous. Death is everywhere.' His finger moved northwards over the Flannan Islands, then circled around over Lewis, Harris, Barra, and back to the islands nearest to Ailsa Cleit. ‘And you,' he said, looking at his mother for the first time, ‘have to be careful.'

‘What?' said Freya, a dull sensation of fear rising in her stomach. She felt sweat sting her armpits. Her son didn't sound at all like her son. ‘What are you talking about, Sam?'

‘Here,' he said, his finger now circling a stretch of water closer to home. ‘You must be careful. Especially here.' Freya looked towards where he was pointing, but she didn't understand what he was talking about. She began to feel very afraid. ‘Mum, do you understand? You must avoid this place. You must be very careful. There is danger for you here.' Then Sam looked her directly in the eye. His intensity frightened her.

At that moment, Jack appeared from the cabin. He fixed her with an icy stare. ‘Do you hear him, Freya? Be careful.'

‘Do you hear us, Mum?'

‘Yes,' she said, softly, closing her eyes to avoid their gazes. ‘I hear you.'

Freya sat upright, abruptly, startled out of sleep. As she remembered the dream, she felt a sudden biting fear and the chill of the room. The hairs on the backs of her arms were standing on end and there was a cool slick of sweat across her chest. She tried to move her legs, to get out of bed, but she was frozen to the spot. Moonlight flooded the bedroom, rays of lilac and pale blue, hazy around the edges, and she heard the soft breaths of the waves through the open window. Then she thought she heard something else.

‘Sam?' she whispered, so quietly she almost couldn't make out her own voice.

The air of the room seemed to crystallise and come into sharp focus. She could see the wardrobe door slightly ajar, the dresser with stones and shells across its top. In the hallway beyond the half-open door, shadows lurked. She fixed her eyes upon them. The smell of night jasmine flooded her nostrils.

‘Sam?' she said again, louder this time.

She thought she saw a quiver of movement followed by the soft sound of footfalls along the hallway. She listened hard but she was distracted by the loud thump of her heart in her chest. Then the room fell into darkness, the moon suddenly eclipsed by cloud.

‘Freya.'

She took a sharp intake of breath and flicked on her bedside lamp. Then she turned back towards the doorway. She saw Marta standing there.

‘Jesus. You gave me a fright.'

‘Sorry.' Her sister took a few steps into the room. ‘Are you okay? I heard you calling out.'

‘Bad dream,' said Freya. She looked around the room again and breathed deeply. It was the same as usual.

Marta made her way over to the bed and climbed in beside Freya. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?'

Freya nodded and recounted the dream. ‘I don't understand it. So far since their deaths, everything I've dreamed about Sam and Jack has been a memory – with the one exception of the nightmare of Sam drowning. But this was not a memory. We looked at maps together, plotted boat trips and journeys to islands. But we never talked like this, about dangerous places close to home. And Jack never spoke to me in such a way.'

No, this was a new kind of nightmare. She closed her eyes and tried to think. But the sweat now pooling at the base of her spine was distracting. She shivered.

‘It's just a dream, Freya. It was probably brought on by being out on the sea, by our trip to Staffa yesterday. By finding the diary and hearing Sam's voice again.'

Freya nodded. That made sense, whereas the dream made no sense at all.

‘Shall I make you a hot drink?'

‘No. You go back to bed. I'll get up. Do you want anything?'

Marta shook her head and rose to leave. ‘Are you sure you're okay?'

Freya nodded.

‘I'm sure it's nothing, you know. Just emotions.'

Freya nodded again. ‘I'm sure you're right. Good night, sis.'

‘Good night.'

Freya closed her eyes and ran her fingers over her face. But in that moment of darkness behind her eyelids, she saw again the intensity of both Sam and Jack's stare, their message for her, their words of warning. You must be very careful. There is danger for you here.

Hours later, the words, so like Torin's, still fluttered fretfully around Freya's head as she sat at the kitchen table. What did they mean? Not only Torin's words, but now Sam's and Jack's as well.

She inhaled deeply, tried to breathe out the sick, agitated feeling she hadn't been able to shed, and looked down at the map resting on the kitchen table. Her finger lightly touched the tiny island where she was now. The place they had all called home. Then it moved in a sweeping arc directly northwards over Coll and Tiree and then clockwise over Mull, Luing and Scarba, southwest over Jura and beyond it to Islay. Then it circled out into the Atlantic before moving northwards again. Further afield, to the north and west, were the outer isles of Barra, South and North Uist, Lewis and Harris. Freya's finger strayed westwards, past the Flannan Islands, hesitating over St Kilda for a second, and then moved back to the waters nearest the lighthouse.

She leaned closer into the map but she struggled to remember now exactly where Sam's finger had been pointing in the dream. Had he been intending to single out particular islands, or simply the watery expanse around them? How far afield had he been signalling? Freya looked over the area directly east of the lighthouse. She knew that there were hundreds of rocky islets in this area, but nothing stood out – from her map at least. She reached for her tablets and took two of them with a large sip of steaming tea from the mug next to her. It was so hot it burnt her tongue. But she didn't react. She still felt the chill of Sam's words deep in her body. There is danger for you here.

THE NEXT DAY,
Freya stood at the kitchen sink, her eyes closed, the warmth of sunlight upon her body. She relished it, surrendered to it, and for a brief moment was present only in its touch. She smiled, suspended in light. Its caress was soft, teasing, like the hand of a playful lover. It could almost have been Jack.

For a second she hovered on the brink of remembrance, then her eyes snapped open. As the room came back into focus, goose bumps pricked her skin. She was in front of the kitchen window, her hands immersed in soapy water, on this tiny island, alone. She looked into the messy garden, saw the dead flowers on the bushes, the stark brightness of the enclosure wall. Gulls screeched overhead, winged flashes of white against a cobalt sky. Everything was the same and yet everything was different.

Freya stood still for a minute, waiting for the sensation to pass. Then she dried her hands and filled the kettle. It was helpful, the doctor had told her, to do small things at times like this, indulge in distracting routines to keep panic at bay. Make a cup of tea, run a bath. Perhaps she would do both, she thought, as she went into the sitting room. She wanted to talk to Marta, but she had gone to Iona for the day to see a friend. So instead perhaps she would go for a walk. Make the most of the sunshine.

As she looked out of the window to the blurred line of the horizon, there was a sharp knock on the cottage door. Freya jumped. She wasn't expecting anyone and she wasn't sure she would be able to sustain chitchat for very long. Reluctantly she moved back into the kitchen, wondering whether, if she left it long enough, whoever it was would just go away. She waited for a few moments and the knock came again. A hard rap – that of a man, she was sure of it. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

Daniel stood before her. He was taller than she remembered, his hair darker, longer.

‘Hi,' he said, when it became clear that Freya would not speak first. ‘I hope you don't mind me barging in on you like this … but if it's not convenient …' His words faded out awkwardly as if he sensed her mood.

She tried to rearrange her face into a smile. But she couldn't quite manage it. ‘No, it's fine,' she said eventually, hoping her tone didn't sound too insincere. ‘I wasn't doing anything. Please, come in.'

She moved back into the kitchen and instinctively went to fill the kettle with water, realising as she picked it up that it was already full. She put it down again, feeling her nerves jangle.

Daniel, next to her, surveyed the quiet interior of the cottage. ‘Is your sister here?'

‘No. She's out.' After she'd said it, Freya was aware that the remark might have sounded a little abrupt. She added, ‘She went to visit a friend.'

‘Ah, I see,' said Daniel.

Again Freya thought he was difficult to read. His eyes remained as inscrutable as they had the last time they'd met: distant, as if shutters had been pulled down behind them. And from his tone she couldn't tell if he was disappointed or indifferent about this news. Not that it really mattered either way. She turned away from him and occupied herself with making coffee. The process soothed her. While she did this, Daniel spoke intermittently – about his boat, now fixed, the reprimands he had received from his family after the accident. It was small talk that she barely listened to, yet somehow it was comforting.

Finally, they made their way into the sitting room. ‘I don't remember much of this at all from the last time,' Daniel said, smiling awkwardly. ‘Other than that it was weird to be here.'

Freya nodded, sitting down and putting the cafetiere, milk and cups down on the table. ‘It was quite odd.'

‘Right,' said Daniel. ‘I mean, I've been there once before.' He pointed to the sofa. ‘Flat out and naked. As I said, weird.'

Freya laughed. Yes, it was. She had undressed him and thought nothing of it at the time. Suddenly she felt strangely self-conscious. To give herself something else to concentrate on, she poured the coffee.

‘Anyway,' said Daniel, breaking the silence. ‘I just wanted to say thank you. To you and Marta. I don't think I said it properly before.'

‘It was no problem. Really. We're just glad you're okay.'

Daniel smiled. ‘So how've you been?'

‘Fine,' said Freya, noncommittally. She stirred milk into their coffee. ‘You?'

‘Yeah. Busy. But no storms, no catastrophes.'

Freya nodded, noticing that he was looking at the bookshelves along the wall opposite the sofa. They were floor to ceiling, books sandwiched spine to spine, a real reader's set of shelves. Jack had built them for her out of a beautiful rich walnut and she had loved to simply look at them, feel the warmth of the wood beneath her fingertips as she took her time selecting her next book. And yet, she thought, with a touch of sadness, she hadn't read in such a long time.

‘Is that you and your family?' Daniel's question seemed to come from a long way away. ‘If you don't mind me asking?' he added.

Freya finally registered him pointing to a photograph and nodded. ‘Yes, that's me with my husband and son.' She closed her eyes, anticipating his next questions and the awkwardness that would follow. So she decided she would save him from it.

‘There's a lovely one, up there, of my son, Sam, running along the beach. He was five then.' He was laughing, almost doubled over, one of his eyes obscured by his thick blond hair, the other glinting with delight. He had been running towards her and Jack when she had taken the picture. But what had he been laughing at? She couldn't remember now. No doubt it had been something silly, inconsequential. But she knew he had that broad smile of total mirth on his face. ‘And I think there's one of my husband, Jack, quite close to it. He was always slightly awkward when he was having his photo taken. God knows why. So photogenic.' Freya paused and took a breath. ‘They died, last year, in a boating accident not far from here, although no one's too sure where it happened. A freak storm, or something else untoward. Again, no one's quite sure. The boat was found but the bodies never were …' Freya's voice ground to a halt and an uneasy silence settled over the room.

Daniel moved back towards the sofa and sat beside Freya. He looked as if he couldn't quite believe it. Then he shook his head.

‘God, Freya, I'm sorry. I'm so very, very sorry.'

‘Thanks,' she said.

‘The pictures are beautiful. You look like you were happy.'

‘Yes, we were. Very happy.'

‘Well that must bring you some comfort.' Daniel paused and then went on quietly, ‘And probably your fair share of despair.'

Freya nodded, surprised. It was not what most people said aloud to the bereaved. Yet he was exactly right. She had been blessed to have experienced such happiness. Some people never did. Yet at the same time it cut her deep that she had lost it. That wound was so rough and jagged that she thought it incapable of ever being healed. It was constantly reopened by memory: bitter, gushing, bloody and painful. And by her dreams. She blinked away an image of Sam, staring at her with big warning eyes, and tried to change the subject.

‘Are you married?' Freya asked.

Daniel paused for a moment before answering. ‘No,' he said.

‘Girlfriend?'

‘No.' He shook his head softly.

‘So you live alone too.'

He nodded, glanced at her briefly and looked out of the window.

Freya followed his gaze out to the ocean, its untameable force subdued in this moment, in the calmness of the day. She didn't understand how she could bear to be here, surrounded by the thing that had stripped her of everything she loved. But perhaps that was the point. It was both the rub and the salve. It had taken everything from her and it was only that which could give something back, could give her peace. Until that time, she would remain, tossed back and forth on capricious waves, flotsam bobbing on a tide of grief.

She turned back to find Daniel scrutinising her. ‘I imagine it's hard not knowing what happened to them.'

She nodded. ‘I think it's part of why I came back – to try to understand that. Quite why I thought I could uncover something, when investigators and police and God knows who else haven't been able to, I don't know. But perhaps it's what I thought I needed for closure, for finality.' For peace and reconciliation, she thought, turning her gaze once more to the waves breaking across the shore. They were flinty, cold in spite of the sunshine. ‘Now I'm here, I understand that I will probably never get it. In all likelihood, I will never know what happened to them. Or what they were doing when they disappeared. But the remaining is important. Does that make sense?'

Daniel nodded. ‘Perfectly.'

She stood up, made her way to the bookshelves, singled out the picture of Sam on the beach. ‘And I am finding out some things.' Freya drew her finger over the image of the laughing boy. ‘Something amazing happened the other day. I found another box of his things hidden in the lighthouse tower – a secret hideaway, perhaps for his most secret possessions.'

‘Really?' Daniel smiled. ‘What did you find?'

‘Things washed up by the ocean, I think. Shells, an old knife blade, some jewellery.' For a moment she contemplated showing Daniel the necklace and other items and then she changed her mind. Maybe later. ‘Sam was obsessed with beachcombing. You won't believe what he's found over the years on rocks and beaches. We've got boxes and boxes of it. The sea is rich with pickings.' She paused a moment, breathless, as she realised what she'd said. Then she continued. ‘There was a diary. That was the best of the haul. Marta and I have read a little. It was like hearing his voice, fresh, alive, having him speak to me again after all this time.' Freya paused, her throat dry. ‘The first diary entry was about a trip Sam took to Staffa with his father. After we read it, Marta and I decided to go there, retrace their steps.'

Daniel nodded, looking at her. ‘And did it help?'

‘I'm not sure. Fingal's Cave was beautiful.' Freya laughed as she looked back to the photos on the shelves. One of her and Jack, mounted in an antique silver frame, caught her eye. Their faces were in profile to the camera, their foreheads closely locked together, and they were laughing. Again she couldn't remember why. Jack's grey hair was pale against the shock of hers – long, black and wild. The light and the dark. If it was taken now, Freya would be the palest, the one who looked like a ghost.

Her face blanched at the irony of it. She turned back to Daniel to find him still watching her. ‘Before it happened, you know, my hair was black.'

He nodded, an almost imperceptible tilt of the head. He had seen the photographs after all.

‘The day after I heard the news, it was white. It turned overnight …' she said before her words evaporated once more. It was traumatic for her to think and speak about it even now.

For a moment Daniel was quiet. Then he smiled and said, ‘Like Finn.'

Finn MacCool, the great mythical hunter, whose hair had also turned white prematurely. Perhaps even overnight. She thought of her son again, and of the diary and her trip to Fingal's Cave. ‘Yes, Finn,' she said. ‘I love the story of the Land under Waves. Do you know it?'

Daniel nodded. ‘I do. You can't live here all this time and not buy into that stuff just a little.'

Freya smiled. ‘That's what I've always thought.'