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This doesn’t sound at all like Luke, but then his emotions must be a complete mess right now, a mixture all shaken up and ready to explode. Luke flicks so readily between rage and sorrow, but I know everything is still achingly raw for him. We’re in this boat because of him, after all, and his need to escape: the fact that we’re escaping to an island with the person he wants to punish for his pain seems to be lost on him.
“He did this,” he continues in a low voice, drawing the oars tight into his chest. “My mother is dead because of him.”
“Your mother is dead because of Antiro.” My words cut the cold air like lightning. “Because of a document produced by Oscar Munro. If you think this is all on Finlay, someone who was misguided and seeking validation, then you’re out of your mind.”
After a long silence, Luke answers, “I know. I know I am.” His mouth twists humorlessly to the side. “But I still need to see someone punished. I need release. And Antiro isn’t here to take my anger out on — but Finlay is.”
Danny shoots me a worried glance. “You know he’s here because he cares about you, right?” he reminds Luke softly. “Not to mock you. To make you feel better. He’s your friend.” The boat slides with a thunk onto the island, an audible signifier of Luke’s rage. I’m surprised the wood doesn’t splinter from the pressure alone.
The trees are thick here, surrounding the island’s perimeter. I step out onto the stony shoreline as Danny winds the rope around a nearby peg, dragging the hull closer to it and tying the end into a large chunky knot. Briefly, I think to myself that, as the Inter-Lothian Scout Champion two times in a row, Finlay would probably know the correct knot to use when securing boats.
The moment I step onto the island, something feels different. It’s warm for a start, which seems impossible, given that it had been raining down on us only moments ago. I hold out my upturned palm and feel nothing but a warm balm, the absence of wind and rain. A perfect temperature. Odd.
“Why have I never noticed this?” I ask wonderingly, gazing up into the tall leafy trees that stretch like giants into the sky. “It’s an island…”
“People only notice what they want,” comes a voice from above. I follow the sound and see Rory half-naked and lounging across a thick branch, his back leaning against solid ancient bark. He should look ridiculous. He doesn’t. He looks, strangely, like he belongs. Like there’s nothing more fitting than for him to be half-naked and up a tree, chilling out like some nature god, as though the tree were his home. All that’s missing from a Peter Pan costume is a set of panpipes around his neck and decorative seashells, because the mischievous glint in his eye is certainly well-embedded.
“You’ve been here before?” I ask, curious.
Rory shrugs. “Not for a while. It’s a pain to get to.”
“Where’s Finlay?”
“Exploring.” He points in the direction beyond the trees, into the heart of the island. From what I can gather, it’s only a small island, maybe half a mile in diameter. The trees, however, are densely packed and act as a wire fence around the whole area, shielding the island from the view of outsiders.
Danny assists Luke along the shore, talking softly to him, trying to distract from the calamity tearing at his mind. I catch Rory’s intrigued eye and shrug, feeling hopeless, and search through the trees for Finlay.
Stones greet me.
A ring of five standing stones, some upright, some slumped, but all radiating with ancient energy I feel in my bones. I gaze at them, awed, wondering how such powerful structures could have been positioned here at all.
The air tastes different here. Electric. I bite back the shimmering metallic tang, not in the mood for mysteries tonight, and return to the dark enclosure of the trees.
It doesn’t take me long to find Finlay. He’s crouched low, peering into a stretch of tarpaulin that’s been tied haphazardly around two tree branches. The bare skin of his back is almost luminous in the moonlight. There’s a modest sleeping bag, which has long ago been rolled over, crumpled and covered in dirt, with detritus of food wrappers stashed inside a bag and tied, forgotten, to a stick. The whole scene has an air of abandonment about it. A metal canister sits on a long-doused campfire, and a nearby tree stump doubles as a table, a selection of faded papers held firm by a large rock paperweight.
I tilt my head to the side. “What’s all this?” An old-fashioned radio lies beside the papers — maps, I realize — its long silver antenna extended high into the air. It looks similar to the one the chiefs use, but this one is deep green, colored like camo. “Is this Rory’s?”
Finlay stands up, a shining dagger raised to his eye. I step back in alarm. He tosses it into the tree stump, where it delves into the wood with a satisfying thud, the metal point firmly implanted. “I dinnae think so,” Finlay says, sounding sour. “I think we’ve stumbled intae Benji’s wee hide-oot. Fucker.”
It’s funny how, at that moment, the simple pieces of camping equipment take on a new layer of poison. Knowing who had once owned this site, everything instantly turns sleazy and contaminated.
This must have been what I’d seen, once, from far away. The curious glow of a campfire. In the distance, it resembled an amber bead. I remember it so clearly, wondering why it was there, as I’d dreamed nightly of Benji’s eyes. If I’d told someone at the time… maybe Benji would have been flushed out and none of our current existence would have unfolded.
Danny and Luke arrive at the clearing, followed by Rory. Rory’s arms are crossed as he absorbs the sight in front of us. It looks unreal in a way — like a movie set from an adventure film. It couldn’t possibly be genuine. It couldn’t possibly have happened on the grounds of a school.
“This is…” He meets Finlay’s eyes, assessing. “Benji’s?” At Finlay’s nod, Rory’s lips purse into a grim slash.
“Anyone have a match?” I ask in a lighthearted tone, for Luke’s benefit, but no one laughs. It’s as though we’re on sacred ground now, or ground zero. This is the blast zone, the front line, this is where it all started. How many plans had been cooked up under these stars, how many ploys developed inside that sleeping bag? How many gleeful plots did Benji dream up beneath a single sheet of tarpaulin?
“Gather the weapons,” Rory orders, nodding at the dagger embedded in the tree stump. “We’ll take them back with us. Keep them out of harm’s way.”
Danny eyes the blade in Finlay’s hand nervously. “I don’t understand. Why would he leave them behind?”
“Ego,” Rory guesses. “Where he’d planned to go, he assumed he’d have no need for daggers. They were a temporary solution while he fantasized about better, more impressive weapons. No doubt his dreams have come true.”
I suppress a shiver. Benji had already made a small blade seem overpowering. I dread to think about the swaggering self-belief with which he’d strut around if he were carrying a gun.
