Chapter 3
Archie
Malachi’s music drowned out any chance of conversation on the drive to Portmuck Harbour, an old stone port on the far corner of the island.
Its weather-beaten limestone statue—a large boar being chased into the sea by a horde of farmers—offered tourists their first glimpse of a local legend as soon as Latharna came into view.
Archie didn’t push for conversation. He was content to listen to a Scottish brogue sing about his long-lost love, even if Malachi’s erratic driving kept interrupting his thoughts.
The song reminded him of Heather. Life would’ve been very different for the Wolfendens if a drunk driver hadn’t smashed into her car when Rhys was just a baby.
Death loomed over the family like a long, relentless shadow, convincing him that the Wolfendens were cursed, a notion he would never share with Ina—she wouldn’t entertain such nonsense and would take great pleasure in telling him so.
Heather wouldn’t have left their children unsupervised on the river for the Selkie to take, or allow Malachi to retreat into himself in the years that followed.
She would’ve kept the family together in ways he never could, even with Ina’s unwavering, and often overwhelming, support.
Archie had failed his children in so many ways, he didn’t even have the courage to have a conversation with his son, even though it needed to happen sooner rather than later.
They snaked their way down the steep, twisty track, barely wide enough for two cars, and reached the harbour as the first wave of traffic was disembarking The Unsinkable Meara.
Malachi turned the volume down to concentrate on finding a parking space in the empty car park.
Engines hummed while cars, campervans, and buses crept down the rickety wooden plank with varying degrees of success.
Captain Bob Murdock, a scruffy old sea dog in his mid-fifties, waved his arms from side to side, to direct passengers off the boat.
A black sports car accelerated down the gangway.
“That’s it, faster now.” He beckoned the car towards him as its low bumper scraped onto the old cobblestones.
“Woah, there. Too fast,” he shrieked, looking in the opposite direction to the car he was supposed to be helping.
The driver opened the door and leaned out to inspect the damage. “On you go there.” Murdock slapped the roof and glanced up at the queue of traffic. “Next!” he barked, already waving them on. A tour bus inched its way down the gangway, headlights flashing at the stationary car.
“Looks like someone didn’t leave a good tip.” Malachi broke his silence, nodding towards The Unsinkable Meara.
Murdock and the bus driver exchanged theatrical salutes. The sports car revved and tore off. A screech at the bad bend suggested the driver had narrowly avoided the hidden ditch that had claimed many hire cars, and more than a few of the island’s youngsters over the years.
“He’ll know to leave double if he wants his flashy car to get off Latharna in one piece,” Archie snorted, and covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a laugh that Murdock might hear.
If a tourist didn’t leave a tip on the way in, you could bet good money they’d leave a generous donation on the way out if they wanted to get off Latharna in one piece.
Murdock was a shrewd businessman, who knew how to play the tourist crowd right down to their last penny.
“Do you think he’s part of the film crew?” Malachi stared at his fingers as they drummed on the steering wheel. “I heard they’re over on the east coast.”
“Most likely.” Archie turned his gaze to a car skidding down the ramp. There were no more vehicles behind it. “Come on, that looks like the last of them now.” He pointed to a gap between two metal mooring pillars. “Pull up over there and we can start loading.”
“We.” Malachi snorted, and made several attempts to park the car alongside the gangway.
Archie bit the inside of his cheek. Offering “helpful" directions while Malachi was parking would only lead to an argument, and given that he was already wound tighter than a drum, silence was the safest option.
Murdock stared at his shoes, ignoring the parking. As soon as the engine died, he practically skipped over, tipping his hat through the passenger window.
“Mornin’ sir,” he nodded at Archie. “Couple boxes for you back there.” He thumbed towards his boat. “Help yourself.”
Archie turned to Malachi and raised his eyebrow.
“I’m ready when you are.” Malachi flicked a glance at him, hands still clamped on the wheel.
Archie winked and unclicked Malachi’s seatbelt. Malachi’s stare could’ve curdled milk. Archie swallowed a smile—at least he was now getting eye contact.
“He’ll be along in a minute, laddie,” Murdock yelled through the window right past Archie’s face. It took all Archie’s strength not to rub his deafened ear. Malachi shot him a dirty look, climbed out of the car, and left the driver’s door hanging open.
“Watch you don’t sink my Meara now.” Murdock rubbed his beard and chuckled at the same joke he’d told for years.
Malachi’s shoulders tensed, as if fighting the urge to bite back. He jogged towards the boat, no doubt already planning on how he would make Archie pay for letting him do all the heavy lifting, but Archie needed a word with the captain, alone.
“Did you see that flash bastard earlier?” Murdock placed his fingertips on his chest to emphasise his effrontery. “He’s a miserable prick,” he yelled towards the road—the car long gone.
“He’s probably with the film crew.” Archie rubbed his chin as though giving it serious thought. “Those Hollywood types never tip.”
“Tip?” Little flecks of spit landed on Murdock’s beard as he spoke. “I’m no waitress. All I suggest is a small donation to ensure the unsinkable nature of my Meara. Is that too much to expect?” He placed his hands on his hips and waited for a response.
“That’s show business for you, Bob,” Archie sighed, getting out of the car to open the boot. “How’s sea life treating you?” He changed the subject, unable to keep up the charade of small talk any longer.
Murdock spent most of his life on the sea around Latharna. If there was something in the water, he would know about it.
Murdock opened his mouth and paused, as though debating how to answer. “I’ve heard a few rumours from up North.” He leaned in speaking more to the empty boot than Archie. Worry lines cut deep into his forehead, making him look much older than his years.
“Oh?” Archie crossed his arms and nodded for Murdock to continue.
“Fishing’s bad this year, Archie.” Murdock tugged at his beard. “Very bad. There’s been sightings of… be careful, laddie! You scratch my boat, and I’ll scratch you!” He thumped the car roof with such ferocity Archie checked for a dent.
Malachi had overloaded the trolley and was struggling to navigate it down the steep gangway. The wonky wheel was making a bid for freedom in the opposite direction.
Archie held up his hand, “Hold that thought, Bob.” He jogged over to steady the trolley. It was likely Malachi overloaded it on purpose to avoid making a second trip.
“Take your time.” Murdock leant on the bonnet and stretched. “I’d help, but you know how bad my back is.”
“Better late than never,” Malachi panted, straining against the weight of the boxes.
“You could’ve made two trips.” Archie steadied the load, and together they steered the trolley to the car in silence.
Murdock took a deep drag on a cigarette and stared out to sea. Archie followed his eyeline. Nothing but clear horizon, thank God.
They loaded the boxes into the car without a word.
Archie wrinkled his nose; cigarette smoke would cling to his clothes all day.
Malachi dropped a box, spilling dozens of rubber vampire masks across the car park.
He bent over to pick them up and sighed—a heavy, hollow sound—as though being crushed by the weight of the world.
Archie’s heart cracked. He stooped down to help, resting a hand on Malachi’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze—a small gesture to let Malachi know he was here for him, that he understood the pain, as it clawed at him as well.
Malachi let his grip linger for a heartbeat and then stiffened, stood up, and flung the masks into the car.
Archie straightened, his knee cracking with the movement—a sharp reminder that grief doesn’t just tire the mind, it lodges itself deep into your joints and bones, leeching the life out of you one quiet moment at a time.
Murdock flicked his cigarette butt on the ground, stubbing out the embers with his toe. He stretched, bouncing on his tiptoes without any concern for his back, and nodded at Archie.
“Come on, Bob, I’ll walk you back to Meara.” Archie turned to Malachi, who leaned on the bonnet, and stared out to sea, lost in another daydream. “Why don’t you catch your breath, son?”
Malachi scowled and headed to the driver’s side. Archie slipped his hand into his back pocket and locked the door. Malachi would learn not to leave the keys in the ignition.
“Seriously?” Malachi threw his arms up, unimpressed at being deposed from the driver’s seat.
Malachi was an erratic driver at the best of times, but he’d been too distracted navigating the twisty roads down to Portmuck. He would sulk at being relegated to the passenger seat, but it was safer for them both if he wasn’t behind the wheel when he was having nightmares and not sleeping.
Once they were out of earshot, Murdock pulled Archie close, “Did you hear me, Archie?” Murdock looked over his shoulder at the water as though the sea itself might be listening. “The fishing is bad this year.”
Archie flinched and turned back to make sure Malachi hadn’t followed or overheard. Malachi crossed his arms and looked away, his shoulder slumping as he covered a wide yawn with his hand.