Christmas on the Island Page 6

  ‘He’s dying,’ said Fintan harshly. Then he collected himself. ‘Sorry, Flores. We had a really really bad night. I kept imagining he’d stopped breathing.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Flora. She didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘He’s worse than when you saw him. I’m losing him,’ said Fintan, his voice sounding teary. ‘He just gets further and further away. And I can’t see him any more. Not the person he was.’

  ‘He’s in there somewhere,’ said Flora.

  ‘I don’t think he is,’ said Fintan. He stuttered and his voice choked up a little.

  ‘Flora . . . I think he wants to go.’

  Flora didn’t say anything. She agreed. Colton’s world now was full of pain, eating him from the inside out. Of course he wanted to go. There was only one exit route, heartbreaking as it was for all of them.

  ‘He won’t . . . he won’t stay here for me,’ said Fintan, his voice a whisper.

  ‘I know,’ said Flora.

  She absolutely didn’t want to give him what was coming next.

  ‘There’s . . . there’s someone in the café,’ she whispered.

  ‘Huh?’ said Fintan, not catching on.

  ‘There’s somebody here . . .’

  ‘Are you . . . wait. Are you being held up? Is it a robbery?’

  ‘No! Why would you think that?’

  ‘You’re whispering! I wondered if you were being held hostage.’

  ‘Why would I call you?’

  ‘Oh, thanks very much.’

  At least he sounded more like himself, thought Flora.

  ‘No! I mean, there’s a bloke here. And he claims to be Colton’s brother.’

  None of Colton’s family had attended his wedding. They had mostly disowned him when he came out as gay and so he had absolutely no interest in having them there – he called them a bunch of lardass rednecks.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Fintan. ‘He didn’t even tell them which island he lives on.’

  ‘Yeah, if only he hadn’t invented the internet,’ said Flora.

  ‘He didn’t actually invent the internet . . . he just monetised quite a lot of it . . .’

  Fintan sighed.

  ‘What do you want me to do? Tell him Colton doesn’t live here? Just flat out lie to him? I don’t like him.’

  ‘Ah, you’re getting back your island mistrust of outsiders,’ said Fintan. ‘That’s good. Oh Christ, I don’t know. What if Colton’d want to know?’

  ‘Would he?’

  ‘He says he doesn’t, but, you know. Bravado. I mean, you know. Even if they’re as annoying as – for example – you. Your family, in the end . . .’

  ‘Does his mother even know he’s dying?’ said Flora in a quiet voice.

  There was a long pause. Then Fintan said, ‘Right. Let me try and talk to him. What’s his name?’

  Flora shrugged, which was evident even over the phone.

  ‘Oh, you are a crap detective. Right, Colton’s going to take a nap . . . I’ll pop down. Don’t let him leave.’

  ‘How am I going to do that?’

  But Fintan had already hung up.

  * * *

  Fintan re-entered the room cautiously. The heavy curtains were open, but the thick mist outside made it feel as if they were floating out to sea. Colton was awake, but his eyes were unfocused; he was staring at nothing, and it was hard to tell if he was actually there at all.

  ‘Colt?’ said Fintan, padding across to the bed. He got a half-smile in response, which was at least a good sign.

  Fintan sat on the end of the bed and reached his hands to Colton’s, taking care to avoid the cannula.

  ‘Okay. Well. Apparently your brother’s in town.’

  The effect on Colton was astonishing. It was as if he’d been given a shot of adrenalin. He tried to sit up and managed to lift his head off the pillow. More importantly, his eyes focused and he looked, for a moment, like his razor-sharp old self.

  ‘Tripp? That sonuvabitch? Seriously? He’s got a nerve!’

  Fintan stared at him.

  ‘What?’ said Colton. ‘I don’t want him anywhere near me.’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘I mean it, Fintan. Are you hearing me? I hate that bastard.’

  And at that moment, Fintan loved Colton’s brother more than anything else in the world for lifting the curtain, for bringing Colton back to him – even furious.

  ‘I am hearing you,’ said Fintan, sitting down and grasping Colton’s hand harder. ‘Right. Tell me what you want done to that bugger.’

  * * *

  Tripp had accepted a full-fat Coke and was sitting drinking it morosely, staring at his phone.

  ‘What’s your Wi-Fi password?’ he growled.

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t have one,’ said Flora. More than one person hooking on to their sparse allocation of the island’s limited Wi-Fi made it fall over instantly, so she’d simply decided against it. Also, it kept miserable, wet holidaymakers from setting up camp all day for the price of a cup of tea. She sympathised, but she was only scraping a living as it was – the little library had one if anyone was desperate.

  ‘Goddammit,’ he said.

  ‘And I still haven’t heard from . . . Fintan.’

  The man didn’t react to this, just sat back as if he were intent on staying until he got a response, which evidently he was.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ said Flora, trying to be polite.

  ‘Yeah, I could use a burger,’ said the man. Flora frowned. ‘Um. I’m afraid we don’t do burgers. I’ve got some quiche.’

  ‘Quiche?’ said the man as if she’d suggested he eat a bicycle. ‘Yeah, no thanks.’

  He looked around.

  ‘Got any pancakes?’

  They didn’t normally do pancakes either, but Flora desperately wanted to vanish into the kitchen for a bit and had no objection to making something as incredibly simple as a stack of pancakes so she smiled and said, ‘Sure thing,’ as he requested maple syrup and bacon, both of which she could manage. (She wasn’t sure how many he’d want, so she made nine in the end, of which he ate nine and looked slightly regretful there weren’t more. During this period, no fewer than four separate groups of people came in, looked at what he was eating and decided they too wanted pancakes, and as they were super-easy to make and cost absolutely nothing, Flora ended up putting them on the menu full time and they turned into an absolutely brilliant little brunch money-spinner. So there was at least one reason why she turned out be grateful that she ever met Colton’s brother.)

  ‘So, you’re here for long?’ she asked.

  He took a long pull of his cola.

  ‘Dunno yet,’ he said. Then he turned back to his food.

  * * *

  Fintan came charging down as soon as Saif came in to do the daily check-up. He stopped short when he saw the man sitting there, chewing stolidly through the pancakes, then edged his way to Flora, making her go through to the kitchen with his eyes.

  ‘He doesn’t look very nice,’ he said once they were by the kitchen burners and Flora had turned the radio up.

  ‘I know,’ said Flora. ‘Want me to tell him just to leave?’

  ‘Well. Here’s the thing,’ said Fintan.

  And he explained about Colton waking up, suddenly becoming so attentive.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Flora. ‘You’re saying that this is a good thing he’s here?’

  Fintan had great big shadows under his eyes.

  ‘He’s back,’ he said. ‘Flora, he’s back. He’s animated. He’s with me! Actually in the room!’

  ‘He’s furious!’

  ‘He’s fucking furious,’ agreed Fintan. ‘But Flora . . . otherwise he’s just going to sail away to nothing.’

  ‘You’re saying getting Colton annoyed is the way you’re going to play this?’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Fintan, his face downcast. ‘When you put it like that, it sounds awful.’

  Flora sighed. Fintan looked at her as though for
the first time in a while.

  ‘What’s up with you? You look fat.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Flora. ‘But also I was just thinking . . . about families, you know.’

  ‘Dysfunctional units one has absolutely no control over however annoying they are?’ said Fintan.

  ‘Yes. That too. But . . . even so. I mean, if I had a son or . . . I mean, if one of you guys was on his deathbed.’

  ‘Even Hamish?’

  ‘Even Hamish, yes, shut up . . . I mean,’ said Flora, ‘it’s the only family he’s going to see.’

  ‘Well, it’s not,’ said Fintan. ‘Because he’s got me.’

  ‘I realise that,’ said Flora. ‘I’m trying to be helpful here. There’s two good reasons you should let this guy see him. One, because it’s woken up Colton. Two, because . . . I think it might be the right thing to do.’

  ‘What if he’s a total arsehole though?’

  ‘You can’t choose your family,’ said Flora. ‘Surely you know that by now.’

  They smiled at each other for a second, their old feuds long forgotten.

  ‘You are looking fat though,’ said Fintan. ‘Ooh, are you making pancakes? Can I have some?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tripp was staying in the Harbour’s Rest, Flora noted the next morning as she got to the Seaside Kitchen and noticed a massive, gleamingly shiny SUV parked outside the hotel. Most people didn’t bring cars to Mure: they weren’t encouraged on the narrow track roads, and anyway, the island was built for walking; for taking in every new view around every bend; avoiding every grouse waddling along in the middle of the road like a self-important toddler; watching the heron take wing; wondering about life on the ancient wandering stone walls; and the bright purple foliage; or the sun changing the shifting colour of the towering hills. You could get around Mure pretty fast in a car. But the rather better question was: why on earth would you want to do that?

  So Flora made a deduction that this was where he was, and she was proven right about half an hour later when he staggered in, rather blearily – she wondered if he’d fallen to the blandishments of Inge-Britt’s line of dusty whisky bottles – and made a remark about the coffee at the Harbour’s Rest which might be seen incredibly rude (by anyone who’d never tried the coffee at the Harbour’s Rest).

  How could two brothers not even share a roof for one night? pondered Flora. What had happened? How could families fall apart so fast?

  Then she pondered Joel’s family, stroked her stomach thoughtfully and tried not to worry.

  * * *

  Tripp was feeling jet-lagged and confused. Why was it so damn freezing round here? He thought of all the instructions he’d been sent with following the hastily convened family meeting back in Delaware.

  It was unanimously decided he should be the one to go, seeing as his stupid sister was in the middle of yet another divorce so was making it all about her, and his parents were getting frail. Also, his father was still such a dick by making a big deal about Colton being a fruit. I mean, God, he didn’t care for it either, but that wasn’t the problem.

  Tripp sighed. At the time, coming over here, to Scotchland or wherever the hell he was, seemed easy. He’d walk in and sort Colton out, like he always did when he was little and Colton was such a weed, such a nerd, showing Tripp up, never there to play games or mess about in the yard. Always inside, clamped to that stupid microcomputer, trying to fit it together to light up a circuit or make something buzz, like, big furry deal.

  He was easy to push around though. It was all the rage at high school, making Tripp’s pathetic little nerd brother’s life a misery. Tripp thought it was hilarious. That would teach him not to behave like a proper boy. He was showing the family up, and their father agreed with him. Janey, their sister, she didn’t care about either of them. Pa thought Colton should learn to hold his own and stand on his own two feet; learn to fight back. But the snivelling, trembling kid never did, and the names the other kids called him were revolting.

  Tripp found Colton pathetic, embarrassing. Didn’t he know that all you had to do was hit back? Get into a fight, that’s all it took; even if you lost, you still got respect. It wasn’t difficult, was it? Okay, so he didn’t want to play football, he was lanky enough for basketball. Or just something. Not locking himself in the science lab every lunchtime, for Christ’s sake; walking the long way home. Tripp had no idea how they’d actually ended up in the same family. Colton even exasperated their mother, with his constantly running nose and mild asthma and hay fever. Anything that came round, Colt caught it. Tripp was perpetually sure he was putting it on just to get a day off school, like a pussy.

  Tripp himself had graduated high school and gone on to work with his dad, selling cars. He was good at it too: a cheeky word for the ladies, a bit of talk with the men about the game, job done. He stayed in the same town and married the hottest girl from his high school – who turned out to be an utter pain in the hole, even as it became increasingly clear that she thought exactly the same thing about him.

  Colton had gone at eighteen, off to the furthest college he could get to – Caltech, whatever the hell that was. Tripp had pretty much lost interest after that.

  Until his stupid, pathetic little brother started to get in the papers. It was small things at first: little notes in business sections of papers that Tripp didn’t read, but that his mother carefully folded away.

  Then more and more, he’d moved into the main sections with a lot of noise being made about some information-gathering service Tripp didn’t really care to understand, and words had been thrown around, like ‘disrupter’ and ‘wunderkid’ and then things he very much did want to read, like ‘billionaire’.

  He never came home. Never. Not for Thanksgiving. Not for Christmas. He didn’t attend either of Tripp’s weddings, nor Janey’s. He did on each occasion send them a large cheque, enough to buy a house with. Janey had sniffed, cashed it and never mentioned him again. Tripp had tried to call him once or twice but never remotely made it past his secretary.

  Colton had paid off his parent’s house too, quietly, without ceremony; repaid his college tuition, plus a certain amount of extra money which, had they counted it up, was precisely the average cost, adjusted for inflation, of raising a child from zero to eighteen.

  And then nothing, which, rather than making the Rogers family grateful, made them even more annoyed. A few hundred thousand – what was that to a billionaire? And what made it worse: the rest of the town knew he was part of their family. There were whispers everywhere: why weren’t they rich? Why were they still living in normal houses, driving normal cars? Why did Colton never come to visit? Mrs Rogers felt socially embarrassed at her card games in a way she normally preferred to make others feel. Their father never mentioned the son who had gotten away; who had humiliated him by paying off his mortgage. Janey couldn’t care less. But it burned in Tripp. He made a good living from the car lot, of course he did. But he had to bust his balls there every day – in the freezing cold, in the hot sun, out there dawn to dusk. He didn’t know what Colton did all day, but he’d seen pictures. It looked like a lot of private jets and being on the cover of magazines, as far as Tripp was concerned.

  Then, suddenly, it had been all over the papers – Rogers divesting from all his investments; pulling out from many of his industries. It had spooked the market – his stupid little brother could actually move the entire stock market, it transpired. It had made headlines. Rogers had gone into hiding. Which was quite natural for an eccentric billionaire apparently. But for the family, it was concerning. What was he doing? What was he trying to hide? And, more importantly, what the hell was he doing with all that money?

  Meanwhile, their father had gotten older and frailer and more curmudgeonly than ever, and it was becoming obvious their mother could no longer cope. They needed money to look after him; neither he nor Janey had anything put by after the divorces, and they couldn’t throw their mom out of her home.

  A profile in
Forbes had talked in passing about the increasing amounts of time Colton was spending on a remote Scottish island without having redeveloped his plans for a golf course at all – work hadn’t even started. That was enough for the family to get together and find out what was up, and . . . Well, Tripp didn’t like to see it as begging. Implying, that was all. That the family needed looking after, and he had billions. So. It was only fair.

  Flora brought him a coffee anyway. After all he was, in a funny way, her brother-in-law. He looked utterly exhausted.

  ‘Sleep well?’

  He looked at her. There were massive bags under his eyes.

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Not with all those dogs barking.’

  Flora frowned. None of the dogs on Mure were notorious barkers, as far as she knew, and she knew them all. I mean, the sheepdogs when they were working, but not at night . . . Oh.

  ‘Those aren’t dogs,’ she said.

  He glanced up.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You mean the seals.’

  ‘Seals?’

  ‘Yes, you know . . . fat grey things.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be. I didn’t know they bark.’

  It was becoming clearer and clearer to Flora that there were an awful lot of things that Tripp Rogers didn’t know, and she was very careful not to let anything slip that wasn’t her place to tell him.

  ‘So are you . . . are you going to see Colton today?’ she said carefully, worrying about what she was saying even as she spoke the words.

  ‘I hope so. I have to wait to hear from his manager guy.’

  Flora frowned.

  ‘You know . . . I can’t remember his name. The faggy-looking one.’

  There was a pause. Flora was suddenly terribly tempted to pour the coffee jug all over his hand. Just in time, she remembered how famously litigous Americans were. Even so. There were limits.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I won’t have language like that in here. You’ll have to leave.’

  ‘You’re shitting me.’

  ‘Nope,’ said Flora. ‘Up you get.’

  Tripp’s eyes wandered through to the kitchen where Iona was grilling the first square Lorne sausage slices of the day, their aromatic scent making its way tantalisingly through to the main room. Big fresh puffy loaves of bread, courtesy of the redoubtable Mrs Laird, had just arrived on the counter, warm and fragrant. His saggy face fell.