In Deep

By M A Fitzroy

Arriving on a remote Scottish island to investigate an unexplained death, Ted Harris finds himself entangled in the life of the community – and becomes attracted to Athol, his enigmatic landlord. Soon they're working together, depending on each other for survival in perilous circumstances, and slowly unravelling the mystery. Will they ever figure out exactly how and why Kieran Parnes died and who was responsible for his death, and what will it do to the island – and to the tentative beginnings of their relationship – if they tell anybody what they know?

• Language: English
• Publisher: satis fiction
• Release date: Oct 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201581862

M A Fitzroy

When MA Fitzroy started writing M/M (or 'slash') fiction, it was common for writers to adopt a pen name of the opposite gender. Thus she chose 'Adam Fitzroy', which helped protect her from people who'd targeted her in the past, but was always careful to make no claims that the person behind that pseudonym was actually male. * In these more enlightened times, however, the real MA Fitzroy can at last stand up and be counted - as she always has to her closest friends! * Imaginist and purveyor of tall tales MA Fitzroy is a UK resident who has been successfully spinning male/male romances either part-time or full-time since the 1980s, and has a particular interest in examining the conflicting demands of love and duty.

Book preview

-one-

The first time I set eyes on Ellisay was from the air on a clear, bright Wednesday in September. We'd taken off from Kirkwall in an eight-seater Britten-Norman Islander about twenty minutes earlier, flown north-westward over an impossibly blue sea dotted with enchanted-looking islands, approached over a steep craggy cliff and dropped quickly into what from a couple of hundred feet up looked no bigger than a farmer's field. There weren't even any lights beside the runway, although since we were landing on grass I'm not sure it could be said that it was literally a runway at all.

Settling delicately on the springy green turf, we taxied over to a wooden chalet which was apparently both passenger and cargo terminal. It looked improvised and temporary, a reluctant concession to the demands of the outside world. Ellisay had a hypothetical airline schedule of a single flight per day - although, without runway lights, even that was vulnerable to adverse weather - and a twice-weekly ferry that didn't always get through. When winter closed in, or so my guidebook told me, the island would be cut off completely for long periods - something I wouldn't really want to happen to me, since I had hardly any luggage beyond a couple of paperbacks and a change of underwear and I didn't know a soul in the place to talk to. On the other hand, maybe Ellisay was a bit like a mediaeval religious community doing its best to keep the world at a safe distance to allow itself time for contemplation, and I must admit I couldn't exactly blame it for wanting that.

I waited while my fellow passengers extracted themselves from their seats; there was nowhere for me to go until they did, in any case. They were a young mother with two children and a pushchair, and they seemed to have carrier bags with them from half the stores in Kirkwall. The little lad had whined continually throughout the trip - just to add to the general merriment - and the baby had thrown up, noisily, in mid-air; I’d had to take out my handkerchief and press it to my nose to shield me from the smell. Not that I was unsympathetic, you understand – far from it. As a matter of fact my stomach was churning too, and if I thought about it too much I'd probably end up reaching for the sick-bag myself. That was way more indignity than I reckoned I could bear.

The pilot got out of his seat and opened the passenger door, folding down the steps. The young mum gathered up her bits and pieces while the boy and his white teddy bear climbed out on their own - it looked as if they were all quite used to the routine. Even so it took a while for them to get organised, during which she nodded and smiled distractedly in my direction. I thought I heard her say something about cleaning the children up before they collected their car as she and her luggage set off across the grass towards the building.

After they'd gone, the pilot turned to me. Are you being met? he asked.

I hope so, I said. I've booked a taxi.

Right. That'll be you, then. He waved a hand towards the road beyond the chalet, where there was a dull red Range Rover which was nothing like new, and leaning against it a tall man maybe in his late twenties or early thirties with short fair hair who wore a black tee-shirt, tartan shorts, and sandals. He had his arms folded, his ankles crossed, and even from a distance I could tell he wasn't in a very cheerful mood.

That's a taxi? Maybe I'd led a spoiled and sheltered life in my cosy corner of the mainland, but from where I was standing it didn't look very professional - in fact, it looked just like somebody's battered old banger – and I couldn't believe I'd actually be expected to pay for the privilege of riding in the thing. You are joking, aren't you?

No, that's the taxi all right - and it's the only one on the island, so it's either that or walk.

Oh. Right. Well, that made sense, I suppose. Given the size of Ellisay – less than eighty-five square miles, and much of it almost vertical - there wouldn't be enough custom to keep more than one taxi running even during the summer. At least he'll know the way then, won't he? I was trying to put a positive spin on it, but the pilot didn't really seem interested in continuing the conversation.

Enjoy your stay, he said, as if he thought he should.

Thanks. As I picked up my rucksack it was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I wasn't really here to enjoy myself, but the return passengers were on their way over from the chalet and there wasn't time to hang about chatting. See you again, I expect. He wasn't listening though, and I walked away without another thought. This might all be a bit unusual for me, but obviously here it was just another working day and I was just a tourist. They must be quite blasé about the odd eccentric Englishman, bird-watching or sketching or pulling on big boots and tramping about the island in splendid isolation - and that was the stereotype I was trying to fit into in the hope of staying relatively inconspicuous. That was always the way I liked to operate, whenever humanly possible.

The sullen-looking man peeled himself off the Range Rover's front end as I approached and moved around to open the passenger door.

Afternoon, I said, cheerfully. I gather you're the taxi?

It wasn't quite what I'd been expecting. It seemed to be taller than the standard model of Range Rover, and inside everything behind the front seats had been reconfigured with padded benches along the sides and a single door across the back. A logo on the side showed that it belonged to Ellisay Community Transport.

Also the ambulance, said the driver, in what was definitely not a Scottish accent; it was flat, almost BBC, with a faint Antipodean intonation. It's a multi-purpose vehicle. Welcome to Ellisay, Mr Harris.

Thanks. Looks as if it's a lovely place. The sky was an almost Mediterranean blue and the towering hills a summer green. I bet it's different in the winter, though.

Well, hopefully you won't be around long enough to find out. Which was borderline rude in my opinion, but I decided to ignore it; some people are just no good at repartee.

True. Be awkward if I was; my room's only booked for a week.

Mmm. The driver was behind the wheel now, turning the key, starting the engine, pulling away. This time of year it's the weather that makes those decisions, though - not us.

And, after that, we sat in silence for a while.

*

Where the road from the airfield joined the main highway there were traffic lights but no traffic. The driver sat and waited until the signal changed, then turned out along what felt like any other road in rural Britain. Some of the houses, which had 'No Vacancies' signs in their windows, were clearly bed-and-breakfast establishments already closed for the season. Only a couple of places kept going in the winter, it seemed; I'd booked into one at the north end of the island, in the village of Skreever, near a ruin which used to be a lighthouse. The Neuk, the cottage was called; it came with the additional advantage of being owned by a commercial diver who spent his summers giving lessons and leading dive tours to wreck sites. According to what I'd read these were not as famous as the ones further south at Scapa Flow, but they were still good enough to attract considerable interest and were the focus of his business. I was hoping I might persuade the guy to open up a bit and talk to me about diving – either in general, or maybe in particular. I'd imagined Athol Grey as a grizzled old naval veteran with a fount of salty stories - looking a bit like James Robertson Justice, maybe, or Finlay Currie - who'd be glad enough to hunker down for a chat over whisky and a smoky peat fire. I reckoned that with a bit of patience I'd be able to lead the conversation around to a certain diving accident which had happened four years earlier, and then I could subtly and skilfully pick his brains about it - and who knew what might follow on from that?

The potential for information gathering would, I hoped, outweigh the logistical difficulties of the location. The people I wanted to talk to would probably be in Noust – that was the largest settlement, it could scarcely be called a town - or scattered elsewhere about the island. At least there was the taxi to get me from A to B, and if all else failed I'd be able to hire a bicycle. My best cycling days, however, were a long way in the past, and I'd probably do better to rely on my own two feet.

I'd learned from my research that – not counting access-ways and private drives – there were only two roads on Ellisay worthy of the name; both ran roughly north-south in a V-shaped formation, converging at Noust. That was where the ferry called on Mondays and Thursdays, and where everything came ashore that didn't arrive by air. There were three other smaller harbours, used by leisure craft and the occasional fishing boat, at the western end. The eastern two-thirds of the island was steep hill-country, and the closest thing to a road there was a water company track to the reservoir. In summer the place was alive with walkers - 'island-baggers' they were called, apparently - ticking off the highest summit on the island. I'd found this out on one of the websites I'd looked at, most of which only recommended Ellisay as a holiday destination for people with a taste for solitude and rugged living. In actual fact, apart from a few interesting wrecks around the coastline, the island didn't have much to offer: puffin burrows, neolithic remains, fishing ... You could only bring a car over by winching it onto the deck of the ferry, and since you needed a special driving permit anyway most Orkney visitors gave Ellisay a miss - which, I suspected, was the way the islanders liked it. In fact, if they could have taken it off the map altogether, it would probably have suited them very well.

We go into Noust to pick up the road to Skreever, the driver told me. There isn't a direct route. Which explained what for these parts amounted to suburban sprawl - six identikit new houses with blue-grey roofs, and a pocket-sized fire station complete with drill tower. There was a roundabout too, and half-hearted ribbon development giving way to open farmland devoid of trees. I could imagine gardening would be a nightmare here. Anything small enough to shelter behind a drystone wall maybe had a chance of surviving, but there was no tree taller than a man and instead people seemed to grow long-stemmed ornamental grasses which were probably scythed down by gale force winds every winter and sprang up again in spring as if nothing had happened. Like the people, maybe, eternal optimists; it would take a lot to crush them permanently. Or maybe, like me, they just put one foot in front of the other because they didn't know what else to do. I had thought it was natural progression that brought me to Ellisay, but now I was here I wasn't sure there was anything natural about it at all. Really, wasn't it because I couldn't think of a better way to pass the time?

As we crossed the island and I spotted the occasional distant croft or dogged tractor gleaming against the sky, it was easy enough to lose myself in my thoughts. I'd hoped to be a bit more observant right from the start and to hit the ground running, but actually I was tired. It had been quite a journey from Aberdeen to Kirkwall on the overnight ferry, and I had to admit that I wasn't getting any younger. Maybe I should just cut myself a bit of slack for today, get a good night's sleep and start fresh in the morning - assuming a good night's sleep was to be had in the only B&B on the island with a room to offer me, of course.

When the Range Rover stopped outside an unprepossessing stone cottage, it was immediately obvious why the images on the island website had only shown the sitting-room and a couple of the guest rooms: this house was definitely no looker, and it was overdue a serious amount of external maintenance. As if it wasn't ugly enough already, there was a fenced enclosure running up one side and across the back of the property with a locked gate and a sign reading 'Calor Gas Sales and Service'. That hadn't been mentioned in the advertising material either.

Is this it?

This is it. The engine was switched off.

Oh well. I'd booked it and now I'd have to stay here. Maybe when I was planning this trip I should have given a bit more thought to getting a room in Kirkwall and coming over on the ferry a day at a time - although that would have been very much more expensive, in terms of both money and time. So what do I owe you? I asked the driver; there wasn't a meter in the vehicle.

Fifteen pounds. But don't worry, I'll add it to your bill.

I'm sorry?

Your bill. When you leave. And that was when the penny dropped that the driver had got out of the car – not, as I thought, to open the door for me, but taking the keys from the ignition, unfastening a gate in the lichen-covered wall and reaching towards the front door.

Hang on, then, are you ... ? Following him up the path, I was trying to recalibrate my expectations. It would make sense, I thought, if the old salt's son drove the taxi and regularly ferried people in his dad's direction; that wouldn't be a bad racket to be in at all.

I'm Athol Grey. The driver's mouth twisted as though he was expecting a negative response. You're staying in my house.

The mature and competent islander of my imagination vanished in an instant. I was left staring open-mouthed at a long-faced intellectual type with an air of disdain, who looked as if he'd be more at home at the controls of some all-singing all-dancing computer gizmo than engaged in any form of manual labour. Culture shock didn't even begin to cover my reaction, which probably accounted for the next thing to come out of my mouth.

Oh, for fuck's sake - then you're my landlord?!

I regretted it immediately.

I am, although I'd appreciate you moderating your language while you're on my property.

Right. Yes. Sorry. It was a long time since anyone had spoken to me in quite that tone of voice, but now I came to think of it weren't they all 'Wee Frees' or something in the islands? I had an idea I wouldn't be able to buy alcohol on a Sunday, for example, and probably not much of anything else. I was half-expecting the inside of the place to be all poker-work texts, with dismal Biblical pictures and a vinegar-faced landlady who'd object to incomers and Sassenachs on principle, but as soon as I stepped into the house it was obvious the website hadn't lied. It was warm, clean and bright – although small and far from luxurious – and in the sitting-room there was a large-screen TV with a stack of DVDs beside it, so clearly I wouldn't be required to forego twenty-first century living for the duration. There was also, in a basket beside the wood-burning stove, a grubby-looking Cairn terrier that could hardly be bothered to lift its head.

That's Sparky, said Grey. He's twelve, and he spends most of his time asleep. You don't mind dogs, do you?

Not a bit. Hello, Sparky, how are you?

The dog managed to open one sleepy eye, but that was the extent of his reaction.

He'd be out of his basket quick enough if you'd brought him anything to eat. Grey dropped his car keys into a wooden bowl. Speaking of which, would you like a cup of tea?

Thanks, yes, I would. I hadn't had much breakfast in Kirkwall. I've been on plenty of Jumbo jets and Airbuses in my time, but the thought of travelling on a tiny island-hopper with no aisle and no toilet had made me too nervous to eat much - and, as I watched the ground slip beneath us when we took off, I was grateful I'd stuck to the toast and fruit juice. Not that I wasn't hungry now, though. Actually, I don't suppose you've got any food about the place? I reckon I could eat a horse!

Well - not a horse, anyway. It was the first glimmer of anything that might have been humour. At close quarters, Athol Grey's face seemed set in a permanently miserable expression as though nothing good could ever be expected to happen to him - and in fact he bore more than a passing resemblance to Eeyore. D'you just want a snack, or would you rather have an early lunch? I've got some raisin scones, or I can defrost a burger if you like.

Raisin scones sound brilliant, thanks. Mind if I use the bathroom first?

Sure. I'll put the kettle on, and then I'll show you to your room.

*

My room was at the end of a short corridor on the ground floor, next to the bathroom. It was an odd shape, long and narrow with twin beds end-to-end and the wardrobe in an alcove. It had ice-blue walls, a blue-green carpet and thick tartan blankets on the beds. The radiator was ticking away loudly; despite the sunshine the heating had clearly been switched on, a reassuringly thoughtful touch.

You run this place on your own? I asked, when I found my way back to the kitchen. Surprisingly the table had been laid with brilliant white cups, plates and a teapot. I'd been expecting a teabag shoved into a mug, which was all a visitor to my house would have received – not that there'd been many of those in recent times. Not since Sheila's funeral, at any rate.

In the off-season. In summer I have help, at least for the cleaning.

Busy, then, are you - in the summer?

Somewhat. It pays the bills. About as communicative as a clam; so much for filling him up with booze and pumping him for information!

The raisin scones were wonderful - large, soft, floury and fresh. Sparky sat and watched with expectant eyes as I split one open the way a pearl-fisher splits an oyster.

Not a chance, mate, I said. I'm eating this. I was so hungry it could have been a week old and solid as a rock for all I cared, but as a matter of fact it wasn't. It's great, I said. Don't tell me you baked this yourself?

Not this time. I do bake, but why bother when other people do it better?

My wife used to bake, I said. It had brought her to mind; her pride in the things she created. Before she got ill. Little iced cakes with decorations, great big ones for parties with pictures on the top. She made a cake once that had green icing and a whole little plastic cricket team on it, playing a match.

'Used to'? It was clear Athol Grey was one of those people who always asks uncomfortable questions. I've met plenty of those over the years, nervy men who burn out young because their brains never stop working. She doesn't do it any more?

Unfortunately not, I replied. She died in October last year. It was cancer, I added, because that's what people always ask next - and usually that's the end of the conversation, for a little while at least.

I'm sorry. It's always the same thing, but somehow this time it didn't sound as empty as it usually does. Do you have children?

Yes and no, I said. Story for another day, if you don't mind too much.

Not at all. He recovered quickly. Well, then, Mr Harris, how are you thinking of amusing yourself while you're on the island? Are you a walker, or can I help you out with transport? I'm happy to drop you off somewhere free of charge whenever I'm picking up another customer, for instance.

Thanks, I might just take you up on that. This was considerably more encouraging, and I thought