It didn’t take long, this time of year, to wait for dark, but they had decided, through some unspoken agreement, that they really needed to wait until everyone had gone to bed, and the men all skulked about, Hamish unable to stifle his giggles. A farmer through and through, it was extremely unusual for him to be up and about after nine o’clock at night.
The great metal sculpture was hollow, otherwise it would have been completely unliftable—but they were still going to have to get it to the hill and set it in concrete.
“You realize,” said Joel, “that this means it’ll be here forever?”
“I hope that councilwoman fancies you as much as Flora says she does,” said Innes, confusing Joel, who didn’t have a clue.
Nonetheless it weighed an absolute ton, and they sweated and panted loading it onto the island’s only flatbed truck, which belonged to Anndra the builder, who fortunately had four stout children, so hadn’t needed much persuading; it was a dang sight easier than having to fly them all to Inbhir Nis to see the Christmas lights. Now all they needed was a Santa. Politely, nobody mentioned to Anndra that with his rotund belly and fine beard, he was almost certainly the best specimen they had.
Isla came out with hot toddies for everyone, partly because it was freezing, partly because everyone else was insane with curiosity as to what they were up to and it had fallen to her to try to wheedle it out of them.
“No chance,” said Konstantin, rushing up to her. “Stay there!” he commanded, then came up behind her and put his hands over her eyes. “Don’t look! Hold the tray still! You can’t see!!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Isla, but she stood stock-still nonetheless. It was the oddest sensation, feeling his long smooth hands in front of her eyes, sensing his tall presence behind her. She found herself trembling slightly. It was the cold, had to be.
Of course he wouldn’t be thinking anything of it—he was only playing. On the other hand, he stiffened too, she was sure of it; for just a second, she thought she felt him quiver, and in an uncharacteristically tremulous voice he said, “Come on, everyone, take your drinks! But don’t let her see it!”
“I want to see it!”
“You can see it when it’s ready.”
“That’s very unfair when I’ve made all the hot toddies!”
“I don’t care! Turn around.”
Reluctantly, she turned around, his arms making sure she didn’t stumble, and looked up at him. Her tray was empty now; he held the last two glasses and handed one back to her.
“Can you come and find me when I can see it?” she found herself asking him.
“Immediately,” he said, without hesitation.
And just for a second, under the freezing dark starlight and the moon halfway through its travels to the east, they looked at each other, her small head tilted upward toward him. And Konstantin felt something quite unusual; it was, he thought, not unlike the feeling you got when you saw a little bird or a kitten—something very fragile, very innocent, that you had to be very careful not to touch or disturb.
It was the oddest thing; he’d barely given his sink mate a second thought. But now he saw her eyes wide open, looking up at him, a frightfully appealing look around her face.
“Oi!” shouted Hamish, and she broke free.
He watched her, thoughtfully, as she took the tray back up to the hotel. She kept her promise not to turn around.
THEY HAD TAKEN the wings off the sculpture, but it was still a monster as they strapped it down with guy ropes, and finally, Innes started very carefully backing out of the driveway of the Rock, the others jumping around the outside, making sure it didn’t wobble too much, then, very carefully, Innes did a four-hundred-point turn and headed off, trundling down the headland away from the lit-up hotel and on toward the village.
Sure enough, they didn’t meet another car on the way down the road. One day, Joel thought, he’d like to think that there would be many people coming up here, coming to stay at the Rock, enjoying its beautiful surroundings and peace and quiet—with only twelve rooms, they would never get crowded.
There would always be all the space, fresh air, peace, and quiet that anyone required there, the kind of peace of mind he himself had found. Well. Who knew? And this ridiculous project of Konstantin’s might even help. He eyed the young blond man. For a spoiled rich kid, he was doing surprisingly well. His father would hopefully be pleased.
As he watched, Konstantin finally figured the statue was safe enough on the flatbed and, with a giddy run, threw himself and his long legs onto the bed of the truck, beckoning Bjårk up behind him.
“So long, suckers!” he yelled cheerily, looking very young all of a sudden. “Enjoy your walk!”
Innes suddenly turned the wheel briskly and he nearly fell off (Bjårk, with his low and hairy center of gravity, was completely fine), and a long leg went up in the air. Normally this would have peeved him; he hated to look foolish in front of people, most of whom were always telling him how cool he was. But here it didn’t matter. Hamish was laughing so much it looked like he was going to fall over himself, skidding on the icy ground. Somehow, half of them walking, half riding, they made it down, although they made such a commotion they frightened the cows in the field.
AT THE FOOT of the hill that led up to the school, they stopped. The spot they’d chosen was as well positioned as they could make it, their most important thing being not to beam the installation’s lights in anybody’s window all night and send them completely insane.
The buried connection was about halfway up the hill, round the back of an old barn, so they weren’t in much danger of bothering anyone. Innes had already had the hole dug, causing much interest among the children, including many who wanted to bring spades of their own and do digging, which was hard enough in the frozen ground, but he told them it was farm business and to be on their way. It being after school, when most children are in absolutely dire need of a large snack and a sit-down before going out to play again, this more or less did the trick, except for Agot, of course, who stayed doing helping and shooing off any other children who came by, saying only she was allowed to help as it was farm business, which was actually quite helpful.
Now, the concrete mixer was churning away, and everyone was incredibly excited. As well as the headlamps from the flatbed, they had some storm lanterns to light everything and made sure the angel was straight as they carefully winched it down, hand over hand, into the hole. Then, when everything was as plumb as it could be and the wires were fixed, they got out of the way and let the concrete cascade down into the hole.
They stood back to admire their handiwork. There was no doubt about it, the thing was huge. It had changed the face of Mure forever; you’d have to saw it apart to take it down.
“Oh my God,” said Innes.
“Marsali does know it’s four meters high?” said Konstantin, finally feeling a bit worried, though of course it was far too late.
“No,” said Joel. “Because you wouldn’t tell me what was happening.”
“Yes, but did you tell her today?”
“I told her it was four . . .” Joel let his voice trail off.
“I’m not sure,” observed Innes finally, “that she ever got metric.”
There was a pause.
“You mean she thinks it’s four feet?” Konstantin hooted.
“That,” said Innes slowly, “is a distinct possibility.”
They all looked at the concrete, now rapidly hardening.
“Oh, come on,” said Konstantin finally, mischief creasing his features. “Let’s just set it up.”
Bloody hell” is rarely something you want to hear your pilot say. Fortunately it was rather muffled, even in the tiny space of the minuscule prop plane that acted as a rural bus between the far northern islands, with its eight seats and rather rudimentary noise insulation.
Saif didn’t need to hear it, partly because he’d been entirely sunken in a misery so deep and vast the black endless sea and sky outside did nothing but mirror his mood.
In fact, before he realized what had just been said and snapped to attention, a tiny bit of him considered that if the pilot was saying the plane was about to plunge into the sea, well, that wouldn’t necessarily be the worst thing in the world, it would at least bring an end to the maelstrom of thoughts tearing up his head, which was an idea so horrifying and upsetting he banished it from his mind immediately, astounded.
But he had thought it nonetheless.
He wrenched his mind away from everything, all the dark thoughts swirling there, and blinked several times.
They were descending, so they were nearly at the tiny airstrip in Mure, manned by a husband-and-wife team who also ran the post office, so there was absolutely nothing they didn’t know about every single soul on the island.
Normally from the left-hand set of portholes you saw exactly what you’d expect to see: a tiny mound, like an extended comma in shape, with lighthouses dotted all round it to protect passing shipping and lights clustered on the whole of the southeast corner, where the village was, tiny pinpricks of warmth in a vast dark ocean; homey, and comforting, and somehow a tiny bit awe-inspiring, the way human beings could thrive and prosper so far away on such a tiny spot of land, so far out at sea.
But tonight it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all. Just behind the main streets, on the hill that led to the school was . . . Well, what the hell was that?
Saif and the other travelers—a bird-watching couple from Nova Scotia who had excitedly tried to engage him in Gaelic and a young, smartly dressed woman on her own—all peered out the left-hand side until the copilot came back and told them to balance up the plane and stop craning on one side.
“Obh, obh,” said the older woman, and Saif could kind of see her point; it looked like the island was on fire. A great big shaft of light was beaming straight up in the air, leading down to a vast white shape below.
“Is that hazardous?” he asked the copilot, who frowned.
“Well . . . it’s vulgar.”
Saif stared at it. He had been lost in contemplation, remembering and trying to remember every single word of every bit of the conversation from that afternoon.
“Why hasn’t she been in touch?” he had choked out. “I still have the same number. I’m on Facebook. I’m on Red Cross and Red Crescent.”
The man had looked strained. “There might be a few reasons,” he said awkwardly. “If she’s in a refugee camp she may not have access.”
“Anyone can borrow a phone.”
“She may . . . Her husband may not allow her access.”
Saif’s eyes squeezed together. “Who would not let her contact her own children?”
“Someone who did not want her to have had another family,” said the man, kindly but plainly.
Saif shook his head.
“Or,” said the man, “she understands the situation all too well and doesn’t want to make life difficult for you.”
Saif frowned. “What do you mean?” He looked up. “I got a strange message that didn’t . . . I thought it might just be coincidence.”
He explained and the man shrugged.
“Well, she knows the status of jihadi brides in the West. She knows that it would be nothing other than disruptive to you. That the British government would be unhappy, would not let her enter the country. May not even let you stay. It is possible she is counting on her silence . . . keeping you safe.”
And Saif had been quiet for a long time after that.
He leaned his head on the plane window again.
It was—it couldn’t be—but it seemed to be a large angel, built of light. He couldn’t help but stare at it. An angel of light. Mikael, the archangel of mercy.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He was a doctor, a man of science. He was not the kind of person who believed that angels would suddenly appear, would suddenly manifest, just to help him, personally, out of a predicament. That made absolutely no sense at all. Of course not.
Nonetheless, he had left Mure that morning. He had dropped the children at school. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there had been absolutely nothing on the hill in front of the school, except for the little tree lanterns that were slung there every Christmas. And now . . .
Saif stared on, absolutely hypnotized. It grew bigger and brighter as they drew closer to it. It was completely otherworldly.
“Bloody hell,” said the pilot again. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m just going to . . .”
There wasn’t another plane for hundreds of miles. He took a little detour. Just to take a look. The copilot took a photo, but it only showed itself to look like a mad, massive UFO, which was even worse. They flew low to see it, but it made no more sense close up than it did from the air.
Except it was beautiful.
It was visible from the airfield, right across the other side of the island. It was almost certainly visible from everywhere, possibly including space.
Billy and Effie McGlone, who ran the airfield, rushed out to meet them as the plane taxied to a standstill.
“We’ve had everyone on the line!” they exclaimed breathlessly. “Pilots and everyone on the radio are going absolutely ballistic.”
“What on earth is it?” asked the bird-watchers.
“Apparently,” said Mrs. McGlone. “Apparently it’s our Christmas decorations.”
THE YOUNG WOMAN who was disembarking started taking loads of photographs. She’d taken a few out of the side of the plane, but they bounced back off the thick glass and didn’t show anything except a blur. She did, though, have a sense that there might be more to this story—her editor wanted more on the “Worst Hotel in Britain,” and in these days of reduced budgets and strained newsrooms, it was normally pretty difficult to find enough money to send a reporter out. But she’d convinced him that it would be worthwhile, and here she was, a zillion miles from God knows where, with one mission in mind—find the worst hotel in Britain.