Chapter 4: The Storm Breaks
The first fat raindrops hit the hut's roof like thrown stones. Dougal heaved the last crate up through the trap door, ribs screaming, and rolled it onto the floorboards beside the others. Hamish came up after him, said nothing, dropped the trap door shut with a boom that matched the thunder.
He stood dripping, watching his brother. The silence was worse than the shouting.
"Well?" Dougal's voice cracked. "Say it, if you're going to say it."
Hamish took his time. He hung his wet jacket on the peg, sat down on a crate, and pulled out his roll-up case.
"You counted them," he said. "The crates. Out loud, on the water."
Dougal went still. "What of it?"
Hamish struck a match and let it burn. "Regis saw it. Noticed it."
"And what of it?" Dougal demanded.
Hamish took a slow drag, let the smoke out through his nose. "It shows Regis we don't trust him. A man in our line of work can't afford to look wary at the hand that feeds him. It breeds questions."
"We don't trust him," Dougal said. "Not no farther than we can throw him."
"Doesn't matter. Matters what we look like to him." Hamish ground the roll-up out on the crate edge and carefully put the butt back in his case, and the case in his pocket.
"You looked like you were counting your own money, Dougal. Next time, keep your mouth shut and your eyes on the crates."
Dougal held his gaze, heart hammering. "And if I don't?"
Hamish stood, slow. "Then I'll remind you whose name's on this operation." He turned, grabbed the oil lamp, and moved to the door. "Fetch the one whisky and lets get back to the house. By the time we get there, we'll both need it."
Dougal grabbed the whisky, pulled the cork, and took a long swallow. The burn hit his chest and stayed there, warm and defiant.
Hamish's eyes went flat. "Put that down. You'll take no more till we're home."
Dougal wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You took more than that out there with Regis. I saw it. Noticed it."
Hamish's jaw tightened. The rain hammered the roof between them. A crack of lightning lit the hut white.
"Watch your mouth," Hamish said low.
"Or what?" Dougal held the bottle up, took another swallow, slow and deliberate. "You'll remind me whose name's on the operation? You already did that this morning. Ribs still hurt."
He set the bottle down on the crate. Hard. The glass rang once in the dark.
The blow came without warning. Hamish's open hand caught Dougal across the cheekbone, snapping his head sideways. The sting bloomed hot, and his ear rang with the impact. He staggered a step, caught himself on the crate edge.
Thunder rolled overhead. Rain pounded the roof like an angry drum.
Dougal straightened slowly. His finger touched the corner of his mouth, came away red. He looked at the blood, then at his brother. The whisky bottle sat between them, uncorked.
"Regis noticed," he said, voice flat, "because your brother's got a bruise the size of a fist under his ribs every time he handles a crate. That's what reads. Not the counting."
He reached past Hamish, lifted the bottle.
Hamish snatched it away, spilling some on the hut's floor.
"I said wait." He turned, grabbed his jacket, opened the hut door and walked out into the storm.
Dougal waited.
"You coming or you spending the night here?"
Dougal spit on the floor, a red spot blooming there, and followed his brother out into the storm.
The storm drenched them before they'd covered half the path. By the time they reached the cottage, Dougal's boots squelched and his ribs burned with every breath uphill. Hamish set the whisky bottle on the table beside the toppled chair.
"Ill settle the ewes and check your shed work," he said, and went back out into the rain
Dougal had dropped onto his cot, and pulled off his boots. The fire in the stove was almost out, the wood outside wet. And nothing for supper. He laid back, head on his thin pillow and shut his eyes. His cheek throbbed where the slap had landed.
After a moment, he sat up, reached for the whisky. He took the bottle, drank deeply again, and lay down, eyes closed.
Ten minutes later, Hamish came back, rain running off his shoulders. The storm and properly broken and the wind was driving the raindrops sideways. He stamped water off his boots and glanced at the bottle. It was half gone.
"Dougal."
"Aye."
"You drunk my whisky."
"You shared with Regis. I shared with you."
Hamish stood beside the table, dripping, his jaw working.
Hamish moved before the drip. One hand closed in Dougal's shirt, hauled him upright. Dougal's ribs screamed, a raw cry tearing from his throat. Three punches landed in the same spot, fast as hammer blows. The third folded him. Hamish let go.
Dougal hit the cot. His breath came in short, wet gasps. The whisky burn was gone, replaced by a white-hot throb that pulsed with every heartbeat.
Hamish stood over him, breathing hard. "Touch my whisky again and I'll do that with the bottle to your head." He spat and it landed on Dougal's reddened cheek.
He turned then and walked to the stove. Dougal curled on the thin mattress, clutching his side. The storm raged on.
"No sense building a fire in this wind. Blow it out down the pipe," Hamish said, not looking at his brother. "Find yourself an extra blanket. I'm going to bed."
He stopped at the door to the bedroom. At one time, they'd shared that room, even shared the big bed in it during the coldest part of the winter. Now, it was Hamish's room.
Thunder rolled and the rain hammered on the roof. He didn't turn to look at his brother.
"Dougal."
No answer.
"You hear me?"
"Aye." The word came out tight. Dougal was laying on his side, arm across his ribs.
Hamish stood there. Water pooled around his boots. His hand rested on the doorframe and he didn't move for a long moment.
"I shouldna have hit you like that."
Dougal opened one eye. He didn't speak.
Hamish worked his jaw. "That's not how Da raised me."
"Aye, it is." Dougal's voice was flat. "You just didna have cause before."
The wind rattled the cottage door. Hamish turned, crossed the room, and knelt by the cot. His hand hovered near Dougal's face, not touching. "You're right. But now..."
Dougal pulled away. "Leave it." Then, "I'll get my own blanket." He turned his head away and closed his eye.
Hamish hesitated. Not long. Then he stood, walked to the bedroom and closed the door.
The bedroom door clicked shut. Dougal lay on his cot, arm across his ribs, breath still coming in short gasps. The storm hammered on. He was just beginning to relax when the door opened again.
Hamish filled the doorway, backlit by nothing but the dark of the room behind him. His face was unreadable in the faint light from the stove's dying coals.
"You going to lie there all night feeling sorry for yourself?"
Dougal didn't move. "I'm lying here because you put me here."
"You brought it on yourself." Hamish stepped into the room. "Couldn't keep your hands off the whisky. Couldn't keep your mouth shut about Regis. Everything I do, you push back. Always have."
"Always will," Dougal said quiet.
Hamish stood over the cot. The floorboards creaked under his weight. "What did you say?"
"You heard me." Dougal opened his eyes, met his brother's gaze in the dim light. "I'm not your dog, Hamish. I'm not your servant. I'm your brother. You keep treating me like dirt and one day I'll stop getting back up."
"Stop getting back up?" Hamish laughed, short and ugly. "Is that a threat? You going to take your bruised ribs and walk off this island? Where would you go, Dougal? You've got nothing. No money, no skill, no woman would have you. You're here because I let you stay here."
"I'm here because Da left me here. He left the island to both of us. Not just you. Both."
Hamish's hand came down hard on the back of Dougal's neck, shoved his face into the mattress. "Da left me the decisions. And my decision is you stay quiet and do what you're told. Understand?"
Dougal twisted his head sideways, gasping. "Get off me."
Hamish pressed harder.
"Understand?"
"Fuck you, Hamish."
The hand released. Hamish stepped back. "Fine. Have it your way." He turned toward the bedroom.
Dougal pushed himself up on one elbow, pain flaring white-hot through his ribs. "That's it? You going to walk away? That's all you've got?"
Hamish stopped. Turned slowly.
"What's all I've got?"
Dougal's voice shook but didn't break. "You hit me in the morning, you hit me at the hut, you hit me here. All day long you take your fists to me and call it keeping order. But you never once asked if I was hurt. Never once looked at my ribs. Just kept swinging."
Hamish crossed the room in two strides. Dougal saw it coming this time, but his body couldn't move fast enough. Hamish's fist caught him square in the solar plexus. The air left his lungs in one brutal whoosh. He doubled over, tipped off the cot, and hit the floorboards hard. The back of his skull cracked against the stone hearth.
He lay there, unable to breathe, unable to move.
Hamish stood over him, breathing hard. The rain had slowed to a steady patter. "Ask me again what I've got."
Hamish waited. Dougal's mouth opened, but nothing came. His chest heaved, ribs grinding, lungs empty. F or Dougal, the world swam at the edges, the cottage floor flagstones cold against his skull.
"Pathetic." Hamish spat the word like it burned his tongue. "A dog you'd have to put down. A weak, sniveling bitch who can't even answer a simple question."
The word landed. Dougal's vision snapped into focus, sharp and red. He rolled onto his side, one hand catching the leg of the cot. He lunged forward with everything left in him.
His shoulder hit Hamish's knees. Not clean, not strong, but enough. Hamish's legs buckled and he went over backward, arms flailing, and hit the floor with a thud.
They both lay there, breathing hard. Rain drummed on the roof.
Dougal pushed himself up first. His side screamed, but he shoved the pain down and crawled onto his brother's chest. He grabbed a fistful of Hamish's shirt and yanked him up off the floorboards.
"Say it again." Dougal's voice was barely a whisper, ragged, raw. "Call me that again."
Hamish stared up at him. For a long moment, something flickered in his eyes, surprise, maybe. Then it hardened.
"Bitch."
Dougal's fist connected with Hamish's jaw. The sound of it was wet and loud, and Hamish's head snapped sideways. Dougal hit him again, then again, each blow landing in the same place, with the weight of twenty years of mornings.
Hamish's hands came up, caught Dougal's wrists. They strained against each other, both panting, the storm breaking overhead with a crash of thunder.
"Enough," Hamish choked out.
"Not."
Dougal didn't stop. He drove his knee into Hamish's ribs and felt his brother's grip loosen. He did it again. And again. And one more time. He pulled back his fist, ready to swing again.
Hamish lay beneath him, blood at the corner of his mouth, his eyes open and looking up at him. No rage there. Not contempt. It was something Dougal had never seen in his brother before.