Entry Island by Peter May

pictures out of shapeless blemishes on walls and ceilings. Exercising his imagination to fill in the time. Even theflickering light sent around the room by the ever-changing images on the TV screen could conjure up its own shadow theatre.
    But tonight his lids were just too heavy. They fell shut, and there, once more in the darkness, he found her. Watching him, holding him in her eyes. And for a moment he thought he saw her smile …

CHAPTER NINE
    I hear voices. Strange accents. I am lost among a sea of faces that I can’t quite see. As if I am looking at the world through a veil of gauze. I see myself now. Younger. Seventeen perhaps, or eighteen. I can feel my confusion, and at the same time watch myself with a peculiar objectivity. Both spectator and player. I wear the oddest clothes. Breeches held up with braces, a stained white shirt without a collar, a three-quarter-length jacket, heavy leather boots that seem too big for my feet.
    I feel cobbles underfoot, and blackened sandstone tenements rise around me. There is a river, and I see a paddle-steamer ploughing its way past the quay towards a low, arched stone bridge that spans the leaden flow. Somewhere beyond the tenements on the far bank I see a church steeple prick the sky, and clouds of smoke and steam rise into the blue from a railway station almost immediately opposite. I can hear the trains spitting and coughing as they idle against their buffers.
    It feels like summer. The air is warm, and I am aware of the heat of the sun on my skin. The gauze dissolves now,bringing sharper focus, and my objectivity slips away. I become conscious of tall-masted sailing ships moored along the quayside. The sea of faces around me shifting and undulating as this current of humanity ebbs and flows, carrying me along like a piece of flotsam.
    But I am not alone. I feel a hand in mine, small and soft and warm, and I look back to see Kirsty Cowell, apprehensive, unsettled by the lack of control we seem to have of our destiny in this crowd. She is younger, too. A teenager. I call to her above the voices that fill the air. ‘Don’t let go, Ciorstaidh, stay close to me.’ And from somewhere, far away, in my unconscious world, I realise I am calling her by her Gaelic name.
    A space opens up around us, and I see a boy with a cloth cap and ragged shorts. A pile of newspapers is draped over one arm, a folded copy raised in his other hand. He is chanting some incomprehensible refrain. Over and over. Someone snatches a paper and slips coins into his hand. Kirsty takes one too, letting go of my hand to unfold it. I see its banner. The
Glasgow Herald
. And before she opens it up, the date: July 16th, 1847.
    ‘It’s Fair Friday,’ she says. ‘No wonder it’s so busy.’ But for some reason this means nothing to me. I am gripped, I realise, by a sense of urgency. Of time running out. Somewhere I can hear a clock chiming the hour.
    ‘We’re late. We can’t afford to miss the boat.’
    She slips the newspaper under her arm and takes my handagain, our free hands occupied by the carrying of small cardboard suitcases containing God knows what. Her face is shining, excited. She wears a tunic buttoned up over a long dress that flares and falls to the cobbles, but her black hair tumbles free across her shoulders, swept back from her face by a soft breeze.
    ‘We’re looking for the
Eliza
, Simon. A three-master. We’ve time enough. They said she wouldn’t be leaving the Broom-ielaw till a quarter past the hour.’
    I push up on to my tiptoes to see across the heads on the quayside. There are three boats tied up to giant iron capstans. And I see the name I am looking for painted in black and gold across the stern of the furthest.
ELIZA
. She seems huge to me, a confusion of masts and rigging and furled canvas sails.
    ‘I see her. Come on.’
    And, pulling Kirsty behind me, I push off through the bodies of men, women and children scrambling anxiously to secure their places on these