Free Alien Virus by Steve Howrie Page B

understatement. Everywhere we went, there seemed to be no
warmth, no brightness or life in people – particularly in
Scrabster. I talked about this with Kate as we waited to board the
boat.
    “It’s the virus,” she said. “People are now
no more than automatons at times – you’ve probably noticed. The
last time I came up here – as a child – everyone was so welcoming
and friendly. Now it’s hard to even get a smile.”
    We were beckoned towards the boat by a
serious–looking man, and we drove through the ship’s hull into the
parking lanes. On board the ferry, people stared out of the windows
or read newspapers. Nobody spoke.
    As the boat departed, Kate and I left the
warm cabin to stand on deck – looking back as we pulled away from
the mainland. It was cold and windy in the sea air, and we were
glad of our warm coats and woolly hats. Automatically, I drew her
towards me. She looked up into my eyes and smiled, encouraging me
to hold her closer.
    The swell of the sea made the boat roll and
dip. Ahead of us lay the Orkney Islands – faint outlines on the
horizon. Was this to be our new home? The journey took us close to
Hoy, the most mountainous of the islands, and we marvelled at the Old Man of Hoy, a sandstone sea
stack standing 137 metres high. Time
passed quickly, and it wasn’t long before we were heading toward
the town of Stromness – and old fishing port on the West side of
the Main island.
    It was nine in the evening by the time we
drove off the boat, and we decided to stop in Stromness before
driving to Kirkwall, the main town of the County, the next day.
Kate remembered a small hotel in Stromness where she had stayed
with her parents, and fortunately they had a room for the night.
The owner was surprisingly friendly and hospitable, and it made me
wonder if the virus had not penetrated this far north. I surmised
that the sea air would not be to its liking. Our room was warm and
comfortable, and after the long journey, fresh sea air, and two
large brandies, we drifted off soundly to sleep.
    *
    The next morning after breakfast, we packed
our bags in the car and headed off in the direction of Kirkwall.
The route was a narrow road, flanked by grey stone houses in rough
grassland. The lack of trees was compensated by views of other
islands at practically every turn. There was something untouched
about Orkney that made me feel comfortable and safe
straightaway.
    Whereas Stromness had felt old worldly, like
an eighteenth century fishing port, Kirkwall had more of a modern
feel in comparison. We parked the car in the town centre and looked
for signs to the Tourist Office. Our plan was to get information on
the islands, and properties that might be for sale. From Kirkwall
we could sail to all the Northern Orkney islands, and we decided to
try each one in turn – in alphabetical order (it was Kate’s idea).
Studying the map in the Tourist Centre in Albert Street, I saw
three islands with names beginning with an ‘S’, one with an ‘N’,
one with ‘R’ and another with ‘W’. Then Kate pointed to a small
island right in the centre of a group.
    “Here Kevin – there’s one beginning with ‘E’
– that’s our island!”
    “Ah, you’re right! So Eday it is
then.”

    ***

Twelve
     
    In London, the Special Branch had been busy.
They’d pulled together just about everything about Sandi and I that
was on record – passport details, drivers licence s , bank account
details, car registrations, mobile phone numbers and lists of calls
made. Plus full medical records, criminal record checks, school
reports and work references, including background information from
interviews with Trevor and other work colleagues. What pubs and
restaurants I frequented, my favourite drinks, which shops I purchased goods from, and the football team I
supported – no stone was left unturned. They also knew – from
Trevor – that I’d been on an assignment to Scotland, and knew I
stayed in Edinburgh (from hotel