Page 35 of Savage Redemption

“What happened to your leg?” she asks me as she checks a docket I hand to her.

“My leg?”

“I couldn’t help noticing the limp. Are you injured?”

“It’s an old war wound,” I joke. “Still troubles me from time to time.”

“Are you fit to work?”

“Absolutely.”

“Are you sure? It’s just that?—”

“It’s fine,” I snap. “Do you want a bloody medical certificate?”

She tips up her chin. “Please do not swear at me. It’s my responsibility to be sure that everyone on my site is fit to be there. No exceptions. And no medical certificate will be required, but if you seem to be flagging, you’re out. Is that clear?”

I glare at her but bite my tongue. She is only doing her job, after all, and unlike many, seems to take it seriously.

We embark on the crossing by five-thirty. Our likely arrival time will be somewhere around nine-thirty, depending on the weather. Today is a fine, dry morning, though there’s a chillyeasterly breeze which gets colder and rougher as we emerge from the Inner Hebrides and reach the open sea. I’m not prone to seasickness, which is more than can be said for many of my new workmates who spend most of the crossing hanging over the rail. I give them a wide berth, best to keep myself to myself.

By eight-thirty the island is just visible, an indistinct grey blur on the horizon. The ferry ploughs on through the choppy waves, and eventually the details can be made out. The outline of the castle dominating the entire island, the cottages and outbuildings scattered on the lower slopes, the sturdy little jetty and the rocky beach. We moor alongside the handful of smaller craft, and Bex is the first to leap onto the jetty.

“We’re late, get moving, everyone. We need to get those supplies unloaded and onto the site.”

A battered pickup truck was waiting for us and reverses onto the jetty alongside the ferry. Bex hops onto the back and directs us in heaving the sacks off the ferry and onto the vehicle. Only when it’s all there does she allow the driver to start trundling up to the castle. Decked out in steel toe-capped boots, hard hats, and regulation fluorescent waistcoats, we make our way on foot, a distance of about a quarter of a mile.

“Follow me, all of you. No wandering off. And remember, this isn’t a sight-seeing excursion. No one leaves the site until tools down at four o’clock, then it’s straight back to the boat.”

She leads us on the hike uphill, and despite the strict instructions, I’m taking in every detail as we approach Savage’s stronghold.

There are several men about, who I assume to be guards, though they are not toting weapons. They watch us as we pass, and a couple fall in alongside, clearly to ensure no one deviates from the agreed path.

We arrive in a cobbled courtyard, the castle looming in front of us. Nathan Darke is waiting for us on the castle steps, another man at his side. They march down to meet us.

I remain at the back of the pack, partly obscured behind the massive form of Bertie, a bricklayer built like a small mountain. I need to avoid being noticed and recognised, though I did take the precaution of dying my hair a lighter shade of brown and wearing sunglasses.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Bex. I’m Mr Darke, the architect. You’ll be seeing a lot of me. This is the owner of the property, Mr Savage.”

“You’ll be seeing a fair bit of me as well,” his companion informs us. “This way.”

He leads us in a straggly procession around the outside of his castle. At the rear we find the supplies shipped over already neatly stacked, and the pickup already unloading. The development area is clearly marked out with stakes, and some preliminary excavations have taken place already. Clipboard in hand, her bright-yellow hard hat perched on her head, Bex strides this way and that, pointing and issuing orders. She occasionally consults with Nathan Darke, who has also donned protective clothing, while the rest of us fall in and obey her instructions.

I find myself alongside Bernie, shovel in hand, digging footings. Despite the contribution of the mechanical digger already on site, the work is backbreaking. We need frequent breaks, but Darke has ensured no shortage of bottled water to keep us hydrated.

The architect remains on site, but Ethan Savage himself clearly has more pressing matters to attend to, and he disappears after several minutes. I keep my heard down, do my work, and stay well out of Darke’s line of sight. There’s littleopportunity to discover more about my surroundings just yet, but my time will come.

The day passes without incident, and by four o’clock I’m as exhausted as the rest of the crew. A hooter denotes the end of the working day, and we form up to make our weary way down to the harbour. With another four-hour crossing ahead of us, none of us will be home before nine this evening to catch a few hours’ sleep and be ready to do it all again at five.

Despite the generous pay packets offered by Nathan Darke, there’s no shortage of discontented muttering as we trudge downhill.

“Why don’t they put us up somewhere?”

“A couple of caravans wouldn’t break the bank.”

“We could doss down in a barn somewhere. That’s got to be cheaper than shipping us back and forth and shelling out for overtime every day.”

There are one or two dissenting voices.

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