Rory frowned. ‘That’s not right. You ought to prioritise your own shit too, you know? I don’t want you to take me to see a whale if it means you end up sold off to this red tribe, or whatever they are.’
Confusion from Fionn. A sense of guilt that Rory had been disturbed by his own desires. Striving, once again, to not be a disappointment. Rory empathised with him all too keenly.
He swam in front of Fionn, cutting him off. ‘Look, I’m new to this sort-of-committed-partnership-thing, right? But I’m pretty sure the idea is to face our problems together. You don’t get to show me only half of yourself. I want all of you.’
Old Rory would have winced so hard at those words.I want all of you.But he really meant it. He wanted Fionn, and he sure as shit didn’t want some folksy magic marriage bargain taking him away.
‘Rory…’ There was hunger in Fionn’s song.
If Rory felt he was burning up for Fionn suddenly, then the heat coming through the bond matched it like an inferno.
A shadow passed overhead. Something stark white and red dropped past Rory’s face. He jerked away from Fionn, snapping abruptly out of his heat-haze.
‘Was that a beer can?’ Rory tracked the can’s passage to the seabed. Another one sailed behind Fionn’s head. Rory grabbed it on the way down.
‘Rubbish, I presume.’ Fionn’s lip curled. ‘I often have half a mind to throw these things back at the louts who drop them.’
Rory turned the can over in his hands. It was a cheap gut-wrecker, favoured by the likes of his dad for its effective cost-to-oblivion ratio. Something mischievous and a bit mean awoke in him. ‘Why don’t we?’
‘That would be irresponsi— Where are you going?’
Rory kicked for the surface. The hull of a small boat was silhouetted against the sun. If its crew were the kind of people to carelessly drop full beer cans overboard, they were probably also the kind of people who didn’t think twice about discarding old fishing nets on the waves. The injured leatherback turtle seared across Rory’s mind. Anger flared in his chest. The seed of a new sense of purpose was finding purchase in his heart.
Fionn caught him just before he broke through the surf. ‘What if they see you?’
‘That’s the plan.’ Rory grinned, and there was an edge to his smile. ‘I’m going to scare the shit out of them.’
Fionn’s mouth dropped open, then he laughed. ‘And you were angry with me for breaking fishing traps!’
‘That’s different. But also, I get it. Are you coming with me?’
‘You should be careful. What if they have weapons?’
‘You’ll protect me.’ Rory held back a smirk at the way Fionn’s chest swelled, muscles flexing as he straightened his shoulders.
He could tell from a glance that the boat above them was a piece of junk. It had the profile of an old-fashioned fishing trawler and probably shouldn’t even have been out on the water, judging by its rusted hull.
Emerging into the air, Rory got a better look. A glimmer of something dark inside him twisted as he recognised it.
‘This is Ol’ Doaty’s boat,’ he said grimly.
‘Who is that?’ Fionn asked, half-singing like he hadn’t quite remembered to adjust to human speech.
‘An old bastard who likes to make my life hell.’
Fionn swiped a finger over the hull’s orange corrosion. ‘He is far from land. I don’t think his boat is fit for this.’
Rory had already climbed up the side of the trawler with the beer can wedged into his waistband. He wanted to throw it at Doaty’s head. If there had been seaweed to hand he’d have draped himself in it and pretended to be a monster rising from the deep. He’d give Doaty a story to really rave about back home. And the old man would never dare to drop his shite into the ocean or to call Rory useless again.
Rory landed softly on the deck. There was litter everywhere. Empty cans and bottles, old newspapers, packets of crackers and a half-eaten sausage roll that had gone soggy from sea spray. In the middle of the mess lay Ol’ Doaty. Face down, blackout drunk again.
Fionn made a sound of disgust behind him. ‘It is no wonder that his boat is leaving a trail. Not even seagulls would eat this.’
Rory nudged Doaty with his foot. He was a little disappointed the old man was unconscious. A slice of retribution would have been a nice way to close the door on Ullapool before he left it behind him.
There was a pool of vomit by Doaty’s mouth. Rory’s nose wrinkled, but his conscience kicked in. ‘We should check he’s okay.’
He bent down to find Doaty’s pulse, inwardly shuddering at the visible grime in the old man’s hair as he brushed it away. Once he was sure Doaty was also breathing clearly, Rory moved him onto his side in the recovery position. He stepped back.
