Benbecula is Graeme Macrae Burnet’s addition to the excellent Darklands series of books published by Polygon. It tells the tale of a real life murder on the island in the 19th century as narrated by the murderer’s brother. We hope you enjoy this extract.

Benbecula
By Graeme Macrae Burnet
Published by Polygon

In happier times our family consisted of myself, my father, my mother, my three siblings and aunt – that is my father’s sister – who lived in a smaller dwelling a few yards behind our own and took most of her meals with us. Though they were not related by blood, my mother and my aunt were of such similar physical type, being likewise squat, big-bosomed and wide in the hip, that they were often taken to be twins. If it had been my father’s intention to seek the image of his sister when he had taken a wife he could have done no better. The weather in these parts is harsh. Throughout the black months our island is lashed with rain and gales blow continually off the sea. Women of my mother and aunt’s type are as well adapted to this climate here as the black-faced sheep that seem oblivious to the elements. They were ill-natured women and their conversation consisted mainly of plaints about their circumstances and the denigration of our neighbours. 

My father was taller and lean in the face and body. When not anchored by a cas-chrom or flaughter you might fear the wind would carry him off. And feeble as he was in body he was likewise in character, being placid and biddable. I never heard him raise his voice in anger and he met good and ill fortune with the same apathy. Had he had the opportunity to be informed of his death at the hands of his own son, he would likely have replied, Ach, these things happen. 

Of we four siblings Marion was the eldest and best, and it is her removal from this place that pains me most. She herited not from my mother’s side but my father’s, being slender and long-faced. She was strong and never one to shirk labour more fitted to men but there was a solemnity about her. Laughter did not come readily to her lips and she appeared to take more satisfaction in the service of others than in her own pleasure. Of John, the youngest, there is little to be said. He was my father’s replica in character but more simple-minded. He was not work-shy but required constant supervision and praise. We were none of us MacPhees greatly educated but John was incapable of learning anything. If he one day dropped a stone on his foot, he would the next day drop another stone on his foot and treat the pain he experienced with the same idiotic surprise. He was neither melancholy nor cheerful, and if there was ever a gathering of some sort it was difficult to recall if he had been present or not. Unless John takes it upon himself to procreate – and I fear he has not the wherewithal– I will be the last of the MacPhees of Liniclate. That is no bad thing. It is a poisoned lineage and no one round here shall lament our extinction. 

Which brings us to the individual this narrative most concerns and who bears responsibility for my solitary existence. Angus was from the beginning quite singular. From the moment he could walk, he was never still. He would tear around the house upsetting whatever objects were set upon the table, unmoved by our mother’s reprimands. She often grabbed and slapped him mercilessly but this had no effect. Outside he would chase after livestock which greatly antagonised our neighbours. I do not think he intended any harm to the beasts he chased. Rather I think he was simply in thrall to his own impact on the world. As a child he continually indulged in pranks and would laugh uncontrollably if someone tripped on a wire he had set or was soaked by a pail of water he had balanced above a door. The beatings such transgressions earned him were no deterrent. Angus was never cowed by authority, whether that of the priest, his teachers or the ground officers who were on his account frequent visitors to our house. Despite this, there was something endearing about him. His laughter infected people even as they chastised him and he had a way of looking contrite and then casting up his eyes and smiling that disarmed even those who sought his punishment. On account of the five years which separated us we were not close. I did not enjoy the attention he attracted and would take myself as far from him as possible. As a result I acquired a reputation of being truculent and aloof and it may be true that I was what people supposed me to be. It was only when Angus reached the age at which certain changes visit the body that he became properly troublesome. Certain traits that may be excused in a child are less easily forgiven in a man. From the moment he grew hair on his balls Angus had a shameless fascination for those parts of his body and their functions that decency normally dictates are kept private. Perhaps on account of his degenerate habits, he ceased to grow beyond the age of fourteen or so. He was squat like our mother, but barrel-chested and powerful. When he moved across the landscape, he seemed to do so with preternatural speed. There was also something hideous in his demeanour. He had no nameable deformity, yet even those encountering him for the first spurned him. By this time I would be gathering seaware, hard at work on the rig or sometimes labouring for a few shillings on the dykes and tracks of the parish. Through this industry, I sought to differentiate myself from Angus, yet I was haunted by the sense that I was not his opposite but his mirror image. 

Benbecula by Graeme Macrae Burnet is published by Polygon, priced £12.00.