The murderers' song by Amy Marvill Sophie Mander (books suggested by bill gates TXT) 📕

The Murderer’s Song

Chapter 1

The idyllic village of Seinneadair lies on the Eastern shore of Loch Morar. A close-knit, fishing community, isolated from the rest of the untamed Scottish Highlands by the mountains sloping either side of the water; its crystal, translucent surface shimmering faintly beneath the glow of the pale moonlight. The steep hillsides are coated in layers of violet heather, ferns and grass, so if anyone were to gaze upon them from a distance it would seem as if a giant has clawed the mountainside. Clusters of cow parsley and buttercup poke out from the thick heather like small, yellow eyes. As the land begins to flatten out, pine forests are scattered along the shore and at one point the lapping waves meet with a beach as white as the snow atop the high peaks engulfed in misty clouds. On some hills, sheer cliff drops separate the dusty track winding down the slopes from the Loch. Swirled in mist, several islands rest on Loch Morar, surrounded by jagged, blade-sharp rocks that could tear a ship to pieces. And though water birds soar across the water nearby, these islands are uninhabitable.
Except one.

“Kade! Mind to nip on down to Mrs. Mcutler’s shop and get some milk!” My maw shouted up the stairs.
Outside my bedroom window, the sun was rising and a weak, golden glow peeked through the curtains. Blinking wearily, I responded to her command with a muffled groan and pulled the duvet over my head.
“Kade, did you hear me? Kade!” Maw refused to be ignored.
“Aye maw!” I forced myself to stand up and rubbed my eyes. I grabbed me coat from the closet and trudged me way down the stairs. Maw hummed to the music on the radio as she placed a plate stacked with buttered toast on the table. My sister Crissie noisily shovelled cornflakes into her mouth like coal into a furnace. Bonnie thrashed against the restraints of her highchair, throwing her alphabet blocks on the kitchen floor; Maw forced to bend down each time to gather them up. Me Pa thumped his mud-caked boots on the table, flipping through his newspaper and grumbling at the odd article.
“I’m off to get the milk, pa.” I told him as I grabbed a slice of toast.
“Mind our fishing trip tomorrow,” Pa reminded me, not bothering to tear his gaze away from the page.
“I will.” I assured him. Pa still didn’t look up. I leant over to view what he found so interesting.
“There’s been a drop in trout sales. How exciting.”
Pa scowled; then shifted his concerned gaze back to an article I hadn’t noticed;
“A yacht and its crew went missing yesterday sailing on Loch Morar. This is the fourth boat to disappear on Loch Morar in the last two months.”
I wanted to hear the rest of the article but a forceful nudge on the arm from Maw told me to get going. I swallowed the toast and slipped out the door.
I live in a little white cottage roughly ten minutes from Mrs. Cutler’s shop if you make a detour past The Siren’s Call. Mr. and Mrs. McDonane own The Sirens Call. Mrs. McDonane lets us in any time we want, especially since Isla likes it when I visit. By the way, Isla’s my best friend. Her and her little brothers- Brandon and Brodie- are Mr. and Mrs. McDonane’s children. Isla is beautiful; red curly hair like a torrent of fire that flows down her back, freckles spread across her nose and dimpled cheeks and skin so white it could be the sand of Loch Morar beach. As The Siren’s Call appeared in view, its sign- which pictured a fair-haired woman sitting atop a rock whilst her sun-kissed skin glistened with water droplets- rattled in the wind. I was just walking past when Isla emerged from the pub carrying a casket of empty beer bottles. Spotting me, she placed the box down, waved enthusiastically and yelled; “Kade! Maw wants to know if yer cumin over for tea!”
“I dunno! I’ll ask me maw. I’ll give yer a ring when I got the milk from Mrs. Cutlers!” I hollered back. With a smile warmer than a roaring log fire, she picked up the casket and disappeared around the back of the pub, so I guess that was the end of the conversation. Isla isn’t one to hang around and chat, though time after time I have wished she would stay more than a minute. I carried on to Mrs. Cutlers shop with a spring in me step.

The bell on Mrs. Cutler’s shop rang as I opened the door.
“What can I do fur yer laddie?” Mrs. Cutler asked from behind the counter, glaring at me through her bottle-top spectacles.
“Me maw wants some milk” I told her.
Mrs Cutler’s prune-coloured, wrinkly lips scowled in disapproval; “Ah does she now, yer’ll hav’ to ask nicely then lad.”
“Canna please hav’ some milk Mrs. Cutler?” I asked, making me sound like I’m eight, not eighteen.
“That’s better. Manners don’t cost nowt, youse kids act like it cost thousands.” Mrs. Cutler’s big on her manners. She fetched me a bottle of milk from the sub-zero fridge that makes anyone nearby shiver and I slid a few coins across the counter. She was just about to hand me the milk when she said; “Manners, laddie?”
“Thankyuh.”
She smiled and sent me off with me bottle of milk. As I returned home I prayed Isla would be outside again, but sadly I was disappointed. I continued on my way as fast as I could so I could ask me maw if I can go and have tea at Isla’s. I walked in the door and put the milk in the fridge.
Pa was still completely absorbed in reading his newspaper. “Pa, can I go ova’ to Isla’s for tea later?”
He put down his newspaper, which is a very bad sigh. “Oh, yer’ wee girlfriend?”
I groaned. Whenever I’m with a girl, Pa always assumes we’re on a date, though sometimes he deliberately uses his assumptions to irritate me. “Pa, she’s not me girlfriend. We’re just friends.”
Pa raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Looks like yer girlfriend to me.”
I sighed. Pa grinned, relishing in the fact he was still capable of annoying me.
“Yer can go over fur tea just make sure yer tell us before ye get married.”
Pa whistled the tune to ‘Here Comes the Bride’. I grunted at him then quickly walked out of the door.

“So, you coming tonight?” Rose Carson asked me, rocking back and forth on a swing.
“Can’t I’m afraid; I’m going to Isla’s for tea.”
Rose snorted and blew a wisp of cold, misty breath into the morning air. We were hanging out at the park like we often do, along with my other friends; Kenzie McNeil, Evan Wilson, Cora Smith and Paden Abercorn.
“Yeah, because he loves her.” Kenzie taunted, putting on his best love-smitten voice and making smooching noises with his lips.
“Get off, Kenzie, she’s not me’ girlfriend; honestly I get enough of that from me’ Pa.” I chuckled at his ridiculous smirk, which looked like he had passed gas; “What are you, twelve?”
“I’m eighteen-and-three-quarters actually, which makes me a big boy!” Kenzie’s little-boy impression was one of his favourites, though I had just tired of it and, even if they refused to admit, it was obvious the others felt the same.
“I think you two would make an adorable couple,” Evan added, “Besides, Seinneadair isn’t exactly Los Angeles; pretty girls are hard to find here.”
“Speak for yourself, Oxford.” Rose grumbled, stubbornly rearranging her hair, the colour of golden syrup streaked with candyfloss-pink, in her lipstick-smudged make-up mirror. We call Evan ‘Oxford’ because he’s the only one out of us who can afford to go to University next autumn. His Pa manages a successful mining business which has bought them the biggest house this side of Loch Morar. The money Pa makes from fishing isn’t enough to pay for a scholarship for me, but I don’t really mind that much; after all, when Pa retires I’ll take over from him and become my own boss; sailing the waves at ease.
Rose leapt down; “If you ask me, which nobody does, I think that Isla ain’t nothing but a filthy slag!”
“Rose!” Cora shouted at her, “Sorry Kade, she’s just jealous.”
Rose tutted and folded her arms in disagreement. I shrugged the issue away. Cora was right; I don’t want to insult one of my best friends, but Isla is undoubtedly far prettier and smarter than Rose will ever be. A concerned Evan broke the silence by turning to Paden; “By the way, is your Gran feeling any better?”
Paden shook his head sullenly; “Doctor says she might need a hip replacement if she ever wants to walk again.”
Paden’s parents were killed in a boating accident five years ago, so his Gran has taken care of him ever since. Unfortunately, his Gran was plagued with health troubles and had gone to see the doctor down in the city. Paden has stayed with the Wilsons for the duration of his Gran being away. “Well hadn’t you best be getting back to the shelter belter you love so much.” Rose remarked.
I turned to face her and retorted “The only shelter belter around here is your sister.”
I turned to the rest of my friends “I’ll be seeing you all later then.”

The Sirens’ Call was, as usual, busy that day. I waded through the crowds of fishermen in damp overcoats telling the same alcohol-induced jokes over and over again, while chortling through their matted grey beards so hard they almost spilt their beers, the honey-coloured liquid sloshing wildly in the throth-clouded glasses. Mrs. McDonane was caught between pouring a drink for a solitary young man lingering silently at the end of the bar, and pretending to take interest in the somewhat flirtatious conversation of a drunken, grey-haired customer. It seemed everyone in the McDonane family was there but Isla. I went up to Mrs. McDonane, now cleaning out empty glasses with an old cloth.
“Hello, Mrs. McDonane.”
She smiled at me; “Well, hiya there laddie, youse looking fur Isla?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m afraid youse have to ask her brothers, cause’ I dunno, as usual. That girl, she comes and goes as she pleases.”
I was about to turn away when she stopped me.
“By the way, youse still doing youse fishing trip with your Pa tomorrow?”
“Yes, we are. It’s the best time in season.”
“Well you tell your good old Pa that if he has any trout to spare, I’ll buy a few. I fancy making me famous old fish pie.”
I licked my lips, savouring the tasteful memory of Mrs. Cutler’s last fish pie; she makes the best in all of Scotland. A bar stool scraped across the wooden floor as the solitary young man jumped down and left the bar. I looked around for Isla’s troublesome siblings. At table with one leg shorter than the other at the furthermost point of the bar, her two brothers were playing cards. Braden slammed an ace down on the polished wood whilst Brodie attempted to solve the difference between a spade and a club in a dimly lit room. I walked over to Braden and shouted over the lively banter, “Where’s Isla?”
He looked up at me with impatient displeasure, replying, “Upstairs reading Wuthering Heights, some boring old book.”