The stories on which Sacrifice is based are documented, but not extensively; largely because for many years Shetlanders felt no need to write them down. The remote location of the land kept its population stable and for a long time word of mouth was considered enough. I have learned that there was even a certain reluctance amongst the islanders to talk about these strange and supernatural events.
But gradually, over the years, people from outside the islands became interested, then intrigued, and books about Shetland lore began to appear in our bookshops. It was my discovery of the chilling legend of the Kunal Trows (in Aylesbury Public Library of all places) that gave rise to the idea for Sacrifice. I wrote this in the English home counties, not venturing north until it was all but complete.
And so my first real glimpse of Shetland was on a clear, crisp morning in late November. The huge expectations I'd built up over several years of writing about the land were not remotely disappointed; I thought it easily the most beautiful place I'd ever seen.
From Sumburgh airport I drove north up the main island, unable to stop smiling as each bend in the road offered a view more stunning than the last; across Yell, the colour of an autumn leaf, and on to Unst, which truly must be the loveliest and loneliest place on earth.
Throughout the day the people I met were warm and friendly, effortlessly helpful and entirely normal (what, I asked myself, had I really expected?), and I wondered that these marvellous islands could be so little understood, so rarely visited. I began to have misgivings: could I really have written such a grim story about such a warm and wonderful land? And yet…
Later that evening, Lerwick seemed unnaturally quiet and uncomfortably dark as I followed my map to the small church of St Magnus. Try as I might, I couldn't bring myself to walk down the shadowy, silent street with the weird trees and the empty, brooding buildings. I decided to come back in daylight, and walked instead towards the sea. Dark, damp fishing nets were strewn across every driveway: quite what or who they were destined to catch I didn't like to dwell on. I reached the beach, only to find a group gathered silently around a massive bonfire on the sand. Was it a delayed Guy Fawkes celebration (it was long past November 5), or something else entirely? I remembered all the stories I'd read, of women disappearing, of prisons on remote islands, of shadowy grey men who preyed on their human neighbours, and Richard's words crept, unwanted, into my head. 'So many stories, so much nonsense: little grey men who five in caves and fear iron. Yet, tucked away inside all legends, a kernel of truth can be found.'
I headed quickly back to my hotel, reflecting that, whilst I might technically still be in Britain, I was a long way from home…