by V Clifford
The silence beyond the hut was broken by the occasional hoot of an owl. She checked her watch but couldn’t focus well enough to make out the time. She pushed the door, and was not surprised to find it well secured. She kicked it with the tip of her boot and extreme pain shot up through her foot. Her toes were frozen. She bent and laid her hands on her thighs, attempting to steady her breathing. The door had given slightly at the base, which was incentive enough to keep trying but using her heel instead. There wasn’t enough space to take a proper swing at it but she kicked as high and as close as she could to the position where she imagined the lock to be. There was clearly a serious bolt. She swore and slumped, then recalled a movie where a man, trapped in a barn in mid-western America, had spent most of his energy kicking and punching the door to loosen its lock, when the hinges were its weakest point. She shook her head, which was a bad idea, and she had to rest for another minute before she started to kick at the hinges, mumbling her gratitude to Hollywood.
The bottom hinge was well on its way when she heard the approach of a diesel engine. It got closer and closer until its headlights showed beneath the hut door. She stopped, leant her backside on the ledge of the nesting boxes and waited. The engine kept running, but she heard a male voice cursing on the other side of the door. He unlocked the padlock and tried to slide the bolt from its mooring but it was trapped. Viv must have buckled it. He blasphemed again. She heard his footsteps recede and the sound of him rummaging about in what she imagined was a toolbox. Within seconds of his return he had wrenched the door off. His furious eyes, set in a face badly in need of a beard, settled on hers. Before he stepped forward, she raised her hand to shield her eyes from the car headlights, then dropped her head, feigning weakness. He raised the arm holding the metal bar, but as it began to descend, Viv kicked out and made serious contact with his groin. He crumpled, but caught her shoulder with the crowbar before he hit the ground. She squealed but kept moving, clambering over his bulk. He rolled on the ground winded, his face an unhealthy shade of ash.
Viv staggered towards his black Nissan pick-up, grabbed the key from the ignition, and stuck it in her pocket. She recognised her things lying on the passenger seat – mobile, keys, Swiss army knife: he was an amateur. She turned and watched him as he writhed on the ground. An expanse of flesh at the top of his waistband exposed a tattoo that read, ‘Jesus Saves’.
Gripping her shoulder, she ran as well as she could towards the Rav. It purred into life and within seconds she’d reached the main road again. It wasn’t until she was driving through the city centre that she realised she was holding her breath. The clock on the dashboard read two ten. A good reason for the roads to be empty. She’d been in that hut for three or more hours and her feet weren’t the only things that were numb. She switched the heater up full blast and drove. Within fifteen minutes she’d reached the motorway south but a wave of nausea returned and, unable to breathe her way out of it, she pulled over at the next lay-by. As she stood leaning into the verge, bile rising and subsiding, she heard another engine approaching. As she straightened up a police car pulled in behind her. She groaned as two officers approached. The taller male asked, ‘Everything all right here?’
She hadn’t been sick but could still feel her gut threatening. She turned away from them, and bending over the ditch with hands on her thighs, heaved twice. She uncurled and tried to regain her full height but swayed and had to steady herself by holding the bonnet of the Rav. She pulled out a tissue from inside her sleeve, wiped her mouth and eyes before checking out the officers.
‘A bit the worse for wear, madam?’
‘Master of understatement, mate’, is what she thought. She gave him a look. ‘Quiet night officers?’
They weren’t keen on this. Again the taller man spoke. ‘We’d better have you inside the car, but first . . . ’ He produced a breathalyser.
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Look I haven’t had a drink . . . ’
And was interrupted. ‘Matter of routine, madam. Now if you’d blow into the . . . ’
Irritated, she took hold of the device and blew into the mouthpiece. This was the quickest way to get moving again.
The breathalyser kit was put away. ‘So what would cause a young woman from Edinburgh to be throwing up in one of our ditches at two in the morning?’
She was momentarily disconcerted, but remembered that their vehicle computer would show the registration and insurance details of any car before them. She was fully paid up so they had no reason to keep her. Involuntarily she reached up to rub her neck. This was, of course, spotted.
‘Someone been giving you a bit of a knock then?’ This from the sidekick.
He was a caricature, she thought. ‘A bit, officer, but nothing I can’t handle.’
His brow furrowed with concern. ‘We’d take seriously even the smallest incidents of domestic . . . ’
Viv held up her hand. ‘It’s all right. I’ll be all right.’ But as she said this, her colour drained and her legs wobbled. When she next opened her eyes she was travelling in the back of a car, with voices streaming through a radio. She closed her eyes and let go.
The smell of disinfectant inadequately masked the odours of bodily functions. The rattle of a trolley passing nearby had woken her. She was on a solid hospital bed surrounded by curtains. She fingered a waffle blanket. The sheets, white and crisp, were tucked in so tightly that she could have been in a straitjacket. She wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry.
Dim lights were a sign that it wasn’t daylight yet. She was no longer wearing her clothes. She tried to lift her head but it started spinning and thumping. Her head wasn’t the only thing that was in pain. Her shoulder and arm were bound in a sling, the agony unbearable. She closed her eyes again and felt an involuntary tear roll down the side of her face into the creases on her neck. Eventually a nurse bustled through the curtain and gently said, ‘Doctor Fraser. Can you hear me?’
Viv opened her eyes and replied softly, ‘Perfectly.’ The formulation of the word was difficult, and her desire to keep her eyes closed was overwhelming, but the nurse insisted on lifting her head to give her a sip of water.
‘We’ll need to keep you hydrated but you’re not sorry enough for a saline drip.’
This twisted Aberdonian attitude, Viv thought, must date back to the Reformation. She definitely felt sorry enough for a drip. The nurse gently plumped up Viv’s pillows, humming a familiar tune. Viv couldn’t quite place it.
‘Your visitors will be back in a jiff. They just went to make some calls.’
Viv was confused, then remembered the police officers. A movement near the bed forced her to open her eyes again. The curtain was drawn back and the taller officer stood like a tower, staring at her. What did he want now?
Gently he said, ‘Doctor Fraser.’ He drew closer, leant forward. ‘Doctor Fraser.’
Viv felt tears running down her face and into those creases again. It was a disaster when someone was nice to her when she felt rough. Embarrassed, but with nowhere to hide, she lifted her free hand to shield her face and mumbled, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That was quite a bump you took there. Good job you didn’t try to drive on to Edinburgh.’
‘I take it I passed out and you brought me here?’
‘You sure did. You came round for a few minutes but were shaking so violently that we thought you were having a fit. Apparently it’s not uncommon in cases of shock. Your adrenaline goes off the scale.’
‘A bit like now then?’
The officer smiled. ‘You’ll be fine. But you’re not going home today. Is there anyone you’d like me to contact?’
The first and only person she wanted was Mac. ‘Could you ring a friend of mine in Edinburgh. He’s one of you.’
The officer raised his eyebrows. ‘Is he now? What’s his name?’
‘DI Marconi, he’s at Fettes.’
He didn’t register any recognition of the name. ‘I’ll get hold of him. But you rest. You don’
t happen to know what the weapon was, do you?’
Viv sobbed and he didn’t push her for an answer.
When she next woke up Mac was by the bed. ‘How . . . ’
‘Don’t try and speak, Viv. Not yet. I’ll get the nurse.’
He parted the curtains and gestured to the nurse. She didn’t come at once but when she returned there was a doctor with her. He shone a light into Viv’s eyes and took her pulse, nodding to the nurse as he waited. When he’d finished Viv tried to sit up, but pain ripped through her shoulder and she sank back. She tried again. This time Mac came to help but the nurse batted him out of the way and hooked her elbow beneath Viv’s armpit, at the same time shoving a huge triangular pillow behind her. This position felt less vulnerable. It took a couple of minutes before she was able to focus properly but when she did she was alarmed by the look of distress on Mac’s face. He took her hand, but she withdrew it. It only made her want to cry again.
‘I had no idea . . . ’ She covered her face with her free hand. ‘Oh boy, does this hurt?’
‘I bet. Do you know who did this?’
She nodded. ‘I don’t have his name but I’d know his face anywhere.’
The nurse returned with a tray carrying buttered toast and tea. Mac coaxed her to have a nibble, and once she’d had one it was an easy step to another. Reassured by his presence, little by little she told Mac the details of her search for Tess Grant, and her encounter with the crowbar enthusiast. She tried to describe the location but ran out of steam. Mac held up his iPhone and said he’d be right back. Within five minutes he returned and showed her an aerial photograph on Google Earth. She nodded, and again he headed back out between the curtains.
Viv drifted in and out of sleep for some time before a different nurse shook her and offered her more tea and toast. Viv accepted; if she refused food they’d keep her for longer. Sleep came again but this time with dreams of being trapped and hyperventilating in a tight space where she couldn’t stretch out her arms.
Chapter Thirteen
The soft touch of Mac’s hand woke her and this time she gripped it.
He whispered, ‘I think they’ve got him.’
She looked bemused. ‘How long have I been asleep?’
‘Getting on for five hours, give or take the few minutes when you gave me the story. He got the shock of his life when Grampian’s best turned up on his doorstep. Denied everything of course but they’ve already matched his tyre treads to the farm track. Apart from his four by four, the tractor and one or two other tracks, those are the only vehicles that have been up there recently. We’ll have to eliminate the other sets.’ He stared at her questioningly with eyes wide open.
‘One could be a Volvo. I was driving a Volvo Sunday.’ He didn’t take his eyes off her, hoping for further clarification.
‘It belongs to . . . a friend of mine.’ She gently shook her head, regretful of having to mention Gabriella. Mac raised his eyebrows. ‘Anyone I know?’
Viv gave another slight shake of her head. ‘D’you think they’ll let me out of here?’
‘I doubt it. Another twenty-four hours of observation is what the nurse told me. But she was only guessing.’
‘Can’t you pull some strings? Say you’ll take responsibility for me, or something. That’s what they need. Someone to take the flak if I pop my clogs.’ She tried to lever herself up, but grimaced with pain. ‘I’ve no intention of doing that. But I can’t stay here.’ Mac reckoned her recalcitrance was a good thing, and probably the first sign of recovery. She watched as he screwed up his eyes weighing the pros and cons of taking her into his care.
Then he nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He ducked out of the ward and Viv made another attempt at sitting up. But putting any weight on her shoulder caused pain like nothing she’d ever felt before. She almost bit through her lip, but managed to take a huge breath before rolling onto her good shoulder instead. By the time Mac returned, an ashen-faced Viv was sitting with her legs dangling over the edge of the bed looking young and more vulnerable in her NHS gown than he’d seen her since the explosion at Morgan Clifford. She caught his look and tilted her head in a question.
‘Oh nothing. It’s just . . . never mind. I’ve signed a form. Which means I’m in the driving seat . . . both physically and metaphorically. Did you get that? I am in control – you do as I say, otherwise.’ He ran his hand across his throat in a cutting motion and winked.
She didn’t answer but he pressed. ‘Do you hear me?’ When she didn’t answer again he parted the curtain to leave. ‘Fine. Your call.’
She shouted as best she could to his retreating back. ‘Okay, okay, you win.’
He turned, fingers splayed over his hips, an expanse of pale pink shirt strained over his abs, and nodded. ‘That’s more like it.’ Then he added, ‘I’ve never met anyone more obstreperous than you. And given the circs . . .’
She interrupted him. ‘I said okay. I’ll do as you ask . . . if you’re polite. Now can I have my kit . . . please?’
While Mac went in search of her clothes Viv tried to put her feet on the ground. The shock of the cold floor was nothing compared to the room spinning. She gripped the bed, feeling that she might lose consciousness. Slowly she lifted her head and steadied herself, mindful that Janice Galloway was right, the trick was to keep breathing. Even with old yoga skills the task of calming the breath was hard work. But the more she breathed deeply the more the pain eased. Mac swung back the curtain and was shocked to see her standing by the bed. He tutted, but handed her a clear poly bag containing her clothes. Courteous to a fault, he turned his back, but eventually the noise of her struggling to dress made him laugh, and he turned round to give her a hand. She hid behind her jeans.
‘I’ve got three sisters, Viv. If I see anything I haven’t seen before I’ll shoot.’
She was unconvinced, but her yelp as she attempted to pull on a sock made him sharp. ‘For God’s sake, Viv, let me do that.’ To add insult to injury she blushed. ‘Hurry up and stop making a meal of it. My feet don’t hurt.’
He ignored her and smiled. ‘Calm down. I don’t see any fire.’ He blew a few strands of dark hair from his eye, a familiar gesture, which had Viv welling up again. With as much clothing on as her bandage allowed, she accepted Mac’s offer of his arm and they slowly meandered out toward the car park.
‘How are we going to do this?’
‘Trust me, Viv, I’ve got this covered. I came up here in a car with a colleague. She’ll take the police vehicle back and I’ll drive you. Okay?’
Viv nodded, exhausted with the effort of walking even that short distance. ‘Okay.’
Chapter Fourteen
Viv dozed for most of the journey but instead of taking her to her own flat Mac took her to his. She’d never been before and was surprised when the car came to a halt in Learmonth, the posh end of Comely Bank.
‘What?’
Mac put a finger up to his lips. ‘No arguing. You said you’d do as I ask and for one night I think you need to be here. I have work to do on my desktop.’ He could see she was about to argue and pre-empted her. ‘This is not negotiable, Viv. My spare room is very cosy.’
That was all she needed to hear.
Even though she had to grip the handrail to struggle up his three front steps, she still managed to take in the detail of the flat. The hallway was cavernous, with a wide set of steps leading to a floor below. A large Persian rug overlaid a dark green carpet. She trailed her hand gently across what she thought was Chinese-red wallpaper, that turned out to be fabric. She traced its raised pattern beneath her fingers, the repeat was as big as she’d ever seen. A gilt mirror hung directly above a desk with a telephone, an answering machine and other, neatly laid out, office paraphernalia. If it hadn’t been for these modern necessities she might have believed she’d landed in the nineteenth century. Such opulence was not at all what she’d visualised when he’d been on the other end of that phone. As if being recalled from a dream Viv shook her hea
d at the sound of Mac’s voice.
‘In here.’ He gently pushed a door and stood back to allow her to enter first. She loved his manners and wondered, not for the first time, where they came from. The room had a high ceiling with a central chandelier that would grace a ballroom. Three immense bowed windows, still with their original rippled glass, took up the whole of a curved end wall. Two sofas covered with brocade sat adjacent to a veined terracotta marble fireplace. Mac bent down and lit the gas flame fire, which immediately made the place seem warmer.
He shrugged out of his own jacket and laid it over the back of a sofa. ‘Let’s get your jacket off, then I’ll get the kettle on.’
‘Mac, you don’t need to do this. I just needed a way out of hospital. Let’s have a cup of tea and then you can take me home.’
He looked disappointed. ‘Viv. I told them I’d take care of you, and I’d like to do that . . . I’m guessing it’ll only be for one night anyway. Why don’t you chill on the sofa and I’ll be right back with the tea.’
