A Breath on Dying Embers

by Denzil Meyrick

  He was surprised when he reached what he thought was the summit of the hill and found it was a false one. He loped down the other side. Ahead a similar hill, though taller this time, stood waiting to be climbed. But he liked exercise, liked being out in the fresh air – out in the world, as was intended. Breathing heavily, though not out of breath, he finally reached the summit proper.

  Everything before him now opened out. Below was a large bay, around which huddled a town. He could see tiny cars moving far below, as if in a child’s dream. A trail of smoke wound its way into the grey sky from a small farmhouse further down the rise, and he moved out of view behind a large rock.

  He took a tiny pair of binoculars from his pocket and turned to his left.

  At the head of this sea loch a loaf-shaped island stood sentinel. There was only one clear channel into the bay, on the right side of the island. Across the other a stone causeway snaked through the waves like a giant serpent, effectively a barrier to any vessel.

  Turning the binoculars this way and that, he could see the town’s twin piers, while further out in the bay a large vessel sat at anchor near the island. Its sleek lines, red, white and blue paint, raked funnels and distinctive flags marked it out as the ship he was seeking. Their target.

  He crouched behind the rock, leaning on it to steady his hands as he held the binoculars to his eyes. It was exactly as the images had portrayed. All, that was, apart from the colour of the vessel. The green and yellow livery they’d been shown in the photographs had been replaced by the colours of the United Kingdom. He stared at the sight of the Union Jack flapping in the breeze.

  Cabdi dialled the only number in the phone’s memory and put it to his mouth. He only had to wait a few seconds for the call to be answered, as the calm voice he had last heard over a year ago replied.

  ‘You are there?’

  ‘Yes. It is just as we were told. Perfect for our enterprise.’

  ‘You will be able to do what you came to do?’

  ‘Yes. I await your instructions.’

  ‘It is important that you do nothing until I order it. Anything else will ruin all we have planned.’

  ‘Do not worry, my brother, I will wait to hear from you. I know the time is not yet right.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Will you pray for us?’

  ‘I will.’

  Cabdi placed the phone and the binoculars back in his pocket. Again, he looked around, anxious that no one should see him as he made his way back to the camp. He backed away from the rock, crouching, just in case. Behind him, the ground fell away, and soon he was he was out of sight of the farmhouse, and could no longer see the loch, the ship, the island, or the town. Cabdi turned on his heel and with his long, graceful stride made his way down towards the dip between the two hills.

  The old man had been watching the bird, fascinated, almost mesmerised by its flight, its shape. The prehensile wings and markings spoke of a gull far from its normal habitat across the broad Atlantic.

  He paused to think. The storms had been unseasonable, and had lasted over a week. The bird that he found so alluring had obviously been brought across a wind-tossed sea. But, as they said, every cloud had a silver lining. Most storms brought new and unexpected species to delight him, but this little gull was one of the most exciting finds he’d ever made.

  To the layman, it would have looked like any other seabird. But to him, the American grey gull was a thrill. A bright spark from a far shore on a dull day.

  He fixed the location of the bird in his mind, looking for a landmark he could use to find it again quickly, in the short time it would take him to put down his Swarovski binoculars and get the camera to his eye.

  There was a rock only twenty metres or so from where the little gull sat on a tiny boulder. But before he could put down his binoculars he saw something move behind the large rock.

  Shit, he thought, as he made out the head of a man. Another birder? He didn’t think so. This man had his eyes fixed on the loch. Following his line of sight, the ornithologist could see that he was gazing at the cruise liner in the loch. It looked as though he was hiding himself, a theory instantly confirmed when the dark figure crouched its way backwards.

  He followed the man’s progress, and sure enough, once hidden by the dome of the hill, the man turned, stood upright and made his way quickly down from the peak.

  Still wondering what was going on, the birdwatcher turned his binoculars back to the spot where the little seabird had settled. But it had gone. Bastard! he said to himself, desperately searching for another sighting, but to no avail.

  Disappointed, Cameron Pearson’s thoughts returned to the furtive dark figure he’d seen. There had been something about the man’s behaviour that troubled him. He’d spent time in the army long ago, and he recognised the stance an individual took when trying to remain unseen.

  He scanned the area for the unusual seabird once more, cursed his luck for losing it, and decided to follow his nose and investigate the actions of the man he’d seen behind the rock. At the very least, it could make a good story in the pub for later, in the absence of any photographic evidence of his feathered quarry.

  Cautiously, as if homing in on a bird he didn’t want to frighten away, Pearson moved from the shelter of the fallen tree and followed the man he’d seen on the hill overlooking Kinloch.

  8

  Though she was used to the long drive, the ache in her injured hand had turned the journey into a tortuous one.

  As she drove through the familiar outskirts of Kinloch, her thoughts were all about what to do next. He hated being disturbed at work, she knew that, but though she still had a key to his house on the hill, surely he must have changed the locks by now?

  She parked on a side street. Their son was still fast asleep in the back, hanging by the straps of his car seat, mouth open, eyes flickering, lost in dreams.

  She bit her lip, thinking hard, then turned her head away from the person who was walking along the pavement beside her expensive car, taking it in with great interest, as she knew the locals here were bound to do. She made sure her big sunglasses were tightly in place on the bridge of her nose. The last thing she wanted was for him to discover she was back in town from some gossip – and gossip travelled here at the speed of light.

  She pushed the button to restart the engine. She’d decided to take the chance that her key would still fit the lock of the house in which she’d once lived. Checking the wing mirror briefly, she pulled away and headed for the steep road that would take her to her old home.

  ‘I’m glad that’s over,’ said Daley, as he slumped in the big leather chair in his glass box. He’d undone the button at the waist of his trousers, and now his belly bulged in his black uniform T-shirt.

  ‘Aye, I bet, Jimmy,’ said Scott thoughtfully.

  ‘What, no witty banter about me ripping the arse out of another pair of breeks? You’re slipping up, Brian.’

  The Detective Sergeant merely sighed.

  ‘Right, spit it out, Bri. You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you? I know that face.’

  ‘No, no’ me, big man – something else.’

  ‘Is it Ella – the kids?’ Suddenly Daley looked concerned. He wasn’t used to Scott being troubled, even though over the years he’d had plenty of cause to be.

  ‘Right. I’m just going tae come out with it, Jimmy.’

  ‘Fuck, you’re not going to tell me you’re gay, are you? Don’t worry, we’re not in the Dark Ages now, Brian. Though I don’t know what your Ella will have to say.’ When this elicited not even a smile from Scott, Daley realised there was something wrong. ‘Come on, Brian, put me out of my misery!’

  ‘Your Liz is up in the hoose.’

  ‘What hoose – house?’

  ‘Whose dae you think?’

  ‘What, mine? Och, I’m so fed up with this. She’s a selfish . . .’

  ‘Wait, Jim. This isn’t the normal stuff – and, aye, your wee boy’s fine,’ said Scott hu
rriedly, recognising the look that crossed his friend’s face. ‘But if I was you, I’d get up there quick smart. I’ll deal wae Symington.’

  Suddenly, Daley felt his heart race, pounding in his chest. He began to feel dizzy. ‘Could you get me a glass of water, Brian, please?’

  ‘Aye, sure, big man. You okay?’

  ‘Just a bit squeamish after being on the boat, you know.’

  ‘Aye, go tell that tae somebody who doesn’t know you so well. You need tae get tae the doctor, Jimmy. I’ll fetch the water.’ Scott hurried out of the glass box, a worried expression etched across his face.

  As Daley took deep breaths, in then out, he began to feel normal. His heart rate slowed, and the spots that had appeared across his vision cleared.

  Scott rushed in with a mug of water. ‘There you go. Get that doon you.’

  ‘Thanks, Brian.’

  ‘Right, I’ll drive you up the road – no arguments.’

  ‘Don’t make a big deal of it. It was hot on the ship, and choppy on that wee boat on the way back. Plus, I’d to wear this bloody costume,’ said Daley, pointing to his overstretched uniform.

  ‘And the band played believe it if you like. Right, let’s get going. You need a break, that’s for sure.’

  As he watched Daley getting his things together, Scott fretted. His big mate was at a bad age to be taking turns. Heart attacks and strokes were the main occupation of middle-aged men in the West of Scotland, and Daley did all the right things to be of their number. Scott reckoned it would be best that he went up to the house with his old friend. It wasn’t going to be a happy reunion, he knew.

  9

  I find that writing these missives makes me calmer, although it’s still only a temporary release from the doubts that pursue me.

  Doubts: oh, I’m riddled with those, my dear mother. You saw to that. How well I remember the feeling of inadequacy you lodged in my young mind.

  ‘You don’t walk properly . . . your head’s too big . . . I think you’re beginning to look deformed . . . how your nose has grown – no one in the family has a nose like that . . . you’re the ugliest child I’ve ever seen.’

  You said all of those hurtful – devastating – things to me, but I loved you. I still do, though I often wonder why you felt it necessary to persecute me in that way. What made you want to torture the little boy you loved so much – a form of control, perhaps?

  It worked, certainly it worked; these scars that no one can see haunt me to this day. I’ve had to work at becoming someone else all these years in order to escape them. Do you know how hard that has been? Do you know how you turned a bright little boy into a wasteland of despair? A place so desolate that the man I became is a mere façade, a carapace placed between the world and my self-loathing.

  But back to doubts, those gnawing, prodding thoughts that I cannot escape. I know well that I’m perfectly capable of doing what I must do, but the little boy in me still hears your words. ‘You’ll never be able to do that, not you. What on earth made you think you could? People will just laugh. Go on, get back to your books and that old wireless – dream your days away. Forget these ridiculous ambitions and stay with me.’

  The mask I wear is a hard and immovable thing now. It will remain welded to me for the rest of my life, hiding the timid, nervous child who overcame your slurs just to be able to live a normal life.

  No doubts can stop me now. Your power has finally ebbed away; only its deadly flotsam remains.

  He took the old photograph from the drawer. This time, though, instead of caressing the image, looking for and remembering every line of the face it displayed, he spat. For a moment, his spittle obscured her; she became a blur, the faded memory of a face. Then, as his saliva slid down the glass, there she was, back looking as she always had.

  He sobbed quietly as he polished the glass with his sleeve.

  Daley looked at the cruise liner as they drove round the head of the loch, Scott at the wheel. Distantly, he could see people on the deck, no doubt having taken the reception he’d attended outside in the clean, clear, sea-tanged air. Scott had his window down, and the occasional voice or laugh carried across the water.

  ‘Looks like they’re having a ball out there,’ said Scott.

  ‘Bugger them, Brian. Why are you being so mysterious about Liz – and come to that, why did she call you and not me?’

  ‘You never answer the phone.’

  ‘That’s why we’re paying our respective lawyers a fortune: to communicate. She shouldn’t be calling me directly at all, legally speaking.’

  ‘Aye, well, we all know the law’s an arse.’

  ‘Ass.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The law’s an ass, Bri. That’s the saying.’

  ‘I think my version is mair like the truth.’

  ‘Great, coming from a policeman.’

  ‘I’m no’ just any policeman, as you well know.’

  ‘That, my friend, is for certain sure.’

  They took the hill, the tone of the car’s engine turning to a whine. A woman waved at them as they passed and Scott returned the gesture enthusiastically.

  ‘Right wee local now, eh?’

  ‘I’m just doing my bit for community relations. You know how much we’re programmed to dae that these days, Jimmy.’

  ‘But you and Ella have taken to this place like ducks to water.’

  ‘It’s better than being holed up in the County, especially when you’re on the wagon. No’ much fun sitting in thon bar wae a ginger beer and lime.’

  ‘But you always had Annie to talk to.’ Daley looked for Scott’s reaction from the corner of his eye, but there was no change in his sergeant’s expression, and he chose not to respond to the comment.

  ‘So, if my son’s fine, what is it that’s so urgent that she has to drive all the way down here?’

  ‘That’s between you and her, Jimmy. It’s no’ my place to say anything.’

  ‘Oh, I give up!’ Daley slammed his fist against the dashboard.

  ‘See, if you do that in cars noo thon airbags will burst oot and suffocate you.’

  ‘Might be preferable to an encounter with my dear wife.’

  They turned into the steep lane that led to Daley’s house, where, parked under his decking, sat a large SUV, gleaming red in the early autumn sunshine.

  ‘Huh. There’s another thing I’m paying for,’ remarked Daley ruefully.

  Scott pulled up beside Liz’s car, unclipped his seatbelt, and turned to his passenger. ‘Noo, listen tae me. You keep your cool in there, got it?’

  ‘Now I’m worried.’

  ‘Just don’t blow a gasket, Jimmy. I don’t want tae spend my whole day rushing tae get glasses of water for you.’

  The pair left the car and took the steps to Daley’s front door. Though he was still in uniform, Daley held his braided cap in his meaty left hand.

  The door was open. With Daley in the lead, they walked down the hall.

  ‘Liz, where are you?’ shouted the big policeman.

  ‘In here.’ Her reply came from the lounge

  ‘Take it easy, big man,’ whispered Scott.

  Daley swung the heavy oak door open. His wife was sitting on the large leather couch, their son asleep beside her.

  ‘Hi there, Jim,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Take off the sunglasses, Liz.’ Daley’s tone was commanding.

  She did as she was told and removed them gingerly, revealing a bruised, swollen left eye that matched the swelling on her right cheek, with various cuts and bruises the accompaniment.

  ‘Who did this?’

  ‘Listen, Jim.’ Liz stood and reached out to him.

  He threw his uniform cap to the floor, ignoring the clutch for his hand. ‘Who did this?’ This time the question was bellowed, making James Daley junior stir on the couch then burst into tears.

  ‘Here, I’ll take the wean through tae the kitchen.’ Scott hefted the child in his arms. ‘You’re getting a big boy, eh? Come on, an
’ Uncle Brian will get you some juice, eh? I’m sure Daddy’s got biscuits.’ He carried James from the lounge, closing the door behind him, and took his son into the kitchen. There was a radio on the counter, and he turned it on to mask the noise coming from the lounge.

  ‘Why are Mummy and Daddy shouting, Muncle Brian?’

  ‘Och, that’s no’ shouting, son, that’s them singing. Just a funny kind o’ song, that’s all. Here, there’s some o’ they Jammie Dodgers, Jamie. You like them, don’t you?’

  ‘I want milk with them. And my name is James.’

  With his charge in one arm, Scott opened the big fridge. There was a rack of bottled Budweiser, a lump of cheese, a packet of bacon, and a pot of jam. On the shelf in the door sat a solitary carton of milk. Scott sniffed it, and raised his brows. ‘I don’t think Daddy needs as big a fridge as this, eh, James?’

  ‘They’re still singing, Muncle Brian.’

  ‘Aye, Mummy and Daddy like a good song, son. You sit here and I’ll gie you milk tae go wae your biscuits.’ He popped the child on the counter, took a mug from the dish rack beside the sink and poured a drink for the boy, who was swinging his legs in time to the song on the radio.

  Just as he’d handed James a biscuit and placed the mug beside him, the shouting from the lounge suddenly stopped. There was a short pause, then a scream. Liz rushed into the kitchen, automatically grabbing her son and lifting her into her arms.

  ‘Quick, Brian, get an ambulance!’ Tears were flooding down her face.

  Scott rushed into the lounge, searching for the mobile phone in his trouser pocket. He knelt over the recumbent figure lying face down on the floor and placed two fingers against the side of his neck. He found a pulse, but it was weak.

  ‘He just collapsed. Stopped speaking, and then his eyes went into the back of his head and he dropped like a stone.’

  ‘He’s okay.’ Scott pressed the screen of his phone and fumbled it to his ear. ‘Ambulance now, at Fairfield Villa.’ He’d called the hospital direct, and recognised the voice on the other end. ‘Yes, it’s for DCI Daley – he’s collapsed. Fucking hurry up!’