by Matt Hilton
I could sit there and point the finger of blame, but what good could that serve? It was all Cash’s fault, and that would never change, but it was pointless banging away at the same old drum. I tried to concentrate on the real issues at hand. Someone or something was killing people, and according to Paul Broom it was my duty to stop this thing before anyone else was hurt. According to my fertile-minded friend, the murderer was a creature from Norse mythology, a normally benign spirit of the land. However, disturbed by what was seen as desecration of its historical land, this haugbonde had grown nasty. Either it or something else acting on its behalf, was killing innocent people to ensure that the digging would stop. Preposterous, when you think about it. If it wasn’t due to the very fact that I explicitly knew that I was possessed by the life force of my dead brother, I’d have been even more skeptical of this supernatural nonsense than I already was. What I couldn’t deny was that something very odd indeed was happening on Connor’s Island. No less, it was very strange that I was willing to sit out in the elements for four hours waiting for this thing to turn up, based upon Broom’s emphatic belief that a group of mangy crows had the ability to look into the future.
If only someone of right mind was around to slap some sense into me. Maybe then I’d have recognised my stupidity, high-tailed it back to the ferry at Skelvoe and got the hell off that bloody island. Instead, honour, obligation, blind lunacy - call it what you will - for my friend made me hold my peace and see it out, notwithstanding my hope to see Janet Hale again.
With the twilight settling round me I finally decided that enough was enough. I’d had it with my rock perch, and was beginning to shiver with the onset of the night’s chill. I stood up, feeling my knees crying out in protest. Stiff legged I walked across the road and approached the fence. It didn’t appear to be electrified, but you never can tell. With this in mind I kept my distance, peering across at the utility hut. It took me a long hard minute before the obvious slapped me in the face. What was the likelihood of a murder taking place in a hut on the protected side of a military installation? Why would anyone bother to bring their victim there, with the added difficulty of attempting to enter a guarded MOD installation, when any amount of empty farm buildings lay scattered over the island? When, in fact, most of the island was as barren a place as anywhere on the planet?
Almost as if the crows realised I’d finally got it, they took off en masse, their croaks of derision sounding even more like sarcastic laughter. Hands fisted on my hips, I watched them wheel in the evening sky, then streak away to the south.
“Ever had the feeling that you’ve been had?” I wondered out loud.
“Sucker!”
“Oh? So you’ve decided to show up, have you?”
“Call it a cameo appearance, brother, my little walk on part. I just couldn’t miss the opportunity to gloat.”
“That’s good. For a minute I thought you intended sticking around and making things truly magnificent.”
“Don’t be so sarcastic. Anyway, it looks to me like you could do with the company.”
“I’m fine with my own company, thank you very much.” After a pause, I added, “Actually, if you could find a way of clearing out completely, it’d be the best thing in the world for me.”
“Hey! It’s not much fun for me either, brother. How’d you like it if all you got to look at all day is your boring life, and listen to your droning voice whining and blaming all your shortcomings on me?”
“Aww, quit moaning, Cash. Things could be worse than eavesdropping on my shitty life,” I said.
“Yeah, it could. You could wear a personal stereo and listen to country music twenty-four seven. Now that would be hell.”
“There’s a thought,” I said.
“Don’t you dare.”
I laughed. Not as cruelly as you might imagine.
“I’m outa here.”
“Good idea,” I said. Then started singing the chorus of Rhinestone Cowboy. Cash mock screamed before sinking back to his little hidey-hole. I laughed again. Stopped singing. I genuinely did share something with Cash; a derision of hooey country and western music. Country rock I could live with, but not that my-wife-left-me-took-my-pick-up-truck-the-dog-is-dead kind of stuff. Maybe I should have loved country, my life set to music would make a million seller and would no doubt go down well at the Grand Ol’ Opry.
With no other plan in mind, I headed south. I wasn’t as down as I’d been moments before, and it was odd to think that my short talk with Cash had marginally raised my spirits. It was a throw back to the days when we were simply brothers, jibing and pulling each other’s leg. We talked in those days without the inherent sarcasm and hatred that punctuated our conversations now. It was a rheumy-eyed thought. Got me thinking how everything went so wrong. Although there were times when I didn’t like to admit it, we did share the same parents. We’d both grown up in a loving environment, experienced the same culture and upbringing. There wasn’t a life changing moment in our pasts - unless you discount the early deaths of our parents - that could explain our divergence. Cash wasn’t an unusually cruel child; he didn’t torture insects or puppy dogs. So why he turned out to be a vicious devil worshiping serial killer who preyed on the most vulnerable of women remained unfathomable. Yeah, he’d become addicted to certain chemicals and alcohol, but those alone couldn’t explain why he’d become the monster he did. Many people had their dependencies, but in general the harm they inflicted was usually to their own bodies.
Broom was of the opinion that greater powers were at work in this universe. He believed that destiny was preordained, that everything happened for a reason. No such a thing as free will in his philosophy. And that begged an important question. If it was preordained that I would become the nemesis of evil, and my powers should be a result of my convergence with Cash’s life force, then wasn’t it also fair to assume that Cash’s murderous instincts were also engineered as a facet of the same divine plan?
That would mean that Cash had as little control over his actions as I seemed to have. Was my brother as helpless a pawn in this mad game as me? Perhaps he had no control over himself, and his mind and hands were steered to commit unimaginable torture of his victims. If that was the case, was the hatred and blame I constantly flung at him misdirected?
Was Cash a victim as much as everyone else?
“No. He is a murderous shit!”
I’d shouted out loud, and conversely, considering my remote location, I quickly looked around to see if anyone had heard me. There was no one there. It seems that some things never change on Conn.
I didn’t share Broom’s belief of destiny or karma or whatever: men are responsible for their fate as much as their actions and thoughts. Cash was a despicable killer, and I wasn’t about to give him a get out clause. Forgiveness for my brother simply wasn’t in my heart.
My mood was as black as ever. Thinking about Cash had that effect on me. Kicking the pebbles at the shoulder of the road, I pushed on. Grumbling under my breath. My ire was now directed at my absent friend. “Where the hell are you, Broom?”
There was a crooked man who walked a crooked mile. Unlike him, I walked a barren road. The coast route from Burra Ness to Skelvoe must be well worn, but it seemed that traffic on the western side of the island was very infrequent. It made sense when I thought about it. Normally the MOD and naval staff from the submarine tracking station would have no reason to travel down the western coast, and there would be very few islanders travelling to the base from Ura Taing, or anywhere else for that matter. Ergo, there’d be little chance of anyone travelling my way any time soon. My only hope of reaching Broom’s house was to put on a spurt of activity, setting one foot in front of the other and pushing on.
My four hours of inactivity had a contradictory effect on me; I’d grown impatient and was ready to get moving, however, with sitting so long, I found that I was stiff and sore and the walk was tiring. I usually enjoyed walking. Gave me time to clear my head. Not this time, though.
My brain was full and threatening overload. Every time I attempted to formulate any coherence of what was really going on here, the thought was snatched from me and sent swirling into the eddies of my psyche, so that I couldn’t settle any theory in my mind. Something so obvious teetered on the brink of epiphany, yet I could not grasp it fully, and was left groping for understanding. It was like waiting an elusive sneeze that tickles the sinuses, but simply won’t let loose. Frustrating. Maddening.
Broom’s house was on the coast below the point where the island nipped in at the waist. To get there I’d have to pass Trowhaem. I’d pass the excavation site. Maybe it would be in my interest to make a second visit and reacquaint myself with Janet. Then again, maybe not.
The thought was as much a brain fart as everything else I pondered. By now the site would be a hive of police activity, and not the best place for an armed man to be swanking around. Anyway, Janet would be too busy to spare me any time, let alone her undivided attention. In all likelihood, Janet would now be at the police station at Skelvoe giving her statement to the investigators. If I showed up uninvited at the dig, I would have a hard time explaining my interest. Wouldn’t blame anyone if they tried to tie me in as a murder suspect. Not that the idea would have much validity, my alibi was strong - I’d been in England when the man had been murdered - but I could do without an impromptu trip to the cells whilst charges for carrying a concealed firearm were levied upon me. It made sense to avoid Trowhaem.
Forty minutes walking found me on the opposite side of the bay from the archaeological site. Because the dark was settling in, large floodlights had been erected, but whether this was by the university people or by forensic pathologists I couldn’t begin to decide. From my position I could make out little of the bustle in the area of the dig, but I could see the shantytown of caravans and tents on the promontory to the west. Small figures wandered between the tents, moving in slow, desultory fashion. I wondered if one of the tiny stick figures was Janet. If she was even now staring out across the bay to where I stood.
Where the coast road met the ancient settlement I decided I’d have to trek inland to follow a circuitous route away from the eyes of the law. Like the rest of the island, apart from that copse of trees next to where the child had been killed, and the occasional stunted tree, the island was largely devoid of cover. Still, the darkness was my friend. I didn’t have to travel too far inland before I was swallowed by shadows. I crept along like a guilty man, listening to the hushed tones of conversation and the infrequent scrape of tools. I could now see men and women in white coveralls moving at the periphery of a large illuminated poly-tunnel; a twin to the one set up at the first murder scene. From the south a vehicle approached the site. At first all I could make out was its headlights, but I knew from the distinctive diesel engine noises that this was a large van or truck and not Broom’s Subaru. I crouched down for fear this new source of light would illuminate me against the backdrop of the night and watched as the vehicle swung into the lane leading to the dig. I couldn’t read any writing or sign on the vehicle, but judging by the antennae and satellite dish bristling on its back, the TV crews had begun to arrive.
Whilst I’d been on Conn I’d saw no television to speak of. Which network actually covered the island was a mystery to me, so I wasn’t star struck by the thought of seeing a famous TV presenter. Still, I decided to settle down and watch the proceedings for a few minutes. The van was met by a uniformed police officer. He was big enough that he could’ve been one of the men who had arrived with the sergeant when our paths crossed earlier. He waved the van to a halt, then guided it towards the seashore with grandiose gestures of his arms. The van crawled away to set up at a distance deemed far enough away that it didn’t impede the investigation, but close enough to allow a wide shot of the excavation site. Before long cameras would be rolling, and pictures fed back to an anchorman back on the mainland.
As I watched the constable, I saw him lean back and massage the small of his back. He was standing like that when he swung his head and stared directly at me. Involuntarily I jerked down, concealing myself as best I could. It was an instinctive movement, but unnecessary as there was no possible way for the policeman to see me. Not unless he had infrared vision, which I seriously doubted. Still, I crouched there, making my body as small as possible as the man stared in my direction. I held my breath. Pulse pounding in my ears.
A smaller figure joined the man. By the slight frame, the sway of her approach, I guessed it was the same sergeant come to join her colleague. She stood very close to the man. Shoulder almost touching his elbow. Around them both I saw ribbons of light. Their colours melded and meshed together like the swirling eddies of two streams that co-join and form a river. Without thought, I understood. These two were a couple. More than mere professional attachment, too. Again I wished that my ability allowed me to see my own auric field. What would it appear like if I were standing close to Janet? Would our fields blend, as did those of the two police officers?
The thought was only fleeting. I became more concerned that the man had seen me. He lifted a hand and pointed and again I reacted by pushing myself down into the grass. I could still make them out, and could see the woman nodding.
“Shit,” I whispered. Ready to run.
Then my world was filled with thunder and my body was pressed flat to the floor. The air pressure all around me became momentarily dense, then sucked out in a vacuum in the next instant. Blinking in confusion and at blades of grass whipping across my vision, I craned round, and saw the dark underbelly of a large craft pass over me. Lights blazed at the front and side of the craft, huge rotor blades whirling and cutting the night.
Two thoughts jerked through my mind. The police officers hadn’t noticed me; they’d saw the approaching helicopter. That didn’t put me in the clear; what if someone on the helicopter had noticed me crouching on the moor like a guilty man? It would only be minutes before a search party came trampling out here and discovered my hiding place.
I had to move. But the thought didn’t galvanise me. All I did was stay where I was and watch with fascination as the helicopter swung in a tight curve around Trowhaem and put to earth on the promontory above the site. I wasn’t familiar with aircraft, but even I could tell that this was a large Navy personnel carrier. Within seconds my suspicion was proven when men in uniform began disembarking from the guts of the craft. There appeared to be a dozen or more men. They carried rifles. Four of them with leashed German Shepherds. They all moved from the helicopter in crouching runs before taking up a loose formation fifty paces away.
Search party, I told myself. Reinforcements from Burra Ness.
The two police I feared had seen me also watched the display, then nodding in unison, they walked off to meet the party. I wondered if they’d been as surprised by the arrival of the navy people as I was.
Didn’t really matter. The arrival of reinforcements didn’t bode well with me staying hidden for long. Especially with the dogs sniffing around. I quickly backed away, keeping my profile low, until a fold of the land hid me. Then I set off jogging. The SIG bounced uncomfortably against my spine. It wasn’t a good idea to pull it out and carry it. Not with armed military men in the area. A man carrying a sidearm may be met with extreme prejudice. Shot first and asked questions later. The discomfort of the jouncing gun was outweighed by the possibility of a round plugging my central mass so I let it be.
Keeping to the boggy moor I managed to circle Trowhaem without the might of the armed forces coming down on me. With the area a half-mile behind me I felt it safe enough to re-join the road, continuing on towards Broom’s place. My boots were sodden, so were my trousers and the front of my coat. I was cold and tired. Pissed off. Broom was going to get the length of his pedigree when I saw him. Especially if the bloody soup wasn’t hot.
“Carter.”
I thought I heard my name.
I stopped walking. Looked all around me.
No one around.
�
��What the hell?”
I should have been used to hearing disembodied voices. But this wasn’t like when Cash spoke to me. For a start the voice had been that of a woman. And it was a voice I knew.
There was a series of pops.
Birds roosting in the tall grass were startled to flight.
Above the squawks of wildlife there came shouts of alarm and a single high-pitched shriek that was wholly human. “Help me.”
I spun on my heel. Stared back towards Trowhaem.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Another scream.
Other than from movies, or from the sanitised unreality of a news programme, I’d never before heard automatic machine gunfire. There was none of the thunder associated with blockbuster action movies. In fact the gunfire sounded less like rolling thunder than it did the crackling of a bonfire. Still, I instinctively recognised the noise. Someone was firing a machine gun in short bursts. Bullets were flying in Trowhaem. People could be dying.
Janet was in Trowhaem.
It was Janet who’d called out to me.
The realisation was immediate. And as quickly, I was running back along the road to the place I’d tried so desperately to avoid.
THIRTY
Why are you here, Carter Bailey?
I see you.
Hiding out there on the moor. Watching. Afraid. Wary.
Why don’t you come on in? Something must have brought you here, so why don’t you trust your instincts?
Do you know that I’m close to Janet? Do you know that I’m about to take her? That her life is numbered in minutes?
The police are too busy with one of nine. Or with what remains of him, at least.
They are blind.
I can take Janet from under their noses.
They can’t stop me.
I have decided.
