by Raven, James
It took them all of ten minutes to get to the island's capital, which was nothing more than a cluster of small two-storey grey houses strung out along either side of the poorly surfaced road. This one street alone, according to Maclean, constituted the entire village. There was a grocer's, a post-office, a church. Out of about twenty houses only eight were showing light.
The street was completely deserted, and the silence, when they stopped briefly to look around, was almost palpable. An air of peace and permanence hung over the place like a heavy blanket. All the houses were matchbox size, rather quaint, and there was no escaping the fact that the place possessed a charm all its own.
The van crept slowly along the road and turned left on its squeaky axle on to a narrow earth road between two houses. This took them down to the harbour where three small fishing vessels bounced at their moorings and a few rowing boats were drawn up on a small shingle beach.
“They should be easy enough to disable,” Stewart said. “They run on diesels and I've worked on those often enough.”
Hodge said, “You told us there were only three boats, Mac. I can see at least six.”
“We've only got to concern ourselves with the fishing boats,” Maclean said. “The other boats are only for use around the island. They wouldn't attempt to cross to the mainland in one of those.”
As the van journeyed on to the concrete pier the four of them studied the shadows in silence. Although Maclean was not surprised to find the place entirely devoid of life, the others were. It was as if they were the only people on the island, cut off from the rest of civilisation.
The fishing boats were moored in a line along the pier. Maclean pulled up next to the first one and switched off the engine. Again the heavy silence closed in on them.
He gestured towards the boats and spoke softly. “They’re all yours, Bob. Make it quick. If anyone comes along I'll whistle a warning. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Stewart beamed a smile at the others, picked up the small canvas bag containing the tools he had purchased in Oban, and lowered himself down the iron ladder on to the boat's deck. As he set to work on the engine the others climbed out and had a smoke as they listened to the clanging of metal on the deck below.
The bitter wind lashed unmercifully at their faces and as Parker looked down into the blackened water of the harbour it was as if it was beginning to boil before his very eyes.
Turning to the others, he said, “It'll be hell going back.”
For the first time, Maclean's face betrayed his concern. “Don't worry. We'll be all right.”
“I only hope Stewpot is as good a sailor as he's cracked up to be,” Hodge said. “Because I never did learn to swim.”
Stewart spent about ten minutes on each boat and in all that time no one came to enquire what they were up to.
When Stewart's work was done, Maclean said, “You were quick.”
“They were a piece of cake. I only had to undo a few nuts and screws.”
“You're sure they won't be able to use the boats tomorrow?”
“Well, let's put it this way,” he said, smiling mischievously. “If they want to, they'll have to find the parts first — and I threw those over the side.”
They piled into the van and backed off the pier on low revs. Minutes later they were outside a small brick-built hut just up the road from the village. According to Maclean it was typical of the many exchanges located on islands throughout the Hebrides.
Maclean stopped the van. “This is the exchange. Parker and I have to follow the road for about a mile to Mor's place. We'll see you back here in about forty five minutes.”
Stewart and Hodge walked up to the heavy wooden door, each carrying a shotgun and a crowbar insulated with rubber. As they set about forcing the door open, Maclean drove off.
NINE
Ross Mor removed the pipe from his mouth and looked up at his daughter as she entered the room. Her shoulder length hair was tucked up under a flowered headscarf and she was wearing a thick beige duffle-coat. As she walked across the tiny room, full of rustic furniture and the memories of happier times, the orange glow of the open fire stroked her cheeks. She leaned over her father and kissed him affectionately on the forehead.
“I'll not be late, dad. I promise.”
Anna was going down to the village to spend the evening with Kate Ruag. They'd probably have supper together and gossip over a game of draughts. Mor smiled up at her. He was thankful that he didn't have to fear for her safety whatever time she went out. On the mainland he'd be worried sick if he knew she was going to walk across desolate moorland in the pitch dark. But here on Stack he knew she was in no danger at all.
“Enjoy yourself, lassie,” he said. “And be sure to bring me back a piece of Morag's fine cake, you hear?”
“I shan't forget. Now, will you be wanting a cup of tea before I go?”
“Ach, no, lassie. I'll do myself some hot chocolate shortly and then I'll be off to bed.”
As he turned his head to gaze pensively into the crackling fire, Anna felt a twinge of pity for him. Her mother’s death had hit him hard. He was still drowning in grief and there was nothing she could do about it except to be there for him.
She was tempted for a moment to kneel at his feet and offer words of comfort, but she had done that so many times during the past five months and rarely did it make him feel any better. If anything it only made him worse. Enhanced his sense of loss.
She said, “Would you rather I stayed with you tonight? I wouldn't mind, truly. 'Tis an awful night out anyway.”
Her words pulled him back to the present. He sucked thoughtfully on his pipe and forced another smile.
“No, you go out and enjoy yourself. I'll be all right. I've got some thinking to do.”
“About the treasure, I'll bet.”
When he nodded, she cheered up slightly. At least, she thought, this treasure business was keeping his mind occupied for some of the time.
“I'm calling a meeting for tomorrow night,” he said. “So I can report on what progress we've made.”
“And what progress have you made so far?” she asked him.
“Well, young Maclean has been doing like we asked him. Already he's raised over five thousand pounds for us and only a few coins and trinkets have been sold at that.”
“And what is to be done with the money?” She knew very well what was to be done with it, but she wanted him to know she was interested.
“It's going into a kitty, lassie. And when we’ve sold everything we'll start putting it to good use.”
Anna stared into his eyes for a long moment, wishing to God that her mother could be here to share this new adventure with him.
“Best you be going,” he told her, breaking her train of thought. “The torch is over there on the shelf.”
Once outside the tiny cottage Anna pulled up the collar of her coat and bowed her head into the wind. She felt guilty suddenly for having left her father to spend the evening alone, but even if she did turn back now she knew he would only be upset by her show of sympathy.
So she closed the front gate behind her and with the beam of the torch dancing crazily on the surface of the road, she hurried down the hill towards the village.
She had gone about half way when she saw the blazing headlights of a car coming towards her. Briefly she wondered who it could be. She stepped to the side of the road to let it pass and when it drew level she leaned forward and tried to catch a glimpse of the occupants.
The driver turned his head towards her, and unmistakably it was Andrew Maclean. She raised her hand to wave but before the gesture could be carried through the van was already past her. She resumed her walking, feeling happier in the knowledge that her father would shortly be having some company.
*
Five minutes after Anna had left there was a knock at the door. Ross Mor immediately assumed his daughter had returned, probably because she’d forgotten something. He dragged himself up from his firesi
de chair, placing his pipe in the ashtray on the table, and went to answer it.
He turned the knob and the door threw itself open.
Two men barged in. He felt a hand slam against his chest, shoving him backwards into the living room.
His features froze in an attitude of disbelief as he stared from one to the other. He couldn’t see their faces because they were wearing masks. But they were big and threatening and he knew they were strangers.
For a second he thought he was losing his grip on reality. I must be seeing things, he thought. A dream. No, a nightmare. It has to be. These two hideous creatures can only be visions of a tired mind. Nothing more.
But as realization dawned so the adrenaline of fear paralysed his body, freezing his flesh and numbing his senses. He found he could no longer move, not even to turn and run, as the two men came further into his home, slamming the door behind them.
They were shouting out words that didn’t register with him and their guns were cocked in a threatening manner.
He fell against the wall cabinet, knocking over glasses and plates.
And then they were coming at him from both the right and left. He heard himself cry out.
But a second later a sharp pain lanced through the back of his skull and he felt himself falling forward into a black, pain-filled void.
TEN
They saw the beam of the torch coming down the road towards them, probing the darkness like an accusing finger. They’d just finished their business in the hut where they had ruined the island's entire communications system in an orgy of mindless destruction, and were standing outside waiting for the others to return.
They concealed themselves behind the hut and had waited in unbearable silence for whoever it was to pass them by.
But then they heard a girl’s voice. She was singing to herself, a soft gentle sound broken up by the wind.
Hodge glanced conspiratorially at Stewart and nodded in the girl's direction. She was now drawing level with them.
“I reckon we should make the most of this,” he said. “Let’s have a bit of fun.”
“Are you fucking crazy?” Stewart said.
Hodge shrugged. “She’s by herself and there’s nothing to stop us seizing an opportunity.”
Stewart shook his head, “Don't be a fool. The others will be back at any minute.”
“Sod the others. Besides, they might be ages yet. We can pass the time any way we please now we've done the job.”
“But what if ...”
Hodge sprang to his feet.
“Oh, come on, Stewpot. Anybody would think she was your own fucking daughter.”
*
Anna was shocked when the figure stepped out from behind the exchange. She raised the torch and aimed it.
The light revealed a tall, good-looking man, with dark, wind-blown hair and squinting eyes. She knew immediately that he was a stranger and sensed just as quickly that there was something bad about him. She'd never seen him before and had heard no mention of such a man being on the island. Her heart began to beat faster and her hands trembled slightly.
“Hello there, young lady,” the man called out. “Lost, are you?”
She didn't answer. She couldn’t summon the nerve to speak.
Slowly, the man walked towards her. Beyond him, she noticed now, there was another man, smaller and plumper, and he, too, was walking towards her.
Her natural instincts told her to drop the torch and run, that these men were not friendly. But for some reason she couldn't. She found she could only stand there as if the very soles of her boots were glued to the road. Fear and shock had conspired to produce this reaction in her.
“Out for walkies are we?” the first man said, grinning.
Anna realized suddenly that something dreadful was going to happen to her. The man was smiling, teeth glowing white in the torch's beam, but there was no warmth in his smile. As his cold, malevolent eyes looked her up and down there was a kind of predatory glint in them.
“I'm not going to hurt you,” he said, not very convincingly.
“Wh ... who are you?” she managed weakly.
As he got to within a couple of feet of her she lowered her right arm and the light fell from his face to form a bright pool at his feet. In the darkness his voice was even more frightening.
“At the moment, little girl, we're strangers. But when it's over you'll probably know me better than any man alive.”
All at once she knew what he meant and panic overcame her. She dropped the torch and the bulb went out as it crashed to the ground.
But she had left it too late. There was no escape, not now. Big strong hands latched on to her shoulders as she turned to run. Then he increased the pressure and she screamed with pain and fear as he forced her to her knees.
“Now we're going to have some fun, Stewpot,” the man called over his shoulder. “Come on. Help me get her off the road.”
*
Stewart stepped forward hesitantly and stared down at the helpless wretch of a girl. She was screaming, struggling wildly, but her efforts proved fruitless. Hodge placed his hands under her armpits and started dragging her towards the heather.
She was wearing a thick tweed skirt without tights and as the hem got caught on a stone the material tore, revealing a smooth white thigh.
It caught Hodge's eye, and he laughed wickedly. Then he let go of one of her arms and reached forward to make the tear bigger. This time the material split all the way to her waist, revealing a pair of clinging white panties with a cute teddy bear motif.
“What a lovely sight,” Hodge bellowed. “Come on, Stewpot. Put some effort into it for fuck’s sake. I want mine before the others get here.”
Stewart was caught up in the excitement of the moment. Although fully aware that what they were doing was despicable, he couldn't stop himself going along with it.
Later, he knew, he'd feel desperately ashamed of himself, but he also knew it was something he could live with. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he had forced himself on a woman.
He stooped to take hold of her kicking feet and together they carried her off the road on to the moor. Her screams were carried away on the wind and her struggling eased off a little through exhaustion.
They dropped her on her back in the heather and Hodge stood astride her, looking down into her terrified face, his own face glowing with a crude satisfaction.
“I'm going to screw the arse off you,” he announced hoarsely. “And you'll love every minute of it. I promise.”
As Hodge began to feverishly rip off her clothes, Stewart became aware of his own bulging erection and he found himself praying that Parker and Maclean wouldn't get back before he'd had his turn with the girl.
“Look at these tits,” Hodge cried out ecstatically. “They're beauts.”
The girl was almost naked now. Only shreds of clothing clung to her arms and legs. But she was still squirming and screaming, trying to scratch and punch her attacker whenever he was forced to release one or both her hands.
“Hold her while I get my trousers off.”
Stewart sat astride the girl to hold her down. He wasn't as rough as Hodge had been. He tried not to hurt her, and in a ridiculous attempt to calm her told her that if she would just let herself go it would all be over in a few minutes.
When Hodge was free of his trousers and underpants, he pushed Stewart out of the way and fell on top of the girl, pulling her legs apart as he did so. He tried to force himself into her but found he couldn't because she was moving about too much.
“Keep still, you stupid bitch,” he yelled.
But the girl would not give in. She thrust her hips from left to right, up and down, crying, screaming, spitting into his seething face.
Finally, Hodge could take no more of it. He slapped her twice, hard. “Now, be still.”
As he fell forward a second time, though, he made the mistake of loosening his grip on her right arm. She lifted it with the speed of a striking cobr
a and thrust two sharp fingernails deep into his left eye.
He let out a deafening howl and rolled off her, clawing at his injured eye. When he took his hand away to look there was no blood, but the pain was abominable. He stared down at the girl, oblivious to the fact that Stewart was urging him to forget it and to lock her up in the hut.
He leant forward and lifted her to her feet by her hair.
His anger was manic, uncontrolled. He threw his clenched fist into her soft, flat stomach, and his knee he brought up hard between her legs. She cried out and fell to the ground.
Then he knelt beside her and began to punch. And punch.
And punch.
Stewart was horrified. He turned away. He simply couldn't bear to look and didn't dare try to stop Hodge, who was like a crazed animal attacking a still-warm carcass.
The girl was no longer screaming. Her body was no longer white where the blood from her face had splattered in all directions. Suddenly she was limp, like a rag doll, but he continued to beat frenziedly at her lifeless flesh. His eyes were wide, containing a savage glint, and bile dribbled from the corners of his mouth.
When he did finally stop, after about a minute, he gazed in wonder at his hands as if they had acted of their own accord.
*
Sweat glistened on Hodge's forehead as he stood at the side of the road waiting for the van's lights to show at the crest of the hill. He was trembling under his clothes and it wasn't because of the cold. Stewart was standing next to him, pale faced, his shotgun at his feet. He, too, was unable to stop himself from shaking. There was an air of fearful apprehension about the two men which came very close to being tangible in the cold night air.
Stewart was near to breaking point. His mind was a shamble of senseless thoughts and boiling emotions. Hodge, on the other hand, was far less influenced by emotion. He was reacting to an intense physical sensation which he had experienced exactly five minutes earlier and from which his muscles still vibrated.
