by Raven, James
Stewart turned his head towards Hodge and there was hatred in his eyes. A deep intense hatred that the other could almost feel.
“Did you have to do that?” Stewart cried out.
“Shut up and let me think.”
“But you're insane. A fucking madman.”
Hodge reacted violently this time, viciously swinging the butt of the shotgun into Stewart's stomach. The blow caused the paunchy Scot to double over and drop to one knee.
Hodge took a step forward, raised the shotgun above his head threateningly.
“Do you want some more of the same?”
Stewart lifted his right arm in a feebly defensive gesture.
“That’s enough,” he pleaded. “No more.”
“Then shut the fuck up.”
Clutching his stomach, Stewart got to his feet. As he paused to catch his breath he contemplated going for his own gun, but discarded the idea immediately. He was forced to admit that in a confrontation of this nature he was no match for a cold-blooded bastard like Hodge.
He turned and looked at the patch of heather not five yards away which barely concealed the girl's body.
“What are we going to do?”
Hodge turned on him, the whites of his bulging eyes like bright stars in the darkness.
“We just leave her there, you idiot. What do you think?”
“But she'll be found.”
“What does it matter? No one will come across here until tomorrow and by then we'll be far away.”
Stewart groped for words. “But it'll mean they'll have to call in the Old Bill now for certain.”
“So what? They don't know any of us from Adam.”
“They know Mac.”
“That's his worry.”
“You're a heartless bugger.”
Hodge forced out a mirthless clap of laughter. “Ain't we all? Yes, even you, Stewpot, or have you forgotten already your own part in it?”
This remark really hit the mark. It caused Stewart to catch his breath. His insides wound themselves up into a tight ball and a prickly hand crawled up his spine, touching the raw nerves.
This was something he hadn't yet considered. His own involvement in the atrocity. There could be no denying that he himself was almost as culpable as Hodge. After all, hadn't he just stood by and watched it happen.
Twin lights pierced the darkness at the top of the hill. Grew larger as they came nearer.
Hodge drew breath sharply, looked at Stewart. “If you know what's good for you, Stewpot, you'll keep your mouth shut about what's happened.”
“You don't have to tell me that,” Stewart said, bending to pick up his shotgun. “It's one thing to have to live with what I've done and something else to broadcast it.”
“That's sensible.”
“Not that they won't find out. There's no way that the police won't get wind of it now.”
Hodge shrugged and spat at the ground. “Too bloody bad.”
When the van stopped, Parker's face looked up at them through the half-open window.
“Back's open. Get in.”
They climbed in and were immediately awed by the presence of the suitcases and wooden crates that were piled up in the back.
“Why not take a look,” Maclean said, when they were settled and the van was on its way. “They’re not locked.”
Stewart opened one of the cases. A pile of gold and silver coins shone dully in the poor light. There were also gold rings, a silver plate and lots more besides. He reached his hand in and scooped up a dozen or so coins.
“As Bob said back in Glasgow,” Parker put in. “It was like taking candy from a baby. The old feller didn't even know what hit him.”
“How did it go?” Maclean asked.
“Sweet as a nut,” Hodge said. “We clobbered that place but good. They won't be making any calls to the mainland for a while.”
“No problems?”
There was just a split second's hesitation before Hodge replied, but it went unnoticed.
“None,” he said.
“So you didn't see the girl?” Maclean said.
Stewart froze. “Girl! What girl?”
“Ross Mor's daughter. We passed her on the road. I thought she'd pass you. She must have been going to the village. I'm not sure if she recognized me or not. Still, not that it matters now anyway.”
“We didn't see any girl,” Hodge offered, just a little too quickly.
Stewart began to breathe again and Hodge winked at him.
“So far so good then,” Maclean said after a moment. “And we're nearly home and dry already.” He looked over his shoulder. “What d'you think of this weather, Bob? Anything to worry about?”
“Eh ...” Stewart came out of himself with a start. He looked beyond Parker's shoulder and frowned at the windscreen. “I didn't realize it was so bad.”
The wind from the Atlantic had built up considerably and was strong enough now to cause the van to rattle on its springs. The long slender grass at the roadside yielded in its path and clumps of birch fled across the moors in front of them.
“Provided we get under way soon we should be okay,” Stewart hazarded. “The cruiser is big enough to take on a storm this size. If it does get really wild out there I'll take her in close to Mull. We could even hold up in one of the bays until the worst of it is over.”
The road back to the disused jetty was as dark and deserted as it had been on the way up. As they passed again through the village they saw that only three of the houses were now showing light.
They came to the hill above the jetty and stopped the van. Parker climbed out and went to the rear to open the doors. Stewart jumped down first and crossed the road to take a look down the hill at the boat.
He stared for about thirty seconds, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness because he wasn't sure he was seeing correct, and then he turned to the others and announced in a voice that was remarkably calm, “She's gone. The bloody boat's gone.”
ELEVEN
The lethal combination of wind and rough sea had torn the boat from her mooring. The rope knots had come loose under pressure.
From the top of the hill they could see no sign of the boat and they assumed she had been dragged out to sea on receding waves or sucked under after smashing her hull on the side of the jetty. But then they saw that the cruiser was actually riding the waves not fifty yards out, rearing up on every breaking swell like a frightened mare at barbed wire.
She was going to hit those half submerged rocks. They could all see it coming. And there wasn't a damn thing any of them could do to stop it happening.
The wind howled, cursed, screamed.
Four helpless figures stood staring forlornly into the night. The sea, bursting against the jetty, soaked their clothes, their hair, their faces.
Ca-rash.
The sound of the hull being torn on the jagged rocks. Rising above the wind. A sound like a house being crushed under a giant's foot.
Grrrrraaagh.
Bits of white scattered the gloom. The bow shot upwards, turned full circle, came down to shatter on rock only a few inches below the surface.
A second later the boat was upended, pointing accusingly at the sky, and then, slowly, it began to disappear in a swirling cloud of foam and spray.
And that was it.
The four men stood staring at the water. Hypnotised. Soaking wet and not caring.
A long time passed before anyone spoke. It was Parker, and his words were barely discernible.
“That's our fucking lot,” he said.
Stewart was aghast. His head swivelled towards Parker, his face dripping, and his mouth fell open. He didn't say anything. But then what could he say that needed to be said? That one short sentence spelled out the hopeless situation facing them. With the boat gone they were without a means of escape.
Parker’s mind recoiled from the shock and he was suddenly aware that they were marooned. Short of swimming all those miles to the mainland, ther
e was no way off the island.
He and Maclean stood with their backs against the side of the van, faces glum. Hodge was in front of them and Stewart sat cross-legged on the damp ground, his face buried in his hands.
They remained like that for several minutes, then Hodge lunged forward suddenly, grabbing Maclean by the front of his anorak.
“You fucking idiot,” he yelled into his face. “This is all your fault. You must have left the knots loose. Now we've all had it.”
Maclean made no attempt to push Hodge away. It was as if he had been drained of all energy and emotion. He just stood there, blank-faced, allowing Hodge to shake and threaten him like a madman.
Finally, Parker felt constrained to intervene and broke them apart.
“Now, hold on,” he yelled. “Fighting's not going to get us anywhere.”
Hodge, his face suffused with anger, stepped back and thrust a finger at Maclean, who was watching him through vacant eyes.
“Because of that silly bleeder, we haven't got a prayer. A bloody van full of treasure and we can't go anywhere with it.”
Parker could well understand Hodge's anger, and indeed he shared it, but he couldn't see that rubbing it in Maclean's face would serve any useful purpose now.
“We need to keep it together,” Parker said. “And then work up a way to get out of this.”
“So what have you got in mind?” Hodge spat the words. “They've got us by the cobblers and you know it.”
“What about those boats we saw?” Parker said. “Maybe we can rig one up with an outboard motor and get to Mull, even in these conditions. If not, at least we'll have it handy for when the weather improves.”
“And what if there is no outboard engine?” Hodge growled.
Parker shrugged. “Then we'll just have to give the treasure back and try to talk the islanders out of going to the police. I don't see what else we can do.”
“And supposing they don't take it so lightly? Supposing they don't let us leave?”
“We still have the shotguns,” Parker reminded him. “We'll just have to hang around until we can fix up a boat or until the ferry comes across from the mainland. Don’t forget they still won’t want the authorities to know about the treasure.”
There was a heavy silence between them which lasted several seconds. Then Stewart got to his feet and said, “There's no way these people are going to let us leave here without paying for what we've done.”
“Oh, come off it,” Parker said. “They can live with it. Granted, we had to clobber the goon at the house, but he'll survive.”
“I'm not thinking about him,” Stewart said, switching his irate gaze to Hodge. “I'm thinking about the girl.”
Hodge flew at Stewart, grabbing him by the throat, and yelling for him to keep his mouth shut. It took both the others to pull him off. As they held onto him he continued to stare at Stewart, his eyes cold and fanatical.
“Go on,” Parker said. “Tell us about the girl.”
*
“Then she's dead,” Parker said incredulously, after hearing what Stewart had to say. “You've fucking murdered her!”
Stewart poked a rigid finger at Hodge.
“He murdered her. Not me. I tell you I've never seen anything like it. The man's a ruddy psycho.”
As Hodge tried to struggle free Parker let go of his arm and smacked a fist into his face.
Hodge reeled backwards, lost his footing, and fell sprawling to the ground.
He was quick to recover, though, and came back at Parker with a tiger's speed. But Parker had already retrieved the shotgun and as Hodge got to within arm's length he let fly with the barrel, which landed with a heavy thud on the other's chest.
Hodge was still gasping for breath as Parker sent the butt crashing into his stomach. This time Hodge went down and was in no hurry to get up. He turned on his back, clutching his stomach, and looked up.
Parker stood over him, panting, trying hard to contain his rage. “Until this is over I'll put up with you,” he seethed. “But afterwards you’d better watch your back, because the first chance I get I'm going to make you regret ever having been born.”
Parker braced himself for an attack which didn't come.
Hodge stayed where he was, started to reply and thought better of it. He let his eyes carry the message that told Parker, in no uncertain terms, that he, too, had better watch his back from now on.
Parker took a deep breath and turned away from him.
“For now we'll forget about what's happened and concentrate on getting off the island. I suggest we go down to the village right now and see if we can find an outboard engine or something. If there aren't any, maybe we can get one of the fishing boats going.”
Stewart shook his head. “No way. We'd need all the parts for that, and they're in the sea.”
“Then we'll just have to go down and get them, won't we?” Parker said irritably. “Because if we don't get away from this place before morning, we'll never get away.”
TWELVE
There was a blackness in front of his eyes that began to slowly break up like a jig-saw being dismantled piece by piece. At first, light just trickled through in small doses, revealing blurred images of an assortment of objects around him. Gradually these objects came into focus. The stout, glossy legs of a highly polished table, a stone fireplace and a threadbare rug on the floor with its ends curling inwards.
Eventually his vision widened enough to embrace an entire room that seemed to be lying on its side. He realized it was his room, the familiar belongings of a lifetime about him. And suddenly he remembered with startling clarity what had happened and why it wasn't the right way up.
Ross Mor pushed himself up on one elbow and winced at the explosion of pain inside his head. He clamped his eyes shut and touched his forehead with a surgeon's gentleness. There was a nasty bump and an open wound that wet the tips of his fingers with blood. His first instinctive thought was to go into the bathroom and apply a dressing to it, but he decided there were more important things to do first. Like finding out what the hell was going on.
It took all his strength to raise himself to his feet. He staggered into the bedroom like a drunk trying to find his way around a strange house.
He hadn't expected the treasure to be there in the back room, so he wasn't surprised to see that it was gone. The bastards who had stormed his house had taken it. They were robbers, looters, wild beasts.
He leaned against the door frame and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes to eradicate the pain behind them. But it did no good. He turned back into the living room and dropped into his worn-out armchair by the fire. The smell of burning peat filled the room and his nostrils. He glanced over his shoulder at the door. At least they'd had the decency to close it behind them, he thought.
He laid his head back and stared bleary-eyed at the ceiling. There was no point trying to apply careful thought to the situation at this moment. He wasn't up to it. His mind was in no fit state to grapple with anything but the very basic questions like who they were and where had they gone? Any attempt to examine the facts in closer detail only caused his head to hurt even more and he had no wish to inflict further punishment upon himself.
Even so, several things were obvious. There had been two men — or at least he had seen two men — and they had been strangers. He was certain of that even though they had worn masks and had hardly spoken. You don't live in a small island community all your life and not get to know everyone as well as you know your own family.
The mantelpiece clock told him he had only been unconscious for about half an hour. Perhaps there was still time to stop them leaving the island, which would obviously be their intention.
He picked up his phone to raise the alarm, only to find that he had no dialing tone. Shit. What now?
He got up, pulled on his overcoat and boots, and hurried out of the cottage. He decided not to cut across the moors as they were probably waterlogged, which would slow him down, so he began running down t
he road, the wind blasting his face. He stumbled twice in the dark, but otherwise was making fairly good time all things considered.
He came to the tiny automatic telephone exchange and pulled up sharply when he saw that the wind was whipping the door back and forth on its squeaky hinges. He left the road to investigate, though in his mind he had an idea what to expect. If the door was open then somebody must have forced it.
And he was right. The inside was a shambles. Torn out wires were strewn across the floor and the flimsy metal that encased the expensive looking machinery had been battered into unrecognisable heaps of junk. Unquestionably the gangsters had planned their raid well. They had been very efficient and, yes, clever. He wondered fleetingly how they had found out about the treasure and Andrew Maclean immediately sprang to mind.
Perhaps he had passed the information on to one of his mainland contacts and the wrong people had got to know of it. He was certain that Maclean himself would not have been involved. After all, he was an island lad, and therefore completely trustworthy. And besides, he hadn't even known where the treasure was hidden.
On the other hand, it was also possible that one of the islanders had unwittingly given the information to some rascal in Oban, who had got a group of lads together and hired a boat. The possibilities as to how these men had found out about the treasure were too numerous to ponder right now, so he shut the door and trudged back to the road.
His right shoe kicked against something tinny and he bent to pick it up.
A torch.
A hand clawed at his heart and pulled it up into his throat. He stared at the object for what amounted to seconds, hoping it would disappear suddenly or turn into a stick or a rock. The glass was smashed, along with the bulb inside, so obviously Anna had dropped it.
But why had she dropped it? And where was she now? At first, his mind refused to accept the obvious, which was that she had been attacked by those same two men. He wanted to believe that she had dropped the torch accidentally and, failing to find it in the dark, had simply gone on to the village. Nevertheless he looked around.
