by Raven, James
It didn't take him long to find her and he was thankful in a way that it was dark because he knew it spared him the real horror of what lay there in the heather.
He could see enough to know she was almost naked and covered in blood. But the blood was not red. The night turned it into a ghastly collection of inky stains on her pale flesh. Whoever had done this was an animal. A monster. Anna was barely recognizable. Her lips were swollen and torn and her nose was just an unsightly smudge between her wide staring eyes.
“Oh, my God, what have they done to you, lassie?”
Touching her cold flesh brought emotion to the surface in a sudden, surging flood, and he collapsed on top of her, crying uncontrollably. It began to drizzle and the thunderous wind blew the rain on to the back of his neck and began to wash away the blood from Anna's face.
He would have gone on crying for much longer if the hate hadn't welled up in him suddenly. It overcame his grief for a brief moment and made him think of his daughter in a curiously detached way. He looked down at her, tears streaming down his cheeks, and he knew he would have to punish the men who had done this, if not for Anna's sake, then for his own.
He pushed himself to his feet, slipped out of his coat, and wrapped it gently around his daughter. Then he lifted her in his arms and started walking towards the village.
THIRTEEN
There were only five street lamps in the village. One of them was situated outside the tiny post office where Ross Mor came to a stop.
Anna's left arm was hanging limp and as it swung from side to side in a wide arc its shadow grew out of all proportion on the road's gritty surface. Blood trickled from the ends of her fingers to form dark spots on the road and was washed from her dangling hair by the sweeping rain.
For several long minutes Mor just stood there cradling his daughter in his arms and staring glassy-eyed into her shattered face. Instinctively, he willed her to move. The flicker of an eyelid would have been enough. Just a sign to show that life had not deserted her.
Of course, she did not move. She couldn't. She was dead and he was alone.
Alone.
For the first time he realized that the future was a hell in itself. First his wife, and now Anna. Dear Anna. No longer there to make his supper and keep him company. To fill the house with joy and hope and laughter. To pull him out of those deep, dark depths of despair. The house would now be empty but for the shell of himself. He wouldn't live there anymore. He'd merely exist, hoping every day that he'd be struck down by an incurable disease or a failed heart.
He jerked his head up suddenly and shouted at the sky. “Oh, God, why did you let them do it? Why? Why? Why?”
He dropped to his knees and laid Anna in the road, taking great care to keep her covered with his coat.
Four lights went on in answer to his grief-stricken cry and heads appeared at the windows. Mor stood up and raised his arms in a beckoning gesture. “Anna has been murdered,” he shouted. “My daughter, Anna, has been murdered. For God's sake, come down.”
They appeared in dribbles. Women in belted dressing gowns and indoor slippers and men in overcoats over pyjamas. They approached Mor slowly, horrified by the sight of the bundle on the ground before him. Anna's feet were poking out from under the coat and her hair lay like a mop-end on the road.
An elderly woman in curlers stepped forward, prompted by her husband, and said, “Are you all right, Ross?”
He stared at her unseeingly. “It's Anna,” he said. “She…She's dead. They killed her.”
The old woman turned to her white-faced husband, who knelt stiffly beside the body and gently lifted the coat from Anna's face. He dropped it back in place quickly and struggled to his feet, shaking uncontrollably. “Oh, Ross — who did this terrible thing?”
More people were emerging from their homes. Gradually they ventured nearer to Mor and soon formed a circle round him that was five deep. Shocked faces stared from Mor to his daughter. These were people who knew death only as the inevitable conclusion to old age. Murder and all other crimes of violence were unknown on the island.
A man stepped out of the encircling crowd and peered at Anna under the coat. He was tall and big-shouldered in a heavy ankle-length overcoat and cloth cap. He straightened himself, paused for a moment, and stood facing Ross Mor, who had lowered his head and was sobbing loudly on to his chest. The man reached out and took Mor's shoulders in a firm grip. It showed in his face that he himself was having to fight back the tears.
“Ross,” he said gently. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Mor lifted his head, opened his eyes. His face quivered in anguish.
“Angus?” he said.
“Aye, laddie, it's me. Now will you try to control yourself and tell me who is responsible for this?”
Mor closed his eyes to squeeze out the tears and myriad new lines appeared in his forehead.
He said, “Two men . . . wearing masks ... They . . . came to my house and stole the treasure. They had guns.”
Angus said, “The treasure! My God.”
“When I came down here to raise the alarm I found her.”
“Where was she, Ross?” he said.
“The exchange,” Mor said with difficulty, remembering how he had found her lying there in the heather. “She was outside. She must have disturbed them as they were breaking up the equipment. They destroyed the phone lines.”
Angus Campbell's veneer of calmness began to crack and his eyes exploded. “Are you telling me they've cut us off from the mainland? We canna use the phones?”
“That's what I'm saying.”
Angus looked around at the others and saw that they were equally alarmed. Then he returned his attention to his friend. “Where are they now, Ross?”
“I don't know,” Mor said. “They must have a boat somewhere.”
“Then we've got to stop them.”
Mor nodded. “Aye, and we have to kill them, Angus. We've got to kill them for what they have done to Anna.”
Angus nodded understandingly. “They'll get what's coming to them. You can be sure of that.” He glanced quickly at Anna's body and in a gentler voice, said, “You can take Anna to my house, Ross. My wife will watch over her.”
Mor nodded absently but made no attempt to lift his daughter. He just stood there, staring at the ground, as if lost somewhere deep within himself.
Angus turned sharply and addressed the crowd in a loud, savage voice that sounded strangely alien even to his own ears.
“Well, you can all see what these men have done to Anna. I say we go after them. Now.”
The crowd was slow to react. At first they were not quite sure what Angus meant by 'go after them'. But when it did finally sink in there came cries of “let's get them” and “the bastards deserve to die.”
Angus brought order by raising his arms. “Then get dressed quickly and meet me down at the harbour. We'll check on all the possible landing places like the beach and the old jetty and we'll round up those outside the village.”
He stood very still for a moment, thinking, then said, “You'll need weapons. Anything you can lay your hands on. Some of you have rifles and shotguns. Bring those. You others can find something. Pitch-forks or knives. We need to call Erchy McGregor and Donald Ruaug. And there's Andrew Maclean. He's staying with Bella McLeod. We'll get him to help as well.”
A woman's hysterical cry rose above the heated chatter of the crowd. “Should we no inform the police on the mainland? They'll stop these men.”
“How can we, woman?” Angus barked. “We’re without phones. And even if we could get through, surely it would be unwise for all our sakes if the police were to learn about the treasure? Are you forgetting that?” He turned to look at Mor, a sympathetic expression touching his mouth. “Besides, if the police were to catch these killers they would only receive a measly prison sentence for what they have done. We ourselves have got to see that they are justly punished.”
The small crowd began to disperse, disap
pearing briefly into their homes and emerging shortly after fully dressed and armed with all manner of weapons.
Mor lifted Anna gently in his arms and carried her into the warmth of Angus Campbell's small semi-detached cottage, where he laid her out on the bed upstairs. Angus's portly wife took it upon herself to look after Anna but was unable to persuade Mor to have his injured head seen to.
Within twenty minutes a milling crowd had gathered on the pier. The rain had abated but the wind was still an unremitting force screaming around them.
They were confused, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. This was all so totally strange to them. Not only the terrible business of the murder, but also their own violent intentions.
It was Angus who took the lead.
“First, we'll find out where they left from,” he said. “Then we'll set off after them.”
One of the boat owners realized suddenly that someone had been tampering with his engine. His loud bellowing cry was carried along the pier. The other two boat owners made the same grim discovery shortly afterwards. They informed Angus that vital parts were missing from all three engines that could not be replaced immediately.
There was uproar.
The shouting and cursing brought Ross Mor out of himself and when he realized what all the commotion was about he called out, “We've got to get them. They can't get away with it. They can't.”
The desire to avenge his daughter's death was burning like a fire inside him.
Just then everybody's attention was drawn to a pair of bright headlights approaching the pier from the village. Eventually the crowd could see it was a van. When it came to a stop beneath a street lamp at the head of the pier they saw there were figures inside. The crowd fell silent, curious as to why no one had got out.
Frowning, Mor began to walk towards the van. And that’s when the doors flew open and three masked men stepped from it. A fourth remained behind the wheel, his features lost in the gloom beyond the windscreen. Each of the three men was armed with a shotgun.
The one who spoke had a broad London accent. He was looking at Mor, who continued to walk forward fearlessly.
“Don't be a bloody hero, mate,” the man warned. “I'm prepared to use this and so help me I will if you come any closer.”
Mor stopped. He had no wish to die before he’d made these bastards pay for what they had done.
*
Parker held his shotgun in a firm grip and said, “We want to leave this island without any fuss. So if you don't make trouble nobody will get hurt. Is that clear?”
“You killed her,” the man cried out. “You murdered her like she was some animal.”
Parker swallowed a huge lump and when next he spoke his voice was high, strained.
“Who the fuck are you?” he yelled.
“I’m Ross Mor,” the man said. “Anna’s father. Why did you have to kill her?”
“I don't know what the frigging hell you're talking about,” Parker shouted back. “I admit we came here to take the treasure from you, but that's all. We've killed no one. We're prepared now to hand it back if you'll give us an outboard engine for one of the boats down there.”
Mor bared his teeth in a mirthless grin.
“If you didn't kill her, then who did?”
“I've told you — I don't know what you're talking about. Now, do we get to leave this damn island peaceably or are people going to get hurt?”
As if on cue, Ross Mor charged forward, casting all caution aside. He had about fifteen yards to cover before reaching Parker and two shots were fired over his head as a warning. But Mor ignored the threat. He was like a prize bull that has smelled fear in a matador.
Parker could see that Mor was not armed, so he didn't bother to blast him as he ran, and he told the others not to shoot, either. Instead, he waited until Mor was almost on top of him and then smashed the mad Hebridean in the face with the butt of his shotgun.
Mor might have looked like a bull and he might have possessed a bull's strength, but all the same he collapsed to the ground like a knocked-over skittle, blood streaming from one corner of his mouth where a tooth was buried in his lower lip. He was unconscious, but alive.
Parker looked up at the men along the pier and tried to anticipate their next move, which was impossible.
There were about twenty of them and most were not a day under sixty. Even so they all seemed pretty fit and formidable. Plus they were all armed.
Hodge, sensing the need for a further display of dominance, raised his gun and fired yet another warning shot at the sky.
He shouted along the pier. “If someone doesn't come up with a fucking engine right now, at this very minute, I'm going to blast your friend here to pieces.”
He lowered the barrel of his gun until it pointed at Mor's head. His hands were dead steady and his expression rock hard.
For some seconds the islanders discussed the situation among themselves, speaking in loud Gaelic voices. Then a tall man in a long dark overcoat snatched a shotgun from one of the others and stepped to the front of the mob. Even from a distance of about twenty yards Parker and the others could see that his hands were shaking.
He spoke with authority, addressing his words to Hodge. “My name is Angus Campbell. I'm a friend of the man you're threatening to kill.” He paused to swallow and to wipe a sweaty palm on his coat. “Let me tell you now that not one of you will leave this island alive if you harm him. So I suggest you put down your weapons and give yourselves up. We far outnumber you and there's nowhere you can run.”
“We want a boat,” Hodge called out. “And if you want your friend here to live you better go find us one.”
Angus yelled back. “I gather from what you say that your own boat is either lost or damaged. Which is indeed unfortunate for you.”
At which point, Hodge pulled the trigger.
Ross Mor's head exploded a bloody mess of shattered brain and fragmented skull, leaving nothing above the shoulders. Pieces of charred flesh and bone splashed everywhere and clumps of hair fluttered to the ground like strange, winged insects.
There were bits of him everywhere, for yards around.
The islanders did not move and neither did Parker. He, like them, could only stare in stunned silence at the heap of meat that was once a man.
Hodge, on the other hand, appeared unmoved by what he had done and he seemed unaware of the stinging tension that now filled the air.
Slowly, he raised his gun and called out, “Now, who the hell else wants it?”
It was at that moment the islanders surged forward in an angry mob.
For a brief moment, Hodge stood frozen to the spot, staring wide-eyed at the approaching figures, wondering why his little display of ruthlessness had failed to work. Then suddenly he became aware of the engine revving behind him, and he was wrenched out of his trance-like state.
Turning, he saw Parker clambering to get into the front passenger seat. He ran desperately after the van, which was speeding in reverse without him. He managed to get a tentative grip on the handle and was flung on his back when Maclean applied the brakes to spin the machine around.
He got up quickly, saw the rear doors swing open, and threw himself at them, landing half in and half out of the van. He heard the screech of tyres, the report of a shot, and managed somehow in all the confusion to get on to the back of the van. He snatched a glance back and caught a glimpse of Stewart some yards away. He had fallen over and was screaming something about his foot being hurt.
Hodge realized immediately what had happened. Stewart had been standing against the nearside wing of the van when the crowd began its charge and when Maclean reversed the wheel must have run over his foot, crushing the bones.
Now the angry mob was bearing down on the befallen Scot and there was nothing the others could do to save him. “For pity’s sake get moving,” Hodge screamed. “He's had it.”
Maclean slammed his foot down and the van screeched forward up the slope towards the main street.<
br />
FOURTEEN
Angus Campbell stood staring down at the man left behind. The villain had removed his stocking mask and Angus thought what a pathetic looking individual had been hiding beneath it. His eyes stared ahead into nothing and he somehow seemed resigned to the fact that he was going to die a horrible death. His face was a mask of terror, his eyes huge and his skin taut.
A voice behind Angus sounded. “Kill the bastard,” and the words were copied by the others who turned it into a chilling chant.
By now these normally placid men had been worked up into a frenzy by the course of events. They hungered for revenge.
“Kill him”
“Murdering bastard.”
“Kill him.”
An old man of about sixty-five took the initiative. He leapt forward, and the knife in his hand slashed across the villain’s forehead, leaving a thin line of blood. The stranger rolled on his side and suddenly the others closed in. They began to kick him and stab him.
“That one is for Anna,” one man yelled.
“And that one is for Ross,” said another.
The kicking and stabbing continued. In the face, the ribs, the legs. Everywhere. They spat on him, huge dollops of phlegm dripping from his face.
Angus wanted to be the one to finish him off. He decided the shotgun he was carrying would be too quick, too merciful. He threw it to the ground and grabbed a pitch-fork from the man standing next to him. The others cheered him on, urging him to kill the snake. Chanting, shouting, kicking.
“Killer.”
“Bastard.”
“Murderer.”
Angus, his eyes fierce with hate, took the fork's handle in a firm two-handed grip and raised it above his head. Then he forced it down with all his strength and the stranger opened his eyes just as the two middle prongs of the fork punctured his throat.
