Brutal Revenge

by Raven, James

He slept for a couple of hours. He hadn't wanted to, but fatigue swamped him like a thick, black cloud as he sat on the floor with his back propped up against a wall. He dreamt of home, of the comforts he had never really appreciated.

  When he woke, a strange pinkish glow permeated the air inside the cottage. Dusk. The sun striving to resist the onslaught of another night.

  He wondered if he had seen the sun for the last time. If by morning he'd be dead. The oppressive gloom which coated the landscape outside enhanced his feeling of loneliness. It was as if the whole world had turned against him.

  He got to his feet and looked through one of the window apertures. If he waited for a while before moving off it would be pitch dark. He could move about the island with impunity then, go to the very edge of the village without being seen. He had no preconceived plan of action. He'd just have to play it by ear, see what developed.

  He waited for an hour, pacing the floor and rubbing his hands together to keep the blood circulating.

  It was a clear night. The air still, the stars bright, and no clouds to speak of. If only he could find a boat. the sea would be his friend tonight. He was sure of it.

  There was no door to the cottage, just an opening. He pulled up the hood of his anorak and went out into the night. There were no lights showing anywhere and he was thankful there was a full moon. It defined the landscape for him, making shadows from dykes and byres.

  He headed the way he'd come, back towards the road. Once there, he'd turn north and walk towards the village. That much he had already worked out in his mind. Maybe he'd come across a remote farmhouse that was occupied. A woman alone, perhaps, who would make the perfect hostage. He doubted that he would be so lucky, though. By now everyone would be in the village, relying on the principle of safety in numbers to keep them out of harm's way.

  He trudged across a couple of fields. Without the wind to torment the island the place was disturbingly quiet.

  Thick mud clung to the soles of his shoes, making the going that much tougher, and it wasn't long before he was panting and sweating. His breath clouded in the frosty air and his nose felt as if it was about to fall off. The sleep had revived him a little, but it had failed to replenish his store of energy which had been drained completely that afternoon. Having walked only a few hundred yards, he was beginning to feel the strain.

  He climbed over a low wall and rested for a few minutes. Whilst sitting there cross-legged on the ground, he longed for a cigarette or a stiff, gut-burning drink, anything to calm his nerves.

  Then he was off again, across a field, through a stream, around a lochan and over the shoulder of a hill. He came to the road. He was on an incline there and across the road and beyond it he could see the lights of the village glittering in the darkness. Keeping to the road he turned right and headed towards the lights.

  The vehicle, when he saw it, was a hundred yards ahead of him. Its rear lights glowed like the devil's eyes, tiny luminescent blobs of red on black canvas. It appeared to be stationary and occasionally the lights were blotted out by figures moving in front of them.

  He left the road and keeping parallel to it he crept down the hill.

  He was careful not to make a sound as he approached the vehicle. He got to within about twenty yards, his body merging with the blackness, and from there he was able to see and hear what was going on.

  There were two men and a Land Rover. One of the men was kneeling next to the front nearside wheel and Parker gathered from the snips of conversation he was able to pick up that they had a flat tyre. The man kneeling was cursing as he attempted to change it with the aid of a high powered torch nestling on the ground. The other man, visible in silhouette, was standing a couple of feet back smoking a cigarette and holding what looked like a rifle or shotgun.

  “Come on, man, hurry up, will ya,” said the man with the gun, his voice raised impatiently.

  “I'm working as fast as I can,” the man kneeling replied. “If you think you can do better then you're welcome to have a go. If not, just shut up and keep an eye out. One of them could be out there right now watching what we're doing.”

  Crouching low, Parker moved around to the left until he was at the road and the Land Rover was on his right. Then, after first checking to make sure no one was looking his way, he crept across the road, immersing himself in the long grass on the other side.

  From there he had no trouble getting up close to the Land Rover and as it turned out he arrived just in time. He heard the clang of metal on the road and then a voice. “At bloody last. Now get that old tyre on the back and let's get going.”

  He watched and waited, crouching in the grass near the front of the Land Rover. He heard the man with the tyre complaining as he carried it to the rear.

  The other man, carrying the gun, came around the front, pausing for a moment to drop the end of his cigarette and tread it into the road. Then he opened the front passenger door and started to get in.

  Parker leapt to his feet, took two strides forward, and sent a solid punch into the small of the man's back. The man yelled out and teetered back on his heels. Parker aimed his next blow at his throat which stifled a cry and brought him to his knees. The gun clattered to the ground and Parker managed to get hold of it before the other man came around from the back to see what was going on. When he saw the shotgun in Parker's hands he froze, almost choking on a word that failed to materialise.

  “Move and I'll splatter your brains all over the island.”

  The man instinctively raised his arms. He was middle-aged and clad in duffle coat and gumboots. It was too dark to distinguish his features.

  The man on the ground started moaning, so Parker brought the shotgun crashing down on his skull. He fell forward and lay sprawled in the road, face down.

  “Now listen,” Parker said to his pal. “I want you to get behind that wheel and drive wherever I tell you. You'll do everything I say as soon as I say it. Is that understood? If you so much as speak without being told I'm going to blow you apart. Got that?”

  The man nodded.

  “Right. Then let's get going. Take me into the village. And remember, I'll be in the rear pointing this thing at the back of your head the whole time.”

  TWENTY SIX

  The suitcases and crates were where they'd left them. Maclean lowered himself into the ditch and started lifting them out. It took over ten minutes to load them up onto the back of the old truck he’d picked up in the village.

  He covered them with a tarpaulin and got in behind the wheel. He slammed the door shut and glanced at his watch. Seven o'clock. Not bad. He was making good time all things considered.

  Next stop was the harbour where he would fit a motor to a boat and stash as much treasure on board as he could manage. Then he’d travel the half mile or so of coastline to where Bella would be waiting on the old jetty. All being well they would then leave the island together and embark on a new life.

  He drove slowly, headlights on, into the village and down to the harbour. He passed over the spot where Stewart had been killed. The body had long since been removed. He had no idea what they had done with it.

  He noticed the black form of a man outside the tackle shed. He wasn't surprised. He knew someone would be stationed here like a sentry protecting the harbour.

  As the man stepped into the beam of the truck’s headlights Maclean saw that he was armed with a shotgun. Maclean stopped the truck, switched off the lights and climbed out.

  “Oh, it's you, Andrew,” the man said, obviously relieved. “You had me worried there for a bit.”

  Maclean recognised him. He was Jamie Fraser. He was in his twenties and built like an ox.

  Maclean glanced back over his shoulder but there was no sign of life behind him. The pier was deserted and the houses with their backs to the harbour had their curtains drawn.

  Turning back to Jamie, he said. “Sorry to disturb you like this, Jamie, but there's something I want to ask you.”

  Jamie's brow creased
into a frown and he took another step forward. He didn't even see Maclean's first punch. He only became aware of it when he felt the pain on his chin which tore a screech from his throat.

  He staggered back against the double doors of the tackle shed, causing them to rattle on their hinges. The shotgun fell to the ground as he tried to steady himself.

  Maclean quickly picked up the shotgun and used it to whack Jamie over the head. The young man grunted as he doubled over. Maclean hit him three more times for good measure and he collapsed in a heap, unconscious and spilling blood profusely from the side of the head.

  Maclean wanted to make sure that he wouldn’t wake up after just a few minutes. And having administered the beating he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t. But he feared he had gone too far. Jamie was very still and might even have stopped breathing. But there was no time to confirm it one way or the other. If he’d added another victim to the body count then he was sorry but there was no time to dwell on it now.

  He then turned his attention to the tackle shed. Luckily the double doors were not locked. He opened one side and peered in at the darkness. He saw the distinctive white outline of the small outboard motor just inside the door up against the wall.

  But first he had to get Jamie out of sight. He took the young man's hands and dragged him into the shed. Then he quickly covered the body with a pile of damp and heavy fishing nets that he found on the floor. He was about to take charge of the outboard when he heard a noise out front. A vehicle. His heart stopped and he just stood there, not moving or breathing, as the engine note grew louder. It was coming down the road from the village. He was sure of it.

  He moved to the door and pulled it to, peering out through the crack.

  It was a Land Rover and it had stopped just along the road to his left next to the pier. Its engine was left running and its lights stayed on.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Parker leant forward and spoke in the driver's ear.

  “What's that truck doing over there?”

  The man shook his head. “I don't know. I swear it.”

  Parker looked again at the truck and then at the large wooden shed outside which it was parked.

  “What's the shed used for?” he asked.

  “It's a tackle shed,” the man replied. “Nets and fishing equipment are stored in it.”

  “The outboard motor you told me about. Is that where it’s kept?”

  The man glanced nervously at Parker's face in the rear view mirror and nodded.

  Parker studied carefully the area around the shed as they closed in on it. He couldn't see any movement and the doors appeared to be shut.

  The Land Rover pulled up next to the truck and Parker ordered the driver to hand him the keys. Then he got out before telling the driver to do the same. All was still. Only the water murmured as it rippled around the hulls of the boats tied to their moorings.

  Parker told the man to walk in front and they went up to the shed. He gestured for the guy to open the door and go in first. The guy didn't argue.

  Inside nothing stirred. The place had a musty smell to it. There were fishing nets strewn across the floor and lobster pots piled high. Parker saw the outboard engine just inside the door. He breathed an audible sigh of relief.

  “Is there petrol in it?” he said.

  The man nodded. “It's always kept full.”

  “D'you know how to fit it to a boat?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then let’s do it. And for your own sake don't do anything silly this late in the game. With any luck I'll be away from here in a little while and you’ll get to see another day.”

  He watched the man lift the engine and struggle outside with it. He carried it across the road and down the stone steps opposite the tackle shed.

  Parker pointed to the largest boat, the only one that looked big enough to get him across the ten miles or so of sea to Mull. It was a skiff with a small covered area that could hardly be called a cabin and a large area of deck space.

  When the islander finished attaching the engine Parker nudged him at gunpoint back to the tackle shed. Once inside Parker clobbered him with the rifle butt and the guy went down like a sack of potatoes.

  Then Parker turned to go outside.

  But he never made it.

  Too late, he saw a dark figure spring up at him from behind the pile of lobster pots to his right. Before he could react he felt something solid smash against the back of his head and he was plunged into a deep, dark hole.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  The coughing of the engine woke him. It must have registered somewhere inside his brain for it encouraged his mind to struggle free from under the blanket which had dropped over it. The pain, when he became conscious, was severe enough to paralyse him for a few seconds and only by a determined effort of willpower was he able to stop himself slipping back into the void.

  He groped for a handhold, found it on the side of the lobster pot, and hauled himself to his feet. Then he nearly tripped over the unconscious islander in his efforts to get to the door. But he managed to get one side open and stagger outside in time to see the boat. It was putt-putt-puttering away from him out of the harbour, leaving behind a trail of churned-up water.

  He could just make out the figure crouched in the boat alongside what looked like suitcases.

  Maclean. It had to be.

  And with some of the treasure.

  He watched with a sunken heart as the boat was devoured by the night. So Maclean must have been in the shed when they arrived, preparing for his own escape from the island. And the bastard had decided to go it alone rather than risk revealing himself.

  Parker’s hatred for the Scot became such an emotional force inside him that for a moment it prevented him from dwelling on his own hopeless predicament. That didn't strike home until he was back behind the wheel of the Land Rover.

  He turned the ignition key and the engine roared into life. He felt a strange numbness as he engaged gear and pressed his foot down on the accelerator pedal.

  He drove hard and fast back through the village and along the road that he knew would take him nowhere. He had no idea what to do or where to go.

  He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror and the strain of the past two days showed on his face. There were new, deep lines around the eyes, which themselves were empty of any kind of expression. His forehead was creased in a permanent frown and his unwashed hair was an indescribable mess. He was a man without hope; lost, scared and trapped.

  He saw the girl just in time and had to swerve to avoid her. She was hurrying along the middle of the road, going his way, shoulders hunched, hands buried deep in the pockets of her light coloured mac. He fought desperately with the wheel to steady the Land Rover, braked hard and screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust.

  He threw open the door and jumped out. Bella was already running across the moors, her mac trailing behind her like a cape. She was carrying a small holdall.

  He chased her for perhaps fifty yards before finally catching up, but even then she didn't give in and struggled wildly like a cornered fox when he grabbed her arm.

  “Keep fucking still or I’ll hurt you,” he yelled at her.

  She eventually calmed down. She dropped the holdall and just stood there, her shoulders sagging, her breath coming in wheezy gasps.

  Parker grabbed her arm and put his face close to hers.

  “Where is he?” he said.

  She looked at him. “I don't know what…”

  He backhanded her, a scathing blow across the left cheek.

  “Don't give me that bollocks you bitch. You're on your way to meet him now.”

  “No. No. I swear.”

  He tightened his grip on her arm.

  “Now where is he?”

  She spat in his face. “D'you really think I'd tell you after you tried to kill him?”

  “I don't know what he's told you, but it was him who did the dirty on me.”

  She shook her head. �
�You're wrong. He was trying to help you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes it is and you know it.”

  “Now look,” Parker said. “You’ve arranged to meet him somewhere haven’t you?”

  She shook her head again. “No. He's already gone. Ages ago.”

  “He's only just left the harbour in a boat. I saw him.”

  “That's not true.”

  Parker was losing patience. He said, “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “Liar. I’ve been along this road before and I know there are no houses in the direction you were heading.”

  “Then you didn't look hard enough,” she snapped back.

  “Now listen, Bella. If I have to I'll keep you here all fucking night. And you know what that'll mean. He'll have to go without you.”

  “Please don’t,” she yelled. “Just leave me alone?”

  “I want you to take me to him.”

  “Why?” she blurted. “So you can murder him?”

  “I don't want to kill him, Bella. Honest. I just want to get away from here. I give you my word. All I want is to save my own skin and the only way I can do that is to go with you on the boat.”

  She shrank away from him slightly. “I wish I could believe that.”

  “You've no option, Bella — not if you don't want to lose him.”

  He could tell by her expression that she was not sure what to do. He had one thing going for him, and that was her devotion to Maclean. If she wanted to leave the island with him tonight then she would have to trust him.

  He said, “The sooner the both of us are away from here, the better for all concerned. There'll be no more killing.”

  “The jetty,” she said after a moment. “I’m meeting him there.”

  TWENTY NINE

  Jamie Fraser was dead when they found him - killed by two savage blows to the head. Young Rauri MacDonald was sent to deliver the news to his family who ran a small farm on the north side of the island. Rauri's father, together with Angus Campbell, picked up the body and carried it outside the tackle shed, where they laid it on the ground in front of the assembled group of islanders who had descended on the harbour after a boat was seen leaving.