As she hunted frantically along the bank, among broken boughs and branches, the guilt began to take hold. Ross had been right. If they’d gone to the police straightaway, as he’d wanted, then this wouldn’t be happening. Morag quite possibly might have been in with the police for much of the day, as would Ally Sutherland. At the very least, the police would surely have contacted him to tell him new evidence had come to light. Now, because of her delay, Morag was in danger.
Kirstin almost shouted with glee as her eyes lighted on a thick stick half buried under foliage. Right, it was time to get going.
Halfway into her journey, her right hand was having trouble keeping hold of the stick. It was stout enough, but a fraction too short. Too bad. Turning back now was out of the question. She was teetering midstream, the torch beam wavering manically as she tried to hold the flashlight more firmly in her left hand. But that side of her body was hurting more than ever.
The sound of the rapids gushing round her was deafening, the walls and arches of the viaduct above acting as an echo chamber. At least she was sheltered from the wind here. But the final discomfort had just hit her. The waters, running almost winter-deep, had invaded her boots. Although the shock⁄cold sensation gripping her legs and feet was strangely energizing, she’d have extra weight to carry each time she picked up a foot to step forward.
Gingerly, she inched ahead. Just three steps more. One…two…there! She reached forward to grab an overhanging branch, to hoist herself on to dry land. Immediately she knew she’d misjudged its thickness. With a sickening snap the branch came away in her hand. Keep your balance, keep your balance. If you go in, theriver will sweep you away. Bob down. Lower jour centre of gravity. Her right knee took the weight of her fall. The kneecap had hit a hidden rock underneath. Tears of pain welled up, blurring her vision. Keep scramblingforward. Not far now. A fierce tug on her right hand told her that the current had stolen her stick. But her left wrist still had the torch swinging by its cord. Thank God. She couldn’t operate blind in these conditions. Gritting her teeth, she prepared for the final heave. One jump and you’ll behome.
Go!
She’d landed in the mud and gravel. Drenched from the waist down, she lay on her belly, gasping huge lungfuls of air. That had been close. But she was across. Now, only a wall and railing to negotiate. With a final, aching effort she was up on the raised walkway, one hand leaning on the viaduct wall as she emptied her boots, ignoring the discomfort of wet feet. She peered ahead. The ground was soaked. She’d have to watch her footing. Holding the torch well out in front, she began a cautious jog along the path. Her right knee was stiffening. It wouldn’t support her full weight and her left shoulder socket was emitting low-level, constant pain. But she had to keep going. How long had it taken her to find the wretched stick and get across here? Six, seven minutes? She risked quickening her pace. The rumble of thunder was returning and she could make out faint flickers of lightning far in the distance. Other than that, all was dark and quiet. Apart from the rushing waters.
Kirstin winced. Any further pressure on her knee was going to be impossible. A limping jog was all she could manage. The footbridge was first to come into view. Momentarily, she allowed the torch beam to bounce off the wooden struts before pointing it again at the footpath ahead. If she slipped now, that would be it. She wiped at her eyes, cursing the persistent wind that whipped the rain horizontally into her face. Where were they? Oh, God. Let me be intime.
‘Morag? Morag!’
She continued her painful jog towards the Cauldron.
‘Moraaag! It’s Kirstin!’
Nothing.
She could hear the weir now, the frothing waters sounding perilously fast. Again she cast her beam ahead and then, in the distance, she spotted it. Approaching through the sheeting rain. A lone figure. Clad head to foot in yellow.
‘Morag!Morag! Thank God’1 saw you through the telescope. He’s here, isn’t he? Isn’t he?’
She limped forward just in time to catch the staggering figure. Carefully, she pushed the sou’wester back off the face. Morag was sickeningly pale and her cheek and temple were bruised and bleeding.
‘Come on, come on now, Morag. I’m here. You’re all right.’
But clearly, she wasn’t. Gently, Kirstin half dragged Morag to the shelter of a clump of trees, while scanning anxiously in front and behind for any signs of Ally Sutherland. Once safe in their shelter, she switched off the torch.
Morag twisted and let out a long moan. ‘Ahhh…I…’
The voice, already tremulous and weak, faded away. Slowly, she slumped to the ground, melting into a swoon. Kirstin watched as a semi-conscious Morag struggled to move a hand towards her pocket. And then the arm dropped, limp and lifeless.
‘No, Morag! No!’
Kirstin wrenched off her jacket and, fashioning a crude pillow from it, manoeuvred the inert body into the recovery position, before placing her ear close to Morag’s mouth. It’s okay, it’s okay. She’s stillbreathing. Kirstin edged away to the fringes of their tree shelter. Keeping the torch switched off, she peered left and right along the pathway. A sudden noise from behind made her jump through one hundred and eighty degrees. Only darkness. So where was Ally Sutherland? She turned back and squatted down, feeling Morag’s pulse and checking her body position.
There was nothing for it. She had to face him. Immediately the wind attacked her and, within seconds, the thin T·shirt, her only protection, was soaking. The jeans, already drenched from the river crossing, flapped against her legs once and then stuck fast. Her boots felt unnervingly slippery underfoot. The pain in her knee had eased, but she’d still have to be careful. Step by slow step she approached the open ground near the Cauldron, the torch clutched tightly in her hand, acting as a weapon.
She’d reached the wall. How strange poor light and bad weather made the landscape look. It was like a different place. A threatening place with a bogeyman in every shadow. The sudden flash and deafening crack of thunder directly overhead made her jump. That was it. Should she call Ross again? As she looked across the rushing waters of the weir, a new worry presented itself. Was Ross okay? What if Ally Sutherland had somehow got past her, was thundering towards the exit, and met Ross coming the other way? Ross wouldn’t stand a chance against him. She should call him. No. The mobile was in the jacket under Morag’s head. Breathless, she spun round ready to make her way back.
‘God, no!’
Her scream of shock rang out over the Cauldron, its echo ricocheting back as she tripped and fell into darkness.
Fourty-Four
Why couldn’t she move? Where was the wall? She felt something warm on her forehead trickle down the left side of her face. And then the taste of blood. She shook her head, glancing frantically around. She knew where she was. He’d propped her up against the wall by the weir. She tried to get up but the pain in her right knee had gone beyond agony. The leg felt useless.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. You knocked your head and your leg as you fell.’
The voice? The face? Realization hit with the rush of relief.
‘Ross! Thank God! I thought you were Al—’
‘Ssh. I know, I know.’
Uncannily, he seemed, on first sight, like Ally Sutherland at his worst. Dishevelled. Exhausted. He wiped a soaking strand of hair from her face, darting quick, nervous looks behind him.
‘You got my message! Thank God! Ross? Please tell m—’
‘Message? Look, we must get to shelter but I need to look at that cut first. Come on, sit down by the bridge.’
He guided her the short distance, before setting her down on a broad wooden strut, and offered a reassuring smile. Carefully, using the light from the torch, he began scrutinizing her head wound, dabbing at it gently with paper tissues.
He crouched over her, trying to see what he was doing. ‘I tried to ring you this evening. On your mobile. Glen Laidlaw answered. He said you must have gone to Morag’s, since you weren’t with me.
He explained about the camera and the box. He said he was worried about you. So was I. I decided to go round to Morag’s. And that’s when I found her. Poring over everything in the box. She was very, very upset.’
Kirstin tried to lift her head. ‘Upset?’ She flinched. The pain was worsening by the second.
Ross nodded, his voice rising to compete with the waters rushing towards the weir. ‘Yes. Frantic. She was getting ready to leave the house with the box when I arrived. Said she was going to the Cauldron. I don’t know why. She just mumbled about something having jogged her memory. I thought she seemed strange, maybe meant herself some harm, and then she ran out. Left me there. But I ran after her. It was madness to go down there in this weather, but I offered to take her in my car. She seemed reluctant, and by the time we got on to the path I was feeling…I don’t know…wary. I had every reason to be. Look.’
Kirstin gasped as he pulled open his jacket. His shirt was torn and the gash in his torso was glistening with blood. He moved position, obviously trying to ease his discomfort.
‘Once we reached the Cauldron, she tried to push me in. I…I had to fight her. I saw you with her just now. It looks like I’ve hurt her badly. I…I had to defend myself. I suppose I should go and see to her but…’
He paused to glance over his shoulder again, and then turned back to her. He looked terrified. ‘I don’t know what happened here last summer. Please God, it didn’t involve them both. Her and Dad. But…if it did…I wonder if…somehow she lured Dad here, or had him chasing after her the night he died.’
Stunned, Kirstin watched as, painfully, Ross got to his feet, one hand outstretched to help her. ‘Look, we need to get away from here. Get the police. I’ve no phone, though. I lost mine when she tried to pu—’
‘Bastard! Bastard!’ The stumbling, yellow-clad figure staggered into the torch beam.
Kirstin found her voice. ‘Morag! Keep back!’ She looked helplessly at Ross as a shambling Morag approached. Kirstin tried to raise herself, but her leg failed and her head felt woozy. She caught her breath as Morag came racing into full view, her twisted, bloodied face looming palely through the darkness, both trembling hands brandishing a thick tree bough above her head. Ross moved to meet her, but staggered back as the branch caught him a blow to the shoulder and then to his bleeding side.
Kirstin struggled to get up, but the pain in her leg was too much. ‘No, Morag! No! Leave him!’ She grappled with the handrail of the bridge. Forget the pain. Get up! Get up! Ignoring the agony in her leg, and the blood still flowing freely from her forehead, she limped forward. But she was too late. Morag and Ross were locked in an embrace. He had disarmed her of the branch, but she was dragging him by the hood of his waterproof, over to the swollen edge of the Cauldron. The elements were with her. A fierce gust of wind and vicious sheet of rain momentarily unbalanced him. Suddenly his footing was gone. Morag stood aside as he clawed futilely at the air, before falling backwards into the racing waters. Within moments the current had turned his body over, dragging it towards the weir.
Kirstin felt the yell tear from her throat. ‘Noooooo!Help him. Get to the weir!’
But Morag was standing, rooted to the flooded riverbank, her eyes following the progress of Ross’s body, his arms flailing uselessly against the current. Kirstin dragged her leg, cursing at her snail’s pace, reaching the wall just in time to see the lifeless body slither over the weir and disappear into the darkness.
Kirstin stumbled back against the wall, a prisoner of her injured leg. ‘ Whathave you done? What have you done? Stay away from me!’
She had no way to protect herself now. With unnerving casualness, Morag wandered over to collect the torch and then, wordlessly, returned to place it back on the wall. Its strong yellow beam shone across Kirstin’s lap, and disappeared into a vanishing point far ahead in the undergrowth.
The wind had dropped, and the rain was down to a fine mist, leaving a patina of damp on her face and hands. All would have been silent. But the weir continued its endless shushing as the swollen waters made their way downstream, the freshwater scent more pungent than ever. This is myfinal memory. The last sound. The final smell. The last sensation.
Morag coughed and wiped a hand across her bleeding face before reaching into her pocket. ‘I have something for you.’ The voice was strangely calm, confident, resigned.
Kirstin shut her eyes as Morag moved slowly towards her.
Fourty-Five
Kirstin inched backwards across the wall. Not again. Surely this was the final time she would find herself trapped. Behind her, the raging Cauldron and weir. Before her, Morag with legs astride, trying to keep her balance, a bedraggled vision of insanity. Kirstin reached for the torch. If this was to be her only weapon, then so be it.
Morag took a step forward. ‘I want you to stay where you are. You’re injured. So am I. And you’re not in control of yourself.’ The voice was surprisingly steady. ‘Just stay.’
Morag’s look nailed Kirstin in place. Okay, just wait, bide your time. She’s unbalanced. She’s dangerous, gone over theedge. But she is injured. Maybe she’s weaker than you.
The steady voice wavered as Morag took a painful inhalation of breath. ‘lona Sutherland was the cause of her own death bee—‘ She stopped abruptly, another wave of pain taking over. Then she began coughing, wincing at each splutter. ‘Because she played with people. There must…be countless men out there who raised a silent cheer when they heard of lona’s death.’ Another pause. Kirstin saw Morag’s eyes flicker and wondered if she was going to lose consciousness and collapse. She tensed herself, ready to escape. But, within a second, Morag had rallied. ‘lona’s lovers had all been used and discarded by her. Craig would have suffered the same fate. He’d have deserved it. The bastard!’
She pulled the object from her pocket. Kirstin recoiled and raised the torch. And then she gasped. It was the camera!
Jamie’s camera. As Morag manipulated the various buttons, suddenly her face was transformed by the screen’s glow into an eerie, uplit gargoyle.
She thrust the camera towards Kirstin. ‘I found another memory card. Here.’
Still wary, Kirstin reached out her trembling arm. And then her focus shifted. Over Morag’s shoulder she saw him. Ross! He’d come back from the dead! He looked like a feral creature, barely human. His torso was bare and peppered with bleeding scrapes and cuts. His clothes must have been ripped off by the powerful currents. Morag realized too late what was happening. He caught her in a bear hug from behind, and the camera fell from her grasp, its tiny screen still beaconing out through the soggy grass below.
He was holding Morag in a tight stranglehold, speech and movement beyond her. ‘I’ve got her, Kirstin! Are you okay?’
Slowly, Kirstin slid her painful body down from the wall. ‘Yes…yes, I’m okay. We need to call the police. The phone. There’s a phone back there. Where I left her.’
‘Okay, you go on. I’ll hold her here.’
Kirstin called back, ready to get on her way. ‘All right. But try not to hurt her any more. She’s ill. She needs help.’
The shriek was ear-piercing, reminding Kirstin of the animal wail Morag had let out on hearing the news of Bonnie’s death. Despite the obvious agony it had caused her, Morag had managed to free herself. Ross had been too injured to hold her, and he fell to the ground as she kneed him in the groin and then began kicking him repeatedly in the stomach.
‘No,Morag! Wait. We’ll helpjou, whatever happened. We’ll help!’
Kirstin watched, helpless, as Morag foraged on the ground. The camera! She’s after the camera. But Kirstin was wrong. In her hands shone a large rock, gleaming black from rain and river water. Ross, now on his knees, was struggling to get to his feet.
‘Morag! Don’t, please don’t!’
Kirstin watched in terror as Morag raised the rock above her head. The single blow felled him, leaving his inert body prostrate on the mud-soaked ground. Kirstin felt her control snap and, ignoring the ag
ony screaming from her right leg, she threw herself at Morag.
‘No more! Haven’tyou done enough’? I wanted to help you!’
Morag dodged out of her way and Kirstin felt her right leg collapse under her as she fell, face first, into a flooded dip in the ground. Her mouth was filling quickly with rainwater and mud. Get up! Get up, oryou’II drown! She spat the filth from her mouth, gasping frantically for air. And then she sensed it. Turning over on to her side, she saw Morag towering over her, one hand raised. This is it. Be quick. Please, be quick.
Then, to her surprise, Morag was on the ground with her, the camera thrust inches from her face. Roughly, Morag tugged painfully at Kirstin’s sodden hair, pulling her head back so she could focus on the tiny screen.
‘Look! Look at this. And the next one, and the next one, andthenext one! Thenback again, back again, back again! Look! Understand!’
Kirstin blinked as myriad images flashed in front of her eyes, and Morag’s manic mantra screamed in her ears.
And then the data went in. The brain processed, analysed.
The static images came alive in her imagination.
Iona, writhing in orgasmic pleasure. Underneath a grinning, jubilant Ross.
‘This way, Ms Rutherford.’
Fourty-Six
She followed the police officer down the silent hospital corridor. Her progress was slow as she hobbled along, the walking stick taking as much of her weight as possible. The officer stopped and invited her to go ahead of him.-The room was darkened, but she could make out what she needed to. Morag, flanked by a plain-clothes officer on one side and by Dr Lockhart on the other, was sitting facing a window that gave out on to another room. As Kirstin took her seat, Dr Lockhart whispered a soft, ‘I’m so sorry.’
2007 - The Dead Pool Page 23
