The Drowning Tide (Blair Dubh Trilogy #2)

by Heather Atkinson

  THE DROWNING TIDE

  By Heather Atkinson

  Copyright Heather Atkinson March 2014

  Foreword

  Many thanks to my mum Stephanie for her proofreading skills and for always being there, to my little sister Suzy for her ceaseless and enthusiastic support and to my daughters Charlotte and Sophie for being sweet (sometimes) and adorable (always). Last but certainly not least to my lovely husband Paul for his knowledge about boats, fibreglass and for all those other handy titbits of information that helped me write this book. Also thanks so much to Scotland for being beautiful, dramatic and awe-inspiring.

  Heather Atkinson March 2014

  CHAPTER 1

  Docherty hunkered down as he listened to the shouts and cries die away, the men exiting the segregation unit with their prize. The hardest and most dangerous of the inmates were rampaging through the toughest prison in Glasgow, lifers with nothing left to lose wreaking violence and mayhem. The screws hadn’t stood a chance.

  He gripped his homemade shank tightly in one hand, prepared to use it to defend himself but it hadn’t been necessary, he’d hidden himself too well by barricading himself in a small cupboard and they’d gone away without realising he was there. They’d been looking forward to having an ex-copper to torture but instead they’d got their hands on a couple of child rapists and a screw and carried them off kicking and screaming.

  There had been three prison officers on duty in the unit at the time they’d broken through, caught unawares coming in from the unit’s exercise yard and only Docherty’s quick thinking had saved his life. He ran a hand over his face, wiping away the drips of sweat. The entire country was in the grip of a ferocious July heat wave and the authorities had turned off the prison’s water supply, so they had no way of cooling down. The building didn’t exactly smell like a basket of flowers at the best of times but now the stink was becoming unbearable, a combination of body odour and piss and excrement from the unflushed toilets.

  No one had thought it would come to this. It had started as a rammy between a couple of prisoners on A wing that had escalated when the screws had tried to break it up, more prisoners coming to their aid until the animals turned on their keepers and battered the living shit out of them. The other wings had been locked down but the seg unit had been in the same wing as the riot, just one floor down. They’d thought they were invulnerable down here in the most isolated part of the prison where loneliness and boredom reigned, where the prisoners were housed that were so reviled the rest of the prison population didn’t want anything to do with them. The unit was designed to keep people in, not out, and they’d broken through.

  When the screams died away altogether Docherty plucked up the courage to open the door. Tentatively he poked his head out. No one was there and the disturbing feral noises of pleasure the band of rioters had made as they’d carried away their hostages had thankfully gone too.

  Docherty exited the cupboard to find one screw crumpled in a corner unconscious while another lay on his back, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes wild and scared. He’d been stabbed in the stomach with a sharpened fork, which still protruded from his abdomen.

  “H…help me, please Docherty.”

  Docherty didn’t reply, his gaze cold. McMillan was alright, always treated him with respect but people didn’t mean anything to Docherty, not unless they could serve him in some way. “Why the fuck should I?”

  “P…please…I don’t want to die.”

  Docherty glanced around to make sure they were alone but the unit was empty. All the other inmates had either snuck out when the rioters broke through or been dragged to their doom. The riot had been going on for two days solid and the authorities were getting seriously pissed off, it was making them look bad. The rapid response team had been as effectual as a fart in the wind and had got their arses kicked before being tossed back out. Soon the heavy mob would come charging in and time was running out. He had to make his move now.

  As he looked down at the bleeding screw a plan formed in his mind.

  The way Docherty stared down at McMillan with his head cocked to one side, his eyes devoid of any kind of human emotion, chilled him to the bone. “What are you doing?” groaned McMillan when Docherty started pulling off his prison issue red t-shirt and blue jeans.

  “If you want to get out of here alive then I suggest you shut the fuck up.”

  “But…”

  Docherty grabbed his face in one big hand and squeezed, enjoying the pain in his eyes. “I said shut it.” He slammed the back of McMillan’s head against the floor, knocking him out. Now he’d shut the wanker up he could continue in peace. McMillan was about the same height and build as himself, his dark blond hair of similar colour. Although McMillan was several years younger with a little creative adjustment he’d do.

  Docherty pulled the fork out of the man’s stomach, it hadn’t gone in very deep, barely penetrating the flesh. With a contemptuous look he tossed it aside then stripped the man down to his underwear. He pulled on the guard’s uniform and put his clothes on McMillan, cursing quietly to himself. It wasn’t easy dressing an unconscious person. The clothes were quite a good fit but he would have to do something about his face, it would be spotted immediately that he wasn’t a prisoner.

  Fortunately for Will McMillan he was still out cold when Docherty started cutting into his face with the shank. Docherty’s heart sang as he dragged the blade across the smooth youthful skin, splitting it open, the oozing blood masking the guard’s features. When the blade cut into McMillan’s jaw the pain woke him and he started to scream so Docherty slammed his head against the concrete floor until he stopped, allowing him to continue to work in peace, opening up deep lines down both cheeks, across his forehead, splitting open his nose and chin. He paid particular attention to his mouth, cutting at his lips. It would make life a lot easier for Docherty if he couldn’t talk.

  Docherty stopped to regard his work. The good looking boy the nonces in here had drooled over would be a proper ugly bastard now, if he survived. He kept slicing until his face was an unrecognisable pulp, creating a nightmarish mask. It wasn’t necessary, he’d done enough damage. He did it because he enjoyed it.

  Docherty froze as shouts and yells drifted down to him from the direction the men had dragged the paedos. It seemed the cavalry had finally arrived.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening up a cut across his own forehead with the tip of the blade. He felt the warm blood trickle down his face but it wasn’t enough to disguise his features. More was required.

  “Urgh, gross,” he grimaced as he dipped his hand into the blood covering McMillan’s face and rubbed it on his own. The shouts and bangs grew even louder, getting closer, so he threw the shank into a shady corner, scrabbled to the far end of the unit by the guard post and splayed himself out on the floor. The police had made it in, he could hear them yelling at the inmates to lie down with their hands behind their heads, but it seemed they weren’t going down without a fight. He had a bit more time yet.

  As he waited he thought of everything he had planned for when he’d made his escape. He had a lot of scores to settle on the bastards who had put him in here, especially those three bitches who had dared to speak out against him. But the majority of his rage was reserved for Freya Macalister, or Donaldson as she was now known, one of the homeless scraggy witches he’d been done for assaulting. She had refused to let herself be broken by him then refused to break during her testimony, adding years to his sentence. He’d heard she’d married a copper, which had made his blood boil because he thought he’d mentally scarred her for life when it came to police, it was what ha
d soothed him during the long lonely nights, knowing that waster slag was living in constant fear all because of him. Now she’d married not any old copper but a fucking hero one who had taken down two serial killers. He’d done his research well and knew everything about Detective Sergeant Donaldson, including his weaknesses, which he’d use to destroy not only him but his wife too. There wouldn’t be much time to do it all in. He wasn’t stupid, he knew prison escapees were usually quickly rounded up. In the age of Big Brother it was impossible to hide for long, not unless you had a friend with a private plane or boat who could get you out of the country, but he had no friends and what family he had practically abandoned him when he was sent down. All he needed was a few days to settle old scores then he could return to prison and live out the rest of his life in peace because, no doubt after what he intended to do, he’d get life. What the fuck did it matter anyway? With the sentence he was currently serving he was going to be an old man when he eventually got out. Why not enjoy himself while he had the chance?

  There was a loud bang and his eyes flickered open to see black-clad figures brandishing Hecklers and Koch’s making their way towards him, guns at the ready. He wasn’t sure if they were police or even the bloody SAS. Whoever they were they were hard bastards. One of them crouched beside him, concern in his eyes, ignoring the horribly injured McMillan on the floor.

  “You alright pal?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Bastards knocked me out, I did what I could….”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it, we’ve got the situation under control. Can you walk?”

  “I’ll give it a go.”

  They actually helped him to his feet and assisted him out of the building, which had been completely trashed. Docherty’s heart thudded in his chest. Any minute he expected to hear a yell of recognition and be thrown to the floor and restrained but instead he was led through the main doors and out into the courtyard and he squinted in the bright summer sun. When his vision cleared the sight that greeted him was astonishing; they’d been swamped with police vehicles, ambulances and fire engines. A helicopter buzzed overhead. He tried to contain his panic when the governor approached.

  “Are you alright Will?”

  Docherty was grateful for the pad one of the armed officers had given him, which he kept pressed to the wound on his forehead, obscuring his features.

  “I’ll live,” he mumbled, trying to make his voice sound a bit higher and softer than his own deep timbre.

  “Get yourself to hospital, you’ve done all you can,” said the governor before turning his attention to his other injured prison officers being escorted out. All had made it out alive, even the ones who’d been taken hostage. Docherty watched McMillan being carried out on a stretcher, his wrist cuffed to it, and he had to repress a smile.

  In order to get to the ambulance he had to pass Harry Jacobs, chief prison officer and one brutal bastard who took great delight in giving him a good hiding once in a while.

  “Are you okay Will?” he asked, clamping a big hand down on his shoulder.

  He nodded, trying to look miserable, not daring to speak.

  “There’s that fucker Docherty on the stretcher,” he said, indicating the figure being loaded into the back of an ambulance.

  Docherty nodded again.

  “I hope the prick dies.”

  Docherty thought it best to remain silent despite the desperate urge to break the wanker’s neck. He made a show of feeling woozy, putting a hand to his head and staggering slightly.

  Jacobs caught him by the elbow. “Get yourself checked out then get yourself home. You’re signed off work for a week.”

  Great, thought Docherty. Seven full days before McMillan will be missed from work. As far as he knew the screw lived alone so there were no wife and kids to miss him either.

  To his chagrin Jacobs accompanied him to the back of an ambulance where a paramedic started dabbing at his face with some cotton wool. Docherty panicked because the congealing blood was his disguise.

  “I’ll be alright Harry. Get yourself back tae it,” he mumbled, lightening his voice again. “There’s worse cases than me. I’ll be fine.” He held his breath, praying he wouldn’t be found out but Jacobs was distracted by the governor waving him over so he was only half-listening.

  “If you’re alright pal,” he replied, patting him on the shoulder again before jogging back to the governor.

  “Just a shallow cut, nothing to worry about,” said the paramedic as he worked.

  “Good,” replied Docherty, nerves on edge. He’d tilted himself away from the doors so he couldn’t be seen but he had no choice but to let the paramedic clean him up. Walking out the gates with a face full of blood would only draw unwanted attention to himself. However soon all the blood would be cleaned away and he’d be sat there exposed, surrounded by police and prison officers.

  More casualties were pouring out of the prison and the paramedic kept looking over at them, thinking he should be tending to the more seriously injured.

  “Go on pal, I’ll be fine,” said Docherty.

  “That’s a nasty cut.”

  “I’ll get a lift to the hospital. Other people need you more than I do.”

  “Okay. I’ve cleaned the wound and put some plasters over to hold it in place before it can be stitched but it’s only a short-term remedy, you really need to get it sorted properly.”

  “I will, promise.”

  “Here’s some wipes, you can use them to clean off the rest of the blood,” he said before hopping out of the ambulance and rushing over to attend to another bloody body on a stretcher.

  As Docherty cleaned himself up he was careful to keep his back turned to the outside world. When the job was finally done he took the paramedic’s jacket off the hook and pulled it round him, nicking a dark blue baseball cap from the front seat. He poked his head out to make sure no one was watching then jumped down from the ambulance.

  Pulling the jacket around him tighter he simply walked through the chaos and out the gates.

  CHAPTER 2

  Freya and Craig walked through the door of their flat arm-in-arm, laughing.

  “Come on, let’s see it,” she said, tugging up his t-shirt.

  Craig grinned and pulled up his t-shirt to reveal a flowing black tribal design across his lower back with Freya’s name in the centre, droplets of blood standing out on the black ink, the surrounding skin red from the tattooist’s needle.

  “It looks great,” she smiled.

  He pulled his t-shirt back down and slowly started to unzip her jeans, staring intently into her eyes. “Now let’s see yours. It’s much more interesting. Lie down.”

  She lay back on the couch as he tugged down her jeans to reveal the black roses on her left inner thigh intertwined with the black tribal swirls to compliment Craig’s tattoo, his name entwined with the stems of the flowers.

  Gently he kissed the surrounding skin. “I’m under your skin now, literally. There’s no getting rid of me now.”

  “Why would I want to get rid of you?” she said, running her fingers through his dark hair. “Who would put the bins out?”

  “Oh ha ha,” he said sarcastically.

  “I hope the doctor doesn’t want to examine me the morra, I don’t know what he’ll make of this,” she said, indicating her tattooed thigh.

  Craig’s smile faltered. They’d been married for two years and had been trying for a baby for over a year, with no success.

  In response her own smile fell. “I’m sorry Craig.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “It’s my fault for abusing my body for so many years. If I’d only thought back then of the consequences.”

  “Remember, it’s not the end of the world. There’s still IVF.”

  “But it’s so expensive.”

  “We’ll manage and we’ll get our family.”

  She plucked up the courage to ask the question she’d been burning to ask ever since they’d first visited the fertility clinic. �
�If it doesn’t happen will you still want me?”

  The vulnerability in her green eyes pained him. “I love you Freya and nothing will change that. You’re my wife and you always will be.”

  “If I can’t get pregnant…”

  “Then we’ll adopt. Anyway, I can’t leave you now, I’ve got your name tattooed on my back. I’d have to meet someone else called Freya.”

  His grin as always was irresistible and she smiled back at him. “I love you.”

  He kissed her lips. “I love you too. Now stop all this silly talk, we’ll soon have our baby.” His fingers brushed the top of her panties. “Let’s get some more practice in. Oh bloody hell,” he said when his mobile started to ring. “Sorry, that’s work.”

  She sat up with him, eyes anxious. “It might be about the riot.” John Docherty, the tormentor of her years living homeless on the streets, was in that prison on the other side of the city. For the past couple of nights since the news broke she’d had horrible nightmares where she’d woken to find him standing at the end of the bed, a knife in hand, eyes a demonic red, the only sound his furious breathing.

  “Hopefully they’ll have good news,” he said, putting the phone to his ear. “DS Donaldson.”

  Freya listened with her heart in her mouth.

  “Right, thanks,” he said before hanging up.

  “Well?”

  “The riot’s over. All prisoners accounted for.”

  Freya breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God. I had the horrible feeling Docherty was going to escape.”

  “Not a chance but he is in Intensive Care in Glasgow Royal. Some of the mainstream prisoners broke into the Segregation Unit and attacked him. He’s cut up pretty bad by all accounts. They got hold of two kiddie fiddlers as well and half-killed them. Unfortunately they didn’t go all the way so they’re taking up precious NHS resources. They’re under heavy guard and Docherty hasn’t regained consciousness yet. You can stop worrying.”

  “That is such a relief,” she said, burying her face in her hands. Her worst nightmare was Docherty escaping because she knew if he ever did manage that miracle then he’d come for her.