Freya was almost relieved to see the distinctive coastline of Blair Dubh projecting out into the water. The ruined castle was the first thing that came into view, indicating the village was near. The sky darkened as the sun darted behind a cloud, turning the old stone of the castle into a threatening grey and she shivered. She’d almost died in that building at the hands of The Elemental, a serial killer. Craig had saved her life.
“Are you alright going back to Blair Dubh?” he asked when he noticed her eyes were riveted to the castle.
The sun came out again, turning the stones of the castle a warm honey colour and suddenly it looked picturesque, benign even. The extreme weather conditions that raged over this little spit of land often made the place seem alive, the ancient buildings becoming living entities, the ground breathing with life.
She forced a smile. “I’ll be fine.” All she wanted was to get off the bloody boat and if that meant she would have to go into Blair Dubh to do it, then so be it.
“Impressive,” said Freya as Craig skilfully steered the boat into dock. “Not just a pretty face.”
Puffing up with pride he gave her a smile and a wink.
During the summer Blair Dubh was a popular spot for launching boats, consequently its dock was busy, packed with cabin cruisers, small yachts and fishing boats. As the water was quite shallow it couldn’t cater for the larger hulled vessels. By September, when the weather started to turn, all the boats would be removed. If they were left they would be smashed to pieces by the violent winter storms that tormented the tiny village. The dock ran straight across the shingle beach into the water and branched off in two different directions, only a few berths left unoccupied. Craig found a free spot on the far end of the left arm of the dock where his mother Nora waited, frantically waving.
Craig jumped off the boat first then raised his arms to help Freya down.
“You okay?” he asked her when she remained frozen to the spot, gripping onto his wrists.
“It feels like I’m still moving.”
“It’ll wear off. Hi Mum,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
“Oh my boy, it’s so good to see you,” she smiled, hugging him. “Freya, you’re very pale. What’s wrong?”
“She can’t find her sea legs, that’s what’s wrong,” replied Craig.
“Rubbish, she’s Blair Dubh born and bred. The sea’s in her blood.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Craig.
“I’ll get used to it,” replied Freya. “Hello Nora, how are you?” she said, hugging her mother-in-law.
“I’m great sweetheart.”
They chatted about nothing in particular while they walked along the dock towards the village. Freya tuned out the sound of their voices as she gazed up the hill towards the church which, after the revelation of Father Logan’s atrocities, was being allowed to slip into decay. She was much more able to deal with being back in Blair Dubh now that Logan had been unmasked as the monster he really was. Her mother, his final victim, could now rest in peace.
Down the small main street she saw Toby Moore, an incomer from England. He was one of the residents who’d been convinced she was responsible for Martin Lynch’s crimes. He nodded his head in greeting and she raised her hand in a wave as she followed Craig and Nora towards the latter’s cottage. She didn’t like the man but wanted to be polite.
Craig slung an arm around her shoulders. “How are you holding up?” he asked her.
“Fine,” she smiled back happily. This second homecoming wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be, especially as the sun was shining and the scene was so charming, the village in full bloom and the boats bobbing about on the blue water. It was a picture postcard moment, a stark contrast to the last time she’d been here. It had been winter then, pouring with rain, the light barely able to filter through the thick dark cloud and they’d been trapped when the sea had risen to claim the only road out. No chance of that now. She was almost upbeat as they entered the cool interior of Nora’s cottage where Craig had been born and raised.
Not wanting to spoil her good mood she forced herself not to look up the stairs to where Martin Lynch had tried to kill her for the second time.
Everything about Nora’s flat was spotlessly clean, the appliances positively sparkling. Although Freya made sure their own flat was always clean and tidy this put her to shame but she’d accepted long ago that she’d never be a domestic goddess like her redoubtable mother-in-law. Nora settled them both down at the thoroughly scrubbed kitchen table. Only now she was inside did Freya realise how damp she was from the sea spray, her face tingling with warmth, salt drying on her lips.
“How many fans?” said Craig, frowning at the collection, some tall with their own stands, smaller ones buzzing away on the units and sideboard. “If you’re not careful the house will take off.”
“You know I can’t stand being too hot and isn’t it lovely and cool?”
“Yes but I’d hate to see your electric bill,” he grinned.
Freya smiled and reached across the table to grasp his hand, feeling herself unwind.
Nora chattered as she bustled about making the tea, catching them up on the local gossip. The big news was that a new resident had moved into the village, a single man who kept himself to himself, despite the best efforts of the village ladies to pump him for information. Freya thought it no small wonder he was keeping to himself, he was probably too terrified to step outside his front door.
“Adam’s back too,” said Nora. “He was released from hospital last week. He’s back living with Betty.” Adam had been Martin Lynch’s scapegoat and was a paranoid schizophrenic. Lynch had manipulated him into his sick way of thinking and had been setting him up to take the fall for the murders. Fortunately Adam hadn’t hurt anyone, in fact he’d almost become one of Lynch’s victims, receiving a vicious stab wound to the stomach.
“I hope Betty’s got some help managing him?” said Craig. Betty was Adam’s aged and partially-sighted grandmother.
“We all help her out but so far so good,” replied Nora. “He seems back to his usual self. Betty said he’s even taken down all those awful horror film posters and thrown out his serial killer scrapbooks.”
“That’s good,” smiled Freya. “Lynch must have poisoned his mind.”
“Probably. He’s a good lad, it’s not his fault he was ill.” Nora was in her element. Although Blair Dubh was barely ninety minutes from Glasgow and she saw her son and daughter-in-law regularly, she still missed them like crazy. They were the only family she had left and they both meant the world to her. When Craig had first got together with Freya she hadn’t approved. Freya was severely traumatised after suffering years of misery and was fighting her alcohol addiction. But she had tremendous inner strength and managed to claw her way out of the gutter. Now she was a happy well-adjusted woman who had dedicated her life to helping others who were going through what she had and by all accounts she was very good at it. Craig had been a large part of that transformation, as well as Father Logan finally being recognised as the murdering pig he really was. Freya was good for Craig too, Nora had never seen her son so happy and when he looked at his wife he got a soppy look in his eyes that made Nora smile. Now all they needed to complete their happiness was a bairn but so far nothing. Nora herself craved a grandchild but kept her disappointment that one had not yet arrived to herself. Piling more pressure on them would not help.
Freya tried to fight the urge but after two cups of tea she was bursting to use the toilet. But that would mean going upstairs where a serial killer had tried to murder her. The apprehension made her feel sick but she couldn’t sit there and wet herself. She toyed with the idea of nipping down the road to use the pub’s toilet but thought that would be silly. She’d conquered so much, she could conquer this.
Freya got to her feet. “Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom,” she announced.
“Want me to come with you?” offered Craig.
“Thank you but I can go
to the toilet on my own.”
“I know but after what happened up there…”
“I’ll be fine.”
They watched her go with anxious eyes and she tried to walk confidently, so they wouldn’t realise how much her stomach was churning.
She stared up the steep narrow steps. From here it was impossible to see the doors of the rooms leading off the upper corridor and this made her nervous, as though she was walking into the unknown.
“Are you okay?” called Craig.
She almost jumped out of her skin. “Fine,” she snapped back.
Freya’s heart fluttered as she mounted the stairs, hesitating at the top when she came across the spot on the landing where she’d dragged herself after being attacked by Martin Lynch, beaten and half-choked. She jumped at the creak of a floorboard, her eyes flying to the open doorway leading into the spare bedroom where the attack had begun, expecting to see Lynch there, bloodied and wild-eyed, but there was nothing because he was dead, drowned in the sea. However no one was ever truly gone in Blair Dubh. The last time she’d been here she’d often felt Logan’s spectre and she guessed Lynch was still here too, the diabolical pair haunting the village, unwilling to let go, staking eternal claim to their victims. The thought caused her spine to ripple with unease.
She hurried into the bathroom and locked the door, refusing to succumb to the dread wanting to smother her. She would not fear the dead anymore. In her experience it was the living you should be worried about.
“Freya, you okay?” Craig called up the stairs.
She smiled at his thoughtfulness. She was a very lucky woman. “Yes,” she called back.
After washing her hands she returned downstairs to find Craig and Nora in the sitting room, anxiously awaiting her return.
“Are you two alright?” she smiled. “You look like you’re waiting to see the head teacher.”
“Aye we’re fine, but are you?” said Nora.
“Yes. Honestly,” she added when they appeared doubtful.
“I should have sold the house but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, I feel closer to your dad here,” said Nora. Pete Donaldson had died of cancer a few months before the Martin Lynch episode and Nora had never got over his loss.
“Don’t be daft,” said Freya. “This is your home, Craig grew up here. There’s no need to sell it, I can cope.”
“Good. In that case how about dinner?” said Nora, looking more cheerful. “I’ve got some pork chops that need eating up, they’re getting close to their sell by date.”
“Old meat. I can’t wait,” said Craig.
“You can always go hungry if you like,” retorted Nora. “Just for that you can nip to the shop for some milk and see if they’ve got anything nice for pudding.”
“Okay,” he sighed. “Send out the poor hardworking sailor.”
“Hard working?” said Nora. “You’ve only been on the water a couple of hours. I bet Shackleton’s turning in his grave.”
“Who?”
“He was an explorer. Never mind. Now go on so me and Freya can get dinner ready.”
CHAPTER 11
Craig exited the house and strolled up the road with his hands stuffed into his jean’s pockets. He wished he’d changed into shorts, he was baking. Out on the water the jeans had protected him from the breeze but it was stifling here, the air struggling to make it through from the water to the main street, the line of houses on the shore front blocking it. Everyone in Blair Dubh loved the water, except Freya, which explained why the street was so quiet. They were all out on their boats or fishing.
The Elemental incident had generated international interest and radically altered the village. A lot of ghouls had been attracted to Blair Dubh when the story had broke, eager to see the village that had spawned two serial killers, both supposedly respectable pillars of the community, consequently the village had prospered. The shop’s sad lack lustre exterior had been livened up with so much whitewash it was difficult to look at it in the sunshine without squinting. Flower baskets and window boxes bursting with colours adorned its frontage. The castle too was looking in much better shape. Finally all its repairs had been completed, the scaffolding taken down.
Inside the shop was a veritable cave of wonders. The last time he’d been in here the shelves had been half-empty, what items were on display looking limp and unappetising but now tourist paraphernalia was stuffed into every available space.
He frowned at a display of postcards on which were printed the words, I survived Blair Dubh, on top of a fiery orange background. Craig thought it in very bad taste. Martin Lynch and Father Logan had set two of their victims on fire, he was amazed this was allowed.
The guidebooks printed in French, Italian and German just went to show how wide-reaching The Elemental case had been. The residents, trapped in the village with a murderer on the loose, had been completely unaware their story was being broadcast around Europe, the public making bets on who the killer was from the small amount of information passed to them through the media. It had astonished all the villagers when the siege finally came to an end. Most of the bets had been placed on Freya herself being the killer, closely followed by Bill Miller, the husband of one of the victims and Gordon James, the pub landlord. Very few had considered that Martin Lynch, the handsome young GP, was the culprit. Some even had the cheek to moan about the money they’d lost betting against him, as if that was more important than the lives that had been stolen. It was completely insane.
There were bookmarks, key rings and fridge magnets too with the same fiery orange background, the slogans varying. Also on display were books that had been written about Logan and Lynch, their glowering images on the covers, killers over a decade apart united in death. Craig glared at the picture of Martin Lynch, who he’d grown up with and considered to be a friend. He was tempted to knock over the stand and destroy the repulsive items but he pushed his annoyance aside. This holiday was about him and Freya relaxing and with a bit of luck making a baby, so he turned his back on the gruesome trinkets and concentrated on his shopping list instead.
He found the milk quickly enough but it took him longer to select a dessert from the delicious range of homemade fayre. Because it was so hot he had thought he’d just get some ice cream, but he was sorely tempted by a golden apple pie as well as a mouth-watering chocolate cake.
A giant of a man with a big black bushy beard entered the shop wearing a t-shirt, long baggy shorts revealing huge calves and a captain’s hat set at a jaunty angle atop his large head, the face rugged and craggy from years of salt spray.
“Craig, good to see you,” he beamed, vigorously shaking his hand. “I didn’t know you were back.”
“Hi Bill, good to see you too. We’ve just arrived. I’ve got a few days off work so we hired a wee boat, only Freya didn’t really take to it. We’d only sailed from Inverkip when she wanted to stop.”
“A Blair Dubh girl who can’t find her sea legs. I’ve never heard of that before,” he said jovially. His smile fell and his eyes filled with concern. “How is she?”
“She’s doing really well. She’s got a great job, we have a lovely flat and she’s beaten all her demons.”
“She’ll still have the bad memories though.”
“Unfortunately there’s nothing we can do about those but she can deal with them, that’s the important thing.”
Bill nodded, looking troubled. The horrible guilt that had settled in his gut since his actions led to her being kidnapped by a serial killer had taken root and he knew he was stuck with it for life, as was only right, it was his punishment, despite his contribution to her rescue.
“She’s okay Bill. Really,” Craig added when he saw the shame in his eyes.
Bill nodded, forcing a smile. “So Nora sent you out for provisions, did she?”
“Yep. I can’t decide between the apple pie and the chocolate cake.”
“Get the pie, it’s bloody gorgeous.”
“Alright, I will. Thanks. What’
s with the beard?”
Thoughtfully he ran a hand over it. “I stopped shaving when Bren died and it was easier to let it grow, I didn’t have the energy to do anything about it. I became quite attached to it so I decided to keep it, new start and all that.” Bill’s wife Brenda had been Martin Lynch’s third victim and he’d never recovered from her loss. Mad with grief he’d been convinced Freya was responsible and, with the help of some of the other village men, he’d locked her in the pub cellar. Martin Lynch abducted her from the cellar and almost buried her alive in the castle oubliette.
Bill left the shop without buying anything, shoulders slumped. Craig watched him go, thinking how Freya’s return was going to bring back a lot of bad memories the residents of Blair Dubh would much rather forget, just like her last visit had and look what happened there. He began to wonder at the wisdom of their stay here but this was where they’d both been raised, his mum lived here. They had every right to visit. Jeanette, the small bird-like woman who owned the shop greeted him cordially enough when he took his apple pie to the till, asking him about his life in Glasgow as she rang through his purchases. If all the villagers were as friendly as her and Bill then they shouldn’t have a problem.
“Still no sign of my grandchild?” said Nora as she put the seasoned pork in the oven.
“Not yet I’m afraid,” replied Freya, trying to sound cheerier than she felt. She knew Nora was itching to be a grandma and the guilt plagued her that she hadn’t been able to make that wish come true for her. Paradoxically, she felt even more guilty knowing Craig was the one with the problem.
“At least you’re having fun trying,” said Nora saucily, making Freya blush, “and you’ve still got your freedom. All that goes out the window when you’ve got a bairn. No more nights out or spontaneous trips away.” She smiled at Freya’s back, who was busily preparing the carrots, tactfully remaining silence. “I don’t want you feeling bad Freya. Back in your drinking days you didn’t know that you’d want babies in the future. I suppose things were so bleak you never thought you’d ever feel happy again.”
The Drowning Tide (Blair Dubh Trilogy #2) Page 9
