War Games

by Douglas Jackson

  The night was pleasantly warm but that didn’t stop a shiver running down my spine.

  ‘What about Douglases?’

  ‘Oh, there’ll be plenty of Douglases,’ he replied. ‘It was a Douglas who locked Ramsay away and threw away the key, but they were minor players in the history of Hermitage and I haven’t heard tell of any stories.’

  ‘And Soullis?’

  ‘Now Soullis,’ he said with relish, ‘Soullis was the daddy of them all. Black magic and satanic rituals. He brought terror to this valley. The damned who scream at night are the children who died at his hands, his and Redcap Sly. Sly was sent by the Devil to guide Soullis – a fearsome old man with terrible fangs who always wore a red hat – and it’s Sly who still roams Hermitage seeking his master.’

  ‘How did Soullis die?’ I asked.

  His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘The story goes that the wizard, Tom of Earlston, captured Soullis and carried him up to the stone circle at Nine Stane Rig yonder.’ He indicated north-east. ‘Once they were inside the old druid circle, the Devil and his legions couldn’t protect their man. Tom wrapped Soullis in a sheet of lead and boiled him alive in a giant cauldron until his flesh and bones were consumed. That was the end of Lord Soullis, but Redcap remained, and he remains still.’

  ‘So Liddesdale has a bloody past.’ My voice sounded a little higher than usual. ‘But what is it like now? No disappearing children or gory murders these days?’

  ‘It’s a long time since the steel bonnets took fire and sword over the Border,’ he smiled. ‘The nearest we get these days is when the young lads come up from Kielder and the odd wee brawl at the local folk festival. It may not look it, but the valley is a peaceful place these days.’

  I wondered if he’d seen anything unusual recently. Anyone suspicious hanging about who shouldn’t be. His eyes took on a watchful air and it was a while before he answered. ‘Only you.’

  I grinned and walked away with Mike at my side. We turned the corner of the castle wall back towards the river and I felt a surge of excitement. In front of me, bolted against the wall by the wooden gate was a scaffolding platform.

  ‘Does the castle need a lot of repairs?’

  He laughed. ‘I think they’ve been repairing it since they put one stone on top of the other. The Historic Scotland lads are never away from here.’

  ‘What about lead?’ I said, and he looked puzzled at the change in my voice.

  ‘Lead? We don’t have much call for lead around here these days.’ He looked up and I followed his eyes. ‘Not when you’ve got a castle that hasn’t a roof.’

  I thanked him anyway and he nodded farewell. ‘Well, time for Mike’s tea,’ he said. ‘Nice meeting you.’ I bent to pat the dog’s head and simultaneously felt a whisper on the back of my neck and winced at the loud thwack of metal hitting wood.

  ‘Christ!’ My companion stood rooted to the spot. With an old soldier’s instinct I was already heading for the deck and dragging him with me, mind only just coming to terms with the arrow that thrummed inches deep in the heavy oak door. Mike’s ears dropped back against his head and he growled as he prepared to react to the hidden danger, but I grabbed him by the collar and thrust him into his master’s hands.

  ‘Stay down and keep hold of the dog,’ I hissed. ‘That won’t be the only one.’ He muttered a question or a warning, but I was already gone, snaking through the mist in a belly crawl that took me at an angle away from the direction of the loosed arrow. Whoever had fired it must have been close, because visibility was only about fifteen paces at head height and he must have been able to see me to fire with such accuracy. Only the fact that I’d bent to pat the dog had saved my life. But for how long? My body cringed in anticipation of another of those needle-pointed shafts hissing out of the mist and tearing into my flesh. The thought galvanised me and I moved fast, slithering down the grassy slope away from the castle. At ground level the mist was appreciably thicker and I managed to make it out to the trees by the river without being spotted. But if he couldn’t see me, I couldn’t see him. I stopped, holding my breath until my chest hurt, listening and knowing that he would be listening, too. All around me was the soft rustle of the undergrowth and the constant rush of the nearby stream. The sensory isolation would have been enough to disorient most men, but I had been here often, in the jungles of Belize and the much more dangerous beech plantations of South Armagh. I wondered if my hidden enemy had the same experience. I was on his flank now, more or less, and I began to wriggle forward through the damp leaf mould wary of any hidden branches that might snap and give away my position. Of course, if he was the man I thought he was, he’d know that. Something whipped past just above my head as if the thought had triggered the action and I heard a second arrow skid off a tree behind me. I froze, waiting for the one that would skewer me, but there was only silence followed by the sharp snap of an arrow hitting something far in front of me. I realised with relief that he was firing randomly hoping for a lucky hit and a fierce bolt of exultation surged through me. I had him.

  My eyes scoured every patch of mist and nettle-choked undergrowth as I resumed my course. He’d be standing, because it’s difficult to fire a bow with any accuracy from a crouch. With luck that meant I’d see him before he saw me, but I couldn’t rely on luck. I changed course to bring me in to his position from behind. It must be soon. He was so close I could almost smell him. A shadowy figure flew from the bushes to my right and bowled to a halt growling playfully. I looked up into a pair of excited dog eyes, cursing the friendship that had almost killed me. In the distance I heard the sound of a car engine revving and the squeal of tyres as it made off down the road.

  Wearily I pushed Mike’s panting muzzle away from my face. ‘You daft old bugger, that’s twice in one day you’ve nearly given me a heart attack.’

  His master was waiting back at the castle, studying the arrow embedded in the door. I reached past him and tried to pull it free. It wouldn’t budge, so I broke it off level with the wood. He gave me a questioning look.

  ‘I didn’t see anything,’ I lied. ‘Must’ve been some idiot out hunting.’

  ‘Aye.’ He produced a shaky grin that said he didn’t believe a word of it. ‘We often get folk out hunting in the mist. Still,’ his gnarled fingers caressed the spot where the bright new wood of the shaft shone out against the scarred oak of the castle door, ‘one more arrow won’t make much difference to this place.’

  *

  Back in the Capri my mind still buzzed from the knowledge that someone had tried to kill me for the second time in twenty-four hours. But who? Pete Campbell had muddied the waters when he’d taken a swing at me with his hammer. He’d made it obvious from the start that he hated my guts, but that didn’t explain trying to maim me before he even knew why I was at the abbey. In the light of subsequent events it merited closer inspection. It had been the action of a desperate man, and if Sandy Armstrong hadn’t assured me Pete was working with him on the afternoon Gurya Ali had disappeared the stonemason would have gone to the top of my wanted list. But what if Sandy had got his timings wrong? There was also the fact that Pete should have been in no fit state to come after me. Yet when I hit him it had felt like laying in to a sack of cement, so maybe I was underestimating his powers of recovery. I’d made no secret of my interest in Hermitage Castle and the girl from the museum would have told him quickly enough. It would be just like Pete Campbell to charge in looking for payback, but I had the feeling that if he was going to stick thirty inches of steel-tipped ash in me, Campbell would have wanted me to see it coming. I glanced in my rear-view mirror. Whoever it was, it seemed clear that the man who thought of himself as God’s Warrior – the Crusader killer – was taking an unhealthy interest in Glen Savage and had followed me from Melrose to take his chance in the fog. That meant danger for me and mine, but it also meant I was closer than I thought to finding Gurya Ali.

  The phone started to go when I left the hills to descend past Hawick golf course into th
e Teviot Valley. Small beeping noises which indicated messages. One. Two. Three. Christ. Six. Seven. Eight. What the fuck was going on?

  I pulled over and stopped in a parking place.

  The first message was from Ann Pringle. It said; ‘Call me.’ So did all the rest, except the last one. It said: ‘URGENT. Please call me now.’ That was when I started to sweat. It was only then that I noticed I’d also had half a dozen missed calls and someone had left three voicemails.

  With shaking fingers I dialled up and listened to the last message. Ann is one of the calmest people I know and the panic in her voice terrified me.

  ‘Glen, they’re putting her in the ambulance now, so I don’t have much time. I don’t know if they’ll let me use the phone on the way. Aelish has had breathing problems. Her lips are blue. They’re taking her into the hospital in Edinburgh. I’ll call again when I can. She needs you, Glen. Call please.’

  By now, it was growing dark and I looked across the lights of Hawick towards the hills beyond, where the sky was still a splash of reddish orange, like the glow of a dying fire. Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. I remembered the cough she’d had.Respiratory problems. The last time I’d heard those words was on TV when a news presenter was listing the symptoms for bird flu. Bird flu killed people. Most people who caught it had a chance, but most people weren’t Aelish. Her immune system would still have been low when she left the hospital what, less than two weeks ago? She was still taking the pills. An MS sufferer always lives with death on the doorstep, but this was different. What if I’d already lost her?

  CHAPTER 29

  Gradually, I began to think more rationally. It would take me at least an hour and a half to get to the hospital from Hawick. First, though, I had to decide whether to dash to the house and get some overnight gear for myself and possibly pick up some things for Aelish. Ann would only have had time to get the basics together as she waited for the ambulance. If Aelish was going to be in hospital for a while there’d be things she’d need, things she’d want, little luxuries that would make her stay easier. As long as she made it to Edinburgh she couldn’t be in better hands. The hospital had some of the best clinical staff in the country and the most up-to-date medical equipment. If anyone could save Aelish they could; which created another, entirely different, dilemma.

  Without Assad Ali’s retainer this was going to bankrupt us.

  Spending at our normal rate, I’d calculated that the money from the books I’d written would run out in two months. Income from the website had dried up and I was running it at a loss. Fortunately, the mortgage on the house was paid, and we could cut back on expenses, but the bottom line was that we had to live. I knew someone who’d buy the Capri, but at best it would make five grand. Looking after Aelish is expensive and every penny I spend helps to relieve her suffering or make her life more comfortable. If she stayed in hospital for more than two weeks all those calculations went out of the window. A night in a private hospital costs up to £500 depending on what kind of care comes with it. When Aelish originally went in for her treatment I’d acted as if money was no object, because, naively, I’d thought it wasn’t. We had cash in the bank and a reasonable amount coming in. All that had changed, but no one had told the hospital, which, presumably, is why they’d taken her back in without consulting me.

  The phone went again just as I arrived back at the house. It was Ann. She had decided to stay with Aelish overnight and the hospital had said there was no point in my coming to visit her until the morning. Her condition had stabilised, but they were still concerned about her lungs.

  ‘What is it, Ann? What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘They don’t know yet, Glen,’ she said gently. ‘Aelish had a cough and it got worse through the day. She was really struggling for breath. I tried to call because you always know what to do but . . .’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. I was out of touch.’

  ‘Mmmmh. Anyway, they’re checking her for flu, but the doctor said it could be any number of things associated with her condition, or even with the treatment she had. That’s why they insisted on bringing her to Edinburgh.’ I thanked her and asked if Aelish needed anything. Being a practical woman, she already had a list of things I’d never have thought of, and she asked me to call at her home next morning for a change of clothing.

  Before I went to bed, I checked my e-mails. Not surprisingly, the news was all bad. The picture of me being mobbed by young Asians as I headed for the Scottish Defence Association meeting had spread across the internet like a rash and I discovered I was an international pariah. My inbox contained about three hundred messages, each of which was nastier than the one before. Fascist was the nicest thing anyone had to say about me and a few suggested that Glen Savage should be burned at the stake. Maybe it was time to change address after all? The only ray of sunshine was a message of support from a website called Stormfront, with a disturbing penchant for Teutonic fonts, and an invitation to join the BNP which I didn’t think I was going to take up.

  Sitting in front of the computer I had the feeling a climber must have when he’s clinging to a sheer rock face and looks up to see the hundred-ton snow overhang above him has developed some disturbing cracks. The only thing you can do is close your eyes and say your prayers.

  Instead, I looked at the two little lead figures beside the monitor. To hell with them all. Glen Savage wasn’t finished yet.

  *

  I settled back in the Isolation Chamber and closed my eyes.

  Time was elastic, expanding and contracting as my mind flew through the ages. Now slow, reliving again the battle of Teba and the bite of those terrible curved swords into my flesh. Fleeting glimpses of small, pointless skirmishes and strength-sapping defeats. A burning town, its people burning with it. The hopelessness of always fighting an enemy who was stronger and more numerous. The savage joy of victory. And the dead, always the dead. Dead friends and dead enemies. Dead men lying naked like white maggots among the churned mud and trampled swamp grass of a battlefield I knew without knowing was Bannockburn. A line of men dressed in leather jerkins carrying axes on a narrow path through a wooded glen. A shout. A shower of arrows and a mad charge. The slaughter began. Six hundred years and more passed in a single second and I was looking into the face of a thin, nut-brown kid dressed in hand-me-downs and with calculating adult eyes hidden behind his little boy smile. I saw the flash as a plane flew into one side of a tall building and an explosion of red and gold appeared like magic from the other. Twin columns of smoke rising above a city of fear. A London bus, with its roof torn open like a tin can. I felt his rage. Where had the knife come from? A small hand lying flat, palm upwards in the dirt and the moment of inspiration. The little lead figure placed just so. So they would know. There were others, but they were just gaping mouths and screaming faces and bloody incised chest cavities.

  And then there was Gurya.

  She was chained in a tiny, dank cell, and I couldn’t see her face because she was bent forward on her knees, her hair, once lustrous but now lank and dirty, hanging over her eyes. Her fear permeated through me like a winter chill, numbing the bones and paralysing the senses: each minute spent in that filthy, cold, forbidding place an agony of tormented mind and tortured limbs. Was she hungry? An image of Alexander Ramsay, dying by inches in his Hermitage dungeon, with food and water only a memory and the taunts of his captors ringing in his ears as the life force faded from him. A great square tower wreathed in darkness that might have been Hermitage or Threave, but probably wasn’t. Suddenly consciousness returned and my eyes blinked open in the darkness. Was she there? Had I stood only feet from her prison? No, I had to believe that whatever force had given me the gift would have showed me some sign. And with that realisation came another. GURYA ALI WAS ALIVE.

  I thought it was over. That whatever contact I’d made was gone. But he wasn’t finished with me. The scene changed. I saw figures on an enormous board, not chess figures, but lead soldiers, knights and men-at-arms, bowme
n and spearmen. A single one wasn’t dressed in armour. Instead, his body was painted camouflage green and he had an L1A1 rifle at his shoulder. As I watched, a hand picked up the little soldier and moved it away from the centre of the board. I knew then that he was playing games with me. War games.

  CHAPTER 30

  Friday, 22 June 2007

  I rose early the next day, and I should have spent it on the trail of Gurya Ali’s kidnapper. I was so close now, I could almost smell him: a combination of burned lead, powdered stone, old sweat, decaying flesh and, dominating it all, the rank, bitter scent of his victims’ fear. Gurya Ali needed me, but right now Aelish needed me more.

  Before I left, I gathered up all the things Ann had listed and placed them in a small bag, then put in a call to theCosta Del Sol News in Malaga, the closest English-language newspaper to Teba de Ardales. Teba had been on my mind. One of the last things Aelish and I had talked about were the events of greatest significance to Douglas and Bruce. Bannockburn was the most obvious, when the outnumbered Scots had defeated the flower of English chivalry, but maybe Teba was more significant still. It was here that Douglas, always at the centre of the killer’s warped mind, had died giving his life for the cause of Christendom in its eternal battle with Islam, and here that Bruce, symbolically at least, joined the Crusade which had been his life’s desire. I needed to know more about Teba.