Alex kicked up a fuss. They’d already said the Donovans were going to be the last, but Alex decided he wanted out before they were rumbled. Douglas and he had other ideas, and if Helen didn’t want to go through with them then tough for her. Douglas would take care of that little problem, sister or no. You couldn’t kill off the goose that laid the golden eggs, even if she said they had what they needed. Annabel was worth far more. He had other plans as to how they could mine her talents.
But even he hadn’t expected the latest development. Hadn’t expected what Paul Carmichael would reveal at his first session with Annabel.
What he’d told them whilst under the trance had sealed Rose MacDonald’s death warrant, too.
The phone had been silent for ages. No call from Connalough Point, and he couldn’t get through to Helen. That was odd, he thought. But the weather can sometimes affect the primitive landline system they had up there so he didn’t give it too much thought. Anyhow, with the Carmichaels finally out of the way they could move on.
He carried out an internet search on obituaries. Let’s see, he thought; who’s died and who will be missing them?
* * * *
23
Hell Awaits
He knew something was wrong. Hector had taken far too long.
Douglas MacLeod put on his waterproofs, grabbed his shotgun and dashed out into the yard. The rain had stopped, the wind not half as bad as previously. The Moon was out from behind cloud, pouring silver onto the stone flags he pounded hard upon. Once he reached the Carmichaels’ cottage he checked the shotgun and pushed on the door. The place was empty and in darkness.
‘Damn!’ he growled. He went outside. ‘Hector, where the hell are you?’ he shouted. He somehow didn’t expect a reply except from the remnants of the keening wind racing to the far hills.
There were fresh footprints in the mud leading from the cottage and out into the night. But he chose not to follow these yet. He was trying to force his fuddled mind to think upon what his son was doing before he left the house. He’d been hovering near the board in the hall where they hung the various keys. Douglas raced back to the house and checked the board. The spare keys for the Maid of the Storm were missing from their hook.
‘What’s happening? Where are they?’ said Helen.
‘They’ve gone,’ he rumbled, his deep voice sounding like two boulders rubbing together.
‘What do you mean, they’ve gone?’
‘They’ve fucking legged it,’ he said. ‘And so has Hector.’
‘Hector?’
‘He’s had a crush on that Carmichael woman ever since he clapped eyes on her. I think he’s behind it.’
‘You have to go after them,’ she said urgently.
‘They can’t go anywhere, not unless Hector helps them.’ He searched for the box of shotgun cartridges. ‘Where are they?’ he asked. Then his eyes rested on the fireplace. ‘And the shotgun?’
‘Hector said he had to clean it…’ Helen began. ‘Can he pilot the boat?’
‘I’ve trained him; he’s been out on the boat since he took his first steps. He’s a damn good pilot. But the weather’s not so good and it would be a damn crazy thing to try to put to sea at night and in these swells.’
‘Stop him, Douglas, before he does something foolish.’
He didn’t need telling. He ran out of the house.
Hector MacLeod’s boots clattered on the wooden boards of the jetty. His nerves were in shreds, his body a mass of jelly. He’d been looking over his shoulder every few steps, expecting to see his father loping after him. Thankfully he wasn’t being followed.
He hesitated when he reached the end of the jetty. The Maid of the Storm had been moored some way out in the bay, and it rose and fell as if it rested on a giant creature’s breathing chest. It looked so small and frail out there, he thought, caught in the moonlight, a pale smudge against the dark.
He had second thoughts. He’d been having then ever since he told the Carmichaels about their chances of leaving the island alive. The boat looked so far away. And yet it was their only means of getting away. The sea appeared broodingly aggressive, as if awaiting its chance to swallow him up. He was not immune to its latent dangers. But he was driven by the unfathomable desire to protect Susan at all costs. To give his life, if necessary. What would his life matter if she were dead? He might as well be dead, too.
Galvanised, he made his way back to the shore where a tiny, algae-covered dinghy had been dragged up onto the pebbles and upended out of harm’s way. He righted it, pulled it down to the sea, his feet sinking into the yielding pebbles and causing him to lose his footing. He pushed the dinghy’s prow into the churning water, leapt into it and took up the oars, dipping them into the sea. It was as he looked up that he saw his father hurrying down the beach towards him.
‘What do you think you’re doing, Hector?’ he said.
He ignored him and began to row, heaving on the oars. The dinghy crashed into resisting waves.
‘Come back, boy!’ he cried.
‘No! I can’t let you kill her!’
‘Don’t be a fool, boy! Turn that thing around and there’ll be no more said.’
Hector continued to haul away, gaining momentum. He watched nervously as his father strode down the beach to the water’s edge. The sea licked around his boots.
‘You come back, at once!’ He raised the shotgun. ‘I mean it, Hector!’
‘You’re a murderer!’ Hector shouted back, his breathing ripped ragged by fear and exertion.
‘Don’t betray me!’
‘You killed Uncle Alex!’ he cried, tears beginning to trace silvery tracks down Hector’s cheeks. The sea fought against his efforts and tried to push him back to shore. He knew the tide was against him, pushing him towards the jetty, and it screwed up the pit of his stomach. ‘I don’t want to be a part of this anymore!’
‘Hector, I’m warning you; I will use this!’ He played the shotgun’s sight over the bobbing form of his son. ‘Don’t make me do this, boy!’
Hector shook his head and pulled like a madman.
Douglas fired one barrel and he saw Hector flinch, look up, and began to row with renewed vigour. He took careful aim again, and let loose the second barrel.
Hector reeled as the shot took him in the shoulder. He gasped, let go one of the oars, which the sea grabbed away from him. He tried to snatch it back, but the pain hit him fully and he fell backwards into the dinghy, crying out in agony, his hand coming away from his chest covered in blood. The dinghy slewed sideways on to the approaching waves. He was helpless to do anything about it and a wave caught the tiny boat and capsized it. Hector MacLeod disappeared under the water.
Douglas let the gun drop. The dinghy was lying upturned, looking like the back of a white whale. It slowly sank from view beneath a following wave. He waited, his breathing heavy, but Hector never resurfaced. He sank to the pebbles and wept uncontrollably into his hands.
‘Where is he?’ said Helen.
Douglas opened a cupboard door and took out a new bottle of whiskey. He uncapped it and drank heavily from the neck, the amber liquid streaming down his beard. He coughed, spluttered. ‘Hector’s dead,’ he said.
‘What? What have you done, Douglas?’
‘He betrayed me…’ he said. ‘Why did he do that? I’m his father…’
‘You killed your own son?’
‘He betrayed me!’ he screamed out loud, crashing the bottle down onto the table. ‘He told the Carmichaels and they’ve disappeared. He tried to get to the boat so he could get them off the island. He betrayed me!’
‘You bloody fool, Douglas! He’s just a boy! Are you sure he’s dead? He might be wounded.’
‘He fell into the water…’ he said, taking a drink again. ‘He fell into the water…’
Helen Blake said, ‘You wait here. Watch Annabel – she’s in there,’ she said, pointing to the door. ‘I’m going down to the jetty, see if I can find him. Christ, what if his body gets
washed up somewhere? You damn fool, Douglas!’
And with that she burst from the house. He saw her shadow dart in front of the window.
The house fell silent, all except for the soulful sighing of the fire. He drank till the bottle was half empty and eventually rose, leaving it behind on the table. He took up his shotgun and went into the séance room.
Annabel was sitting in her chair, her wrists tied to the tabletop, the leather hood over her head. She was singing to herself, quietly, almost in a whisper. A private song.
You freak, he thought. You damn freak. My kid is dead and you, you’re still alive.
‘You should have been drowned at birth, you know that, Annabel?’ he said drunkenly, swaying. He prodded her chest with the end of the shotgun and she jumped in alarm, her song stopping immediately.
‘Is it time for the game?’ she asked.
He curled up his nose at the sound of her pathetic little voice. ‘You’re a fucking adult, you moron,’ he said. ‘Behave like one. Stop with all this kid-babble.’
‘Is it time for the game?’ she asked again.
‘Did you hear me? Shut the fuck up, will you?’
‘Is it time for the game?’
He untied the hood and lifted it from her head. Her piggy eyes blinked against the light. ‘Look at me, you freak of nature,’ he said. ‘I said cut it. I don’t want to hear your squeals. It ain’t a game. You get it? It never was a fucking game!’
‘Is it time for the game?’ she said.
‘Alex was right; you’re the Devil’s child, that’s what you are. You should never have come into this world. It was never meant for your kind.’
‘We can play the game,’ she said, nodding.
He put the end of the shotgun under her chin. ‘Go ahead, let’s play a game. Let’s say this game is where I pull this trigger and blow your fucking head off.’
He blinked his tired eyes, rubbed them, trying to ward off sleep. His head was all fuzzy with the booze. My son is dead, he thought. My son and my brother, both dead. What the hell have I done?
Then he began to feel as if someone were messing with his brain, fingers inside his skull scrunching it up like a piece of dough. He looked up at Annabel. She was grinning.
‘What the hell are you doing? Stop that, you bitch! Stop that!’
‘Play the game,’ she said.
He raised his shotgun. ‘Not me, you blithering idiot. I don’t want to play your…’
But his words were taken from him by the shock of seeing Alex standing there in front of the door. As solid as in life.
He jumped backwards. His brother’s lower face was blown away at the jaw, a bloody mangled mess where his throat should have been. His clothes were drenched in dripping blood that splashed in a grotesque fountain onto the floor.
‘Alex!’ he said. ‘Alex, I didn’t mean to…’ He swivelled round. ‘This is you!’ he screamed at Annabel. ‘Stop it!’
Alex moved forward a step and Douglas pointed his gun at the apparition. Its eyes were glossed with regret. Douglas backed away till he came up against a wall. ‘Alex, keep away from me. Keep away!’
But the ghostly, mangled form of his dead brother shook its head and a sound whispered, ‘Hell awaits, brother…’
Douglas squealed in terror, closed his eyes and fired the gun, both barrels, at the terrifying sight.
He heard a shriek. Helen was staggering in the doorway, her hands to her stomach, blood pumping out through the gaps in her fingers. Alex had disappeared.
‘Helen!’ Douglas cried helplessly as she crumpled to the floor, a grating croak emanating from her throat. ‘I… thought it was Alex,’ he said, bending to her. ‘I never saw you come back…’
Helen Blake expelled a final, gurgling sigh and her body went still. Her eyes remained fixed and sightless.
Alex rose, his legs shaking. He turned to stare at Annabel’s uncomprehending, grinning face.
He calmly loaded the shotgun and put it to Annabel’s forehead.
He pulled the trigger.
* * * *
24
The Nights Are the Worst
The jagged spikes of the stone circle stood out black and solid against the undulating moonlit landscape, like a devilish creature’s claws had slashed black holes in the fabric of the earth. Thin clouds raced by the bright orb of the Moon like wisps of smoke from a heavenly fire. They paused here to catch their breath, Paul leaning against one of the ancient blocks and massaging his foot.
‘How is it?’ Susan asked.
‘Painful,’ he gasped. ‘That’s a long way to limp.’ He’d been using his walking stick to lean on, which he placed against the stone. He looked back. The shadow of the great rock pointed in the direction of the house. Moonlight plated the sea in shimmering platinum. ‘No one’s following,’ he said.
‘Is it safe to light the lamp now?’ she asked. Fortunately, the moonlight had aided them so far, but she knew how dangerous it was near the cliffs. The only light they could lay their hands on was one of the oil lamps from the cottage.
‘Yeah, I reckon so,’ he said. ‘Can we trust Hector?’
‘We don’t have a choice.’
He snapped open the shotgun, checked it was loaded.
‘You’ve done that three times already.’ She struck a match, shielding it against the wind as she lit the lamp.
‘I want to be sure,’ he replied.
‘Do you think you’ll actually be able to use that?’ She didn’t like guns, and it appeared even more menacing in the moonlight.
‘If I have to, yes,’ he said determinedly. ‘Where do we go now?’
She nodded in the direction. ‘This way, through that fence over there. But be careful; we’ll be cutting close to the cliff edge as we reach the remains of the settlement.’
He put the gun over his shoulder, took up his stick again. ‘Ok, let’s see if we can find this Digger Man of yours.’
As he passed her she touched his arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. He turned to face her. The lamp cast curious dark shadows on her face. ‘For getting us in to this madness…’
He smiled, but it was a chilly affair. ‘Sure,’ he said vaguely, and trudged away across the puffy mounds of heather towards the scribbled black line of the barbed-wire fence.
She was about to follow, but was held back by a strange feeling. Someone, or some thing, was behind her. She spun quickly on her heel, afraid it might have been Douglas, even though she knew this would have been impossible; they’d not seen a soul since making a dash from the cottage. She raised the lamp. The feeling did not subside, even with the nearest stones bathed in a reassuringly warm glow from the flickering lamp. Then a smell wafted over to her, floating above the strong odour of the sea and damp grass and earth. It knocked the breath from her.
It was the smell of her daughter’s hair.
‘Becky?’ she said in a whisper, taking a step towards the deep shadow of one of the standing stones. She thought she could make out the figure of a young woman standing against it. But as she approached, the smell disappeared and the figure turned out to be a mere trick of the light on the irregular face of the rock.
‘Where are you going?’ Paul called.
Susan stared a little longer at the stone, but even though she tried to shrug it off and made her way over to her husband the strong sense that she was being watched never left her. ‘I thought I saw something,’ she said. ‘I was mistaken.’
Douglas MacLeod stood in the field by the series of footprints in the mud. He had a bottle in one hand, the shotgun in the other. His bleary eyes caught the twinkle of a light up on the headland, near the stone circle where he’d found her snooping around. The briefest of blinks and then it vanished. He took a swig from the bottle, emptied it and threw it onto the grass. They could wait till first light, he thought.
He went back to the house and round to the shed out back. He flicked on a light switch. The low-wattage bulb did little to penetrate the deepest shadows. But its beam fell
full on the lump of bloodstained canvas on the floor. He stared at it. The more he stared, the more the thing appeared to shiver as if the mangled corpse beneath had come to life. But he knew this couldn’t be so and shrugged it away.
He reached up to the rafters where he stored an old fibreglass rowing-boat, which he dragged, with some difficulty, from its perch. Inside the boat were two plastic oars and more rolled-up canvas, which he took out and tossed to the floor. He hauled the boat outside and checked it over with his torch. Satisfied it was still serviceable he carried the rolls of canvas inside the house, dropping them down outside the door that led to the room where Annabel and Helen lay. He took a glance inside, sniffed, wiped his nose on his coat sleeve, and bent to Helen’s body.
Regret? Remorse? He didn’t feel anything. Not a damned thing. Like his entire body was numb. Douglas stroked her hair, twirled a strand of it around his finger. He had loved her. Whether she loved him in return was debatable. He guessed he’d always been a tool to her, to enable her to get what she wanted. But that didn’t matter. He’d have done anything for her. And because of the Carmichaels she was dead. If they hadn’t come here to Connalough Point all would have been well and she’d be alive today.
THE SOUL FIXER (A psychological thriller) Page 18
