When the feeling had passed he straightened up and gazed at the sky. The clouds were coming in thick and fast, hanging low and heavy. The thunder was getting closer, the wind picking up, sending the waves crashing against the shore.
He pulled on the night vision goggles and studied the surrounding area. There didn’t appear to be any activity. Next he took out the thermal camera and looked for any heat signatures belonging to interlopers stupid enough to come into the village, but once again all seemed quiet. All the activity was confined to the pub. Graeme smiled. He was going to make sure they weren’t active for much longer.
Full on assault with the rifle would be useless. He could plant an explosive at a strategic point of the pub but the walls were old, thick and built to last. There was only one solution and that was to smoke them out.
“It’s gone too quiet out there,” said Craig. “It’s making me uneasy.”
“Shall I take another look Sarge?” said Steve.
“You’ve already done your share.” Craig looked to Hughes cowering in a corner, knees pulled into his chest. He hadn’t uttered a single word since Craig had attacked him. “Are you going to do your job and take a look?”
Hughes vehemently shook his head, unable to look him in the eye.
“You fucking disgust me,” muttered Craig before turning his back on him.
Tears squeezed from the corners of Hughes’s eyes and he buried his face in his knees.
“I’ll take a look,” said Gordon.
“It’s not your place,” replied Craig. “We’re the ones paid to put ourselves at risk.”
“And this is my pub.” He picked up his shotgun that was propped against the bar and brandished it lovingly. “I’ll look from the upstairs window.”
“Be careful. I’m guessing he’s got night vision. He’ll be able to see you.”
“Just leave it to me,” he said before jogging upstairs.
The others lapsed back into silence. Craig took in each weary face, wondering how much longer they’d be able to tolerate the strain. To his pride his mum seemed to be coping admirably. He was particularly worried about the older villagers. One had already succumbed to a heart attack. What if more did? This had to end soon.
“The thunder’s back,” commented Lizzy.
Craig lifted his head and listened. It was right overhead and he hadn’t even registered it was there. He swallowed hard. The storm was back, which meant the danger must be.
“Where are you going?” said Nora when he started to crawl towards the window.
“I have to look.”
“Gordon’s taking a look. Leave it to him.”
“The storm’s back.”
“So? What’s that got to do with anything?” She recalled Freya’s words during the Docherty debacle and understood what he was referring to. “Oh no.”
A huge noise made them all jump, Hughes actually groaning in fear, but it was only Gordon racing back down the stairs from the flat above. “Someone’s moving about outside,” he called as he ran for the front door.
“Jesus, don’t let him go out there,” called Craig.
Craig, Steve and Bill scrambled to their feet and tried to rush him but Steve slipped on the pool of Toby’s blood and went down, taking the other two with him. By the time they’d got to their feet Gordon had pulled open the heavy door and was outside.
“I see you, you bastard,” yelled Gordon before blasting the gun in the direction he’d spied the movement from the window.
Gordon’s heart pounded and his senses sang. He hadn’t felt so alive in years. A whimper of pain from the direction he was firing only spurred him on. He broke the gun, yanked out the spent cartridges, shoved two more into the chamber then snapped it shut. He raised the weapon and pulled the trigger, sending another volley of deadly shot into the blackness. He couldn’t see a fucking thing but he didn’t care, he felt wild, invincible. Finally he was living again.
A sharp pain in his stomach didn’t slow him down. He knew he’d been shot but he didn’t care. He broke the weapon again and reloaded. Another pain started up in his stomach then a third in his left shoulder, joined by the warm trickle of blood. But he was on an adrenaline high and he fought through the encroaching pain and fuzziness to let off one more volley before dropping to his knees. When light shone all around him he felt sure he was dying and was heading into the light. Arms around his waist made him realise it was the light from the pub. He was pulled back inside and as his sight started to fail he saw Craig snatch up his shotgun.
“We know it’s you Graeme,” Craig called into the darkness as he retreated back into the pub, wielding the gun. “You’re going to prison for the rest of your life, that’s if this doesn’t get you first.”
Craig dashed back inside and locked the door. Gordon was laid flat on his back, gazing up at the ceiling of the pub he’d run for years. Blood bubbled up over his lips and he released a wheezy chuckle.
“I hit him,” he managed to gasp. He knew he was dying but he felt no sadness. On the contrary the pain was finally over. He could hear the voices of the others telling him to hang on, feel hands trying to staunch the flow of blood, another hand clutching onto his but he ignored them all. Instead he smiled at the face floating before him, the soft gentle face that he loved more than anything…
“Gordon hang on, don’t give up,” yelled Craig, clamping a towel over one of the stomach wounds but blood just bubbled up beneath it. He watched as Gordon’s eyes turned glassy but he had a smile on his face, as though he was happy about what was happening.
“Isla,” breathed Gordon, the name turning into a death rattle.
When his jaw went slack and his head lolled to one side, Craig pressed his fingers to the pulse in his neck. “Shit,” he sighed, hanging his head. “He’s gone.”
“Out of the way, I can bring him back,” said Lizzy, preparing to resuscitate him.
Craig caught her hand. “Leave him be. He was happy to go. He said Isla’s name.”
As Lizzy started to cry Craig buried his face in his bloody hands. “Dammit,” he whispered.
Graeme staggered through the back door of Lizzy and Jimmy’s cottage, the feel of his own blood trickling down his arm making him want to throw up. In all the years he’d been doing this he’d never got injured before, consequently he hadn’t brought anything to patch himself up with. He didn’t think a plaster and a tube of Savlon would be enough to sort out the damage to his arm. But Lizzy used to be a nurse and she still tended to a lot of people in the village. If anyone would have the right equipment she would. Plus there was a good view down the street from here so he could keep an eye on the bastards in case they decided to try and escape. The only problem was he was too terrified to look at the wound. He was afraid that the only thing holding his arm on was the jacket and if he took if off the limb would drop to the floor with a sickening wet thud, just like his sister’s had when Malcolm had blasted it off her shoulder.
He doubled over and retched into the sink both at the memory and the pain.
“Pull yourself together Doggett,” he muttered before gingerly shrugging himself out of his jacket. An appalling pain blazed a path down his arm into his fingers and he groaned out loud. For a moment he thought he was going to he sick again so he took in a few deep breaths, urging the sensation away and fortunately it passed.
Finally he freed himself from the jacket and his arm remained attached to his shoulder.
“Oh thank you God,” he breathed.
However blood was still leaking from the injury. If he didn’t do something he’d end up bleeding to death.
It took him another minute to pluck up the courage to look, the fingers of his right hand gripping the left shoulder of his jumper. His heart banged against his ribcage as he tried to summon the willpower, but all he could see were the bodies of those he’d loved most.
“Come on Graeme,” he hissed.
The sound of his own voice snapped him out of it and he yanked down the jumper.
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Again he sagged with relief. The shot had just nicked his upper arm, slicing through the skin but avoiding the structures below. Thank Christ he’d sidestepped when Gordon had run out at him like a maniac.
Quickly he set about cleaning and bandaging the wound. There wasn’t as much blood as he’d initially thought, it had all been in his overactive imagination, fuelled by the horrible childhood memories. As he worked anger filled him. Small wonder Logan, Lynch and Docherty had all failed, the residents of Blair Dubh had some dark luck surrounding them. The evil they nurtured protected them.
He gritted his jaw not just against the pain but the rage too as he dressed the wound, soothing himself with the knowledge that he’d killed Gordon. He’d put too many bullets in him for him to have survived. One less evil-doer in the world. Begrudgingly he admitted that he admired the way he’d gone out. It had been very brave, if extremely reckless. Gordon had died like a man. He couldn’t say the same for the future of the others cowering inside the pub, thinking it could save them.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned as he cleaned up the wound with antiseptic, which felt like he’d applied fire directly to his skin. He screwed his eyes tight shut and gritted his teeth, the tendons straining in his neck.
When the agony began to abate and he was able to move again he cleaned away the blood. Fortunately there didn’t appear to be any shot still in the wound. On the down side the flesh was exposed, it had split the skin clean open. He’d never been at all squeamish but it was different when it came to his own body. The sight of that split skin made him dizzy. It required stitches but that would have to wait. Instead he bandaged it as tightly as he could, which wasn’t easy one-handed, then staggered into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa.
Graeme released a growl and curled the fingers of his uninjured arm into a fist. The good residents of Blair Dubh were going to pay for this.
CHAPTER 16
Craig looked up at Bill, who appeared to be teetering on the edge after seeing another of his old friends die.
“I think Gordon injured Graeme,” said Craig.
“I wish he’d blown his fucking head off,” barked Bill.
“At least he’s aware we know it’s him. Hopefully that will be incentive enough for him to do a runner. Everyone knows what he looks like, it’ll be easy for the police to pick him up, that’s if Gordon didn’t fatally wound him. With any luck he’ll bleed to death.”
“You really think he might be gone?” said Deborah.
Craig wanted to give them hope, God knew they needed some. He was still feeling guilty for putting them on a downer earlier. The intense hatred he’d experienced against them had mercifully receded since Gordon’s death. He hoped it wouldn’t come back. “It’s possible. Right now he’ll be licking his wounds.”
“Well there you go then. It’ll all be over soon,” she said chirpily.
No one shared her enthusiasm.
Craig bit his lip thoughtfully. Was this the time for them all to make a run for it? No, he had no idea how badly injured Graeme was and it was a long way from the pub to the village boundary in the dark. Plus the majority of their number were pensioners who couldn’t run. Graeme had night vision, he could take them all down easily. No, stay put and try to stay alive. It was the only thing they could do. Or was it?
“Get that look off your face,” said Nora.
“What look?” replied Craig.
“The look that says you’ve had an idea, probably one that involves you doing something stupid and reckless.”
“I have actually.”
“Oh no Craig, just stay here.”
“I need to know if it really is Graeme doing this. I need to get into his cottage.”
“Don’t be so bloody thick. If Gordon was right and he did hit him where do you think he’ll go to patch himself up? His cottage.”
“No he won’t. He’ll go somewhere he can keep an eye on us from. His cottage has no view of the pub.”
“And what if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.”
“You don’t know that for sure. Why can’t you wait until the police arrive? You’ll find out then whether it’s him or not.”
“God knows how long that’ll take,” he said, lowering his voice so the others wouldn’t hear.
“But you said…”
“I know what I said but he might have set other booby traps to stop them getting through. This is far from over.”
“I think you’re right,” she sighed resignedly.
“What if Graeme has a stash of weapons at his place? We could really even up the odds.”
“It’s not worth your life.”
“If I don’t try it might cost us all our lives.”
“Why does it have to be you? Let someone else go.”
“I’m the senior officer and Hughes is absolutely no use.”
“Then tell Steve to go, you can give him orders, he’s below you. God help me for saying it, I like the boy but you are my son and my priority.”
He took her hands. “Mum, I’m the more experienced officer and I’ve been trained to handle firearms, Steve hasn’t. It has to be me. I’ll be fine,” he added when her eyes filled with tears. “Now’s the best time to go, Graeme’s been injured.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“If he was fighting fit he would have shot Gordon cleanly. He didn’t because he was hurt and couldn’t aim properly. I could end this before anyone else dies.”
“What are you talking about?” said Bill, sliding across the floor towards them. “Have you got a plan?”
“Craig has,” said Nora, “and as usual it’s completely insane but no matter what I say I’m not going to be able to stop him.”
“Sounds good. I’m in.”
“It’s safer for you here,” said Craig.
“Bollocks to that. He’s killed my friends.” Bill’s eyes settled on Gordon’s body covered with a bloodstained tablecloth. “And you need someone watching your back.”
“Steve can do that.”
“These people need a police officer with them, one who’s not injured or a spineless little worm,” said Bill, glowering at Hughes. “I’m coming with you and I’m bringing this with me.” He picked up Gordon’s shotgun, which lay beside his body.
“You can come if you really insist but I’m taking that,” said Craig, holding his hands out for the weapon. “If the killer does end up getting shot then it would be much better if he’s shot by a police officer. It’ll get really messy for you if you do it.”
“What do I care about that?”
“I bloody care. Now give.”
Bill sighed and dumped the gun in his hands. “It needs loading.”
“Where are the cartridges?”
“In his pocket,” he replied, nodding at Gordon’s body.
“Of course they are,” muttered Craig.
He slid his way across the room on his stomach, everyone watching, wondering what he was up to now.
“You can’t go through a dead man’s pockets,” said Jeanette. “It’s irreverent.”
“He’s not stealing from him,” barked Bill. “He’s getting the cartridges for the gun.”
“Oh.”
Craig sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against the wall as he loaded the shotgun. His dad had taught him how to use one when he was a teenager. This being a rural community most of the men owned one. It was a fucking shame they didn’t have them on them right now.
“You ready?” he said to Bill.
“Wait, where are you going?” said Steve.
“For a poke around Graeme’s cottage. I think he’s the sniper,” replied Craig.
“You can’t go out there, it’s suicide.”
“Save your breath Steve, I’ve already tried to talk him out of it,” said Nora, topping up her glass with the bottle of whisky Gordon had handed to her earlier with a sympathetic smile. The memory filled her eyes with fresh tears.
“He’s injured and weake
ned. Now’s the time,” said Craig.
“Someone has to do something,” said Deborah feverishly. “We can’t all sit here like lemons and wait for him to burst through the door. He knows the police are here and he’s running out of time. He’s going to be desperate.” She ended this speech with a loud exhalation and a bulging of the eyes that made her husband hug her tighter.
“You’re right,” said Craig. He stared at the gun in his hands before thrusting it at Steve. “Take this.”
“You need it if you’re going out there.”
“If he does come through that door you’ll be sitting ducks. With this you’ll be able to protect yourselves. Hopefully he’s got some weapons stashed at his place that we can use.”
“I live next door to him, I’ll get my shotguns. Two of the bastards,” said Bill proudly.
“Do you know how to handle one of these?” said Craig, placing the gun in Steve’s arms.
“I used one once, I went shooting with some friends, but it was a while ago.”
“I’ll show him,” said Jimmy.
“How’s that going to work with both your arms bandaged?” said Lizzy.
Before he could reply Hughes timidly put his hand up. “I know how to use one.”
“You’re not fucking touching it,” spat Craig. “Knowing you you’ll do a runner with it, leaving them defenceless.”
“I won’t. Please, I need to redeem myself.”
“You can do that by handing in your resignation when this is over,” said Craig coldly. He looked to Bill. “Ready?”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” said Steve, holding the shotgun awkwardly.
“These people need you and so does Gary. We’ll be back soon.”
Electric Light (Blair Dubh Trilogy #3) Page 13
