The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  Next came the huge farmer, Mecky Deans. He grabbed the rope and swung it much more energetically than Scott had managed. Despite the cold, he’d taken off his coat and thick jumper; the detective could see the muscles bulging under his T-shirt.

  ‘I hope there’s no low-flying aircraft aboot,’ said Scott. ‘This big bugger’s bound tae wallop one, by the looks of it.’

  Eventually, Deans let go and the bale soared high over the bar, clearing it with plenty room to spare. ‘What happens now?’ Scott asked Jessie.

  ‘Well, noo we raise the bar. You’ve got two lives left, so it wid be good if you could get it over this time. It’ll get higher yet, if I know Mecky Deans.’

  ‘Likely. What’s the prize, by the way?’

  ‘Oh, a bottle o’ malt whisky and the honour o’ lighting the bonfire.’

  ‘A great honour, indeed,’ said Jock, handing Scott a hip flask. ‘You’ll go down in the annals of the village.’ He smiled wryly.

  ‘And forbye,’ said Jessie. ‘Only one polisman has ever had the honour and that was back in fifty-six. Maurice McGinn, now he was a real good tosser. The Deans were fair scunnered.’

  ‘Plenty o’ big tossers tae choose from now in the polis. But me representing the force? Now there’s a first. Don’t go telling the bosses, I’m quite sure they’d have put somebody else up as the poster boy – just about anybody bar me, I shouldna wonder,’ he said, stamping his feet in the snow, getting ready for his next turn.

  ‘If anybody can gie it a good tossing, you’re the man,’ shouted Annie.

  ‘Heartfelt, cousin. Heartfelt,’ said Jessie with a smile.

  Daley stood on the terrace of Kersivay House. The view below was stark but magnificent. To his left he could see the village; the field behind the Black Wherry was dotted with lights from torches and lanterns. Distant shouting and laughter echoed up through the night air.

  The great French windows behind him swung open and the chatter and music from the ballroom inside drowned out the noises of the revellers in the village below.

  ‘I thought you would manage one, just to bring in the New Year, sir,’ said DC Dunn as she handed Daley a crystal glass containing a small measure of whisky. ‘What a brilliant view. I’m always amazed that Ireland is so close.’

  As Daley looked ahead, the great loom of the Emerald Isle across the short stretch of the North Channel seemed almost close enough to touch. A shaft of moonlight shone along the still water like a silver pathway.

  ‘Yes, the place looks magic, with the snow and everything.’ He took the glass from her and smiled. ‘Happy New Year, Mary,’ he said, as they chinked their glasses together.

  Mary was wearing a thick coat and a bobble hat, the fringe of her auburn hair sticking out below it. She smiled. ‘Happy New Year, sir – Jim.’ They looked at each other for a moment, then embraced. Daley gently lifted her chin with one hand and found her lips with his. He could feel her shiver as they kissed.

  Before he knew it, he said, ‘I love you, Mary,’ holding her close on the terrace high above Blaan.

  Far below, on the dark side of the mansion, a policeman gasped for breath as he wrestled with a man who had sprung out of the shadows. In a heartbeat, his body went limp. In the darkness, the attacker bent over the police officer, calmly removed the radio from his lapel and pulled him into the darkness.

  More pulled at the large door at the back of the kirk. ‘Help me,’ he shouted, realising that it was locked. He let his torch fall to the floor as he tugged frantically at the handle with both hands.

  He heard the soft padding of feet behind him and turned to face it. The figure walking slowly towards him was cloaked in shadows.

  ‘Please, who are you? What is happening? Take what you want, just leave me alone.’ He fell to the floor, his back against the door.

  The dark figure continued its slow progress up the narrow aisle.

  Ailsa Shannon stamped the snow from her boots and rubbed her hands together as Percy closed the back door of Kersivay House. She thanked the large minder who had accompanied her and turned to the old family retainer, who was mumbling under his breath about the clods of snow now lying in the dark passageway.

  ‘This stuff doesn’t clean itself, you know,’ he said, helping her off with her jacket. ‘Why on earth you wanted to go out on a night like this, I’ll never know. And if you wanted company you should have taken me, not that great lump.’

  ‘As you know, Percy, we have to be mindful of security. There’s still no sign of poor Lars Bergner. It’s awful. And I just had to get out for a while. You know how I feel, well, when the bells ring out.’ She grabbed his hand and embraced him. ‘Happy New Year, Percy.’ They looked at each other levelly for a few heartbeats.

  ‘Not sure how many more I’ll muster – or you, come to that.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘At our age the lights can go out at any time, you know. Aye, and for no reason, either. Just going about your drudgery one minute, then gone the next.’

  ‘Sounds as though it will be a blessed relief for you, Percy. Why worry?’

  ‘I’m telling you, none of us know what’s in front of us. Not even you, Ailsa Shannon.’ He placed an emphasis on her surname that made her smile. ‘Look at this, bloody mud as well as snow. More work for me.’

  ‘Why don’t you join us in the ballroom, Percy? I’m sure the party is well underway.’

  He turned to face her, a look of disgust on his face. ‘I don’t understand you. All this mayhem and you still find time to have a party. Well, it’s not my style, I tell you.’

  ‘What do you suggest? That we all sit in our rooms and lament the night away?’

  ‘Och, I’m not interested in that foreigner, Bergner. As aloof and condescending as that idiot nephew of yours.’ He grabbed her hand and looked into her eyes. ‘What about wee Archie? Does nothing touch you any more?’

  She sighed sadly and squeezed his hand. ‘Those bones are most likely a horrid game somebody is trying to play to put us off our stride. Half the world knows about that ridiculous curse. What better way to get back at our family?’

  ‘I’m not a bloody Shannon,’ said Percy, suddenly raising his voice.

  ‘But you’re part of this family. Been here longer than all of us.’

  ‘Not quite,’ he said, staring at her.

  ‘Listen, Percy,’ she said, grasping his hand in hers. ‘Stop worrying about all of this, about Archie, anything that’s happened. There’s nothing for you to be upset about. Please trust me.’

  ‘And what about the Rat Stone,’ he replied, a dark shadow crossing his face.

  As Ignatius More lay huddled at the door of the Old Kirk, his head buried in his hands, eyes closed tight against the horror, he was suddenly aware that all was silent. The slow pacing of the footsteps coming towards him had stopped. He felt his chest rise and fall with his heavy breath, felt the constriction in his throat, his heart beating in his ears. Every fibre of his body was tingling, on edge, waiting for the cold slice of steel or the hammer blow that would take away his life. He whispered a silent prayer to himself over and over again.

  Than he heard it; quietly at first, then gaining intensity as it echoed around the Kirk. Someone was sobbing.

  He tried to steady his own nerves. The wailing seemed to come from everywhere, all around him, a piercing lament. Then came a tiny voice: ‘Help me, please, help me. Please make them go away!’

  He recognised it instantly. Slowly uncoiling from the huddle he had made of himself at the old oak door, he looked through the shadows of the church. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the woman lying prone in the middle of the aisle.

  ‘Iggy, please, help me.’ Through the sobs, Veronica’s voice was unmistakable.

  Bruce watched as the detective failed in his second attempt to heave the bale over the bar. He was feeling mellow now, glad to be away from his family, glad to be having a drink, glad that he wasn’t standing in the ballroom at Kersivay House, desperately trying to mak
e polite conversation and console Lars Bergner’s wife. Even though he hated the man, he felt sympathy for her and their children. To him, it just confirmed what he’d always thought about the old house: it was cursed, the last place in the world he wanted to be.

  He took the phone from his pocket and dialled Trenton Casely. Again, the call went straight to voicemail and instead of leaving yet another message he clicked the call off. He looked at his watch; things should be happening by now. Through a haze of alcohol he fretted as to why he couldn’t get in contact with the young American. Though he’d done his bit and, as arranged, had made sure he wasn’t at Kersivay House.

  He tried to picture his cousin’s face when what was about to happen became clear. That self-satisfied, arrogant shit deserved all that was in store. Bruce revelled in the thought of him removing his belongings in boxes from the Shannon International office in the Shard, the way redundant bankers had been forced to do when the global financial crisis hit. He took another swig of his hip flask in silent celebration.

  Despite himself, he also imagined his mother’s reaction. She’d be surprised that he’d pulled off such a coup, but would she be proud? He wasn’t the boy who disappeared on the beach half a century before. He could never be.

  He smiled at a blonde-haired woman standing nearby. He’d been at a party at her house on Hogmanay a few years before. As her husband slept off his festive over-indulgence, he’d had her on the kitchen floor of the two-up, two-down council house. He’d been surprised how loud she’d been; when he asked if she thought her spouse might be awoken by her moans of pleasure, she had just smiled and showed him a small bottle of sleeping pills. She’d crushed three into his beer.

  Time for a repeat performance, he thought. If one thing turned him on, it was the thought of a woman who would go to any lengths in order to cheat on her other half. He was about to walk over and talk to her when a lonely figure standing beside the pile of timber caught his eye. The young woman was stock-still, staring up at the unlit pyre in the moonlight; very much on the periphery of the crowd, rather than part of it. As everyone laughed and joked, as the bale flew through the freezing air, she looked very alone – but then again, she always did.

  He felt a deep pang of guilt and, instead of walking over to chat up the blonde woman, pushed his way through the villagers to be with his daughter.

  ‘Nadia, where’s Mrs Watkins?’ She didn’t reply. ‘Nadia, did you hear me?’

  He hugged her close and followed her eye line to the top of the unlit bonfire where the Blaan guy sat, its white head slumped forwards.

  ‘Why didn’t they give him a face?’ she said, still gazing up at the effigy of her ancestor.

  ‘Oh, come on, darling. No point staring up at that bloody thing, it’s just a bundle of old rags and straw. Let’s join the party. We’ll find out where the hell Mrs Watkins has got to.’ Bruce looked around the snowy field to try and locate his daughter’s nurse.

  ‘He has no face, but he has a smile.’

  ‘What?’ he replied distractedly. ‘Enough of this, come on.

  ’ He pulled at her sleeve, glancing up to give the bag of rags one last look.

  He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed it before; a thin red smile seemed to be slathered across the effigy’s white face. He gaped as he watched this flat smile slowly turn into a broad grin.

  23

  Percy searched the large cupboard in the laundry room at Kersivay House. He knew he had spare salt and grit to spread on the paths around the building, but for the life of him couldn’t remember where he’d put it. He cursed his age and forgetfulness.

  ‘Bloody losing it,’ he muttered to himself as he closed the cupboard door. The old outhouse was the only other option he could think of. It, as well as the cottage he and his wife had shared for all these years, was one of the few original buildings that had stood on the land before the big mansion had been built. He’d often wondered what the place would have looked like. He’d heard stories of Nathaniel Stuart, heard about the man’s power, his ferocious temper and the depth of hatred that he bore for the Shannon family after being conned out of the land that had been in his family since the dark days, when only stories told stood as a reminder of deeds done.

  Percy looked along the row of keys, mostly of the modern variety, until he came to the big black mortise key, tarnished with age but so familiar. He’d been using that key for most of his life and every time he remembered the blacksmith who had used the old outhouse to store the tools of his trade.

  Though the key had lost its lustre, there was still a patch of shiny brass on the fob, worn to a gleam by time spent on the belt of Nathaniel Stuart – or so Percy imagined.

  He opened the large back door and stepped carefully out into the snow. The beam from his old torch was weak, casting a golden beam along the glistening white pathway. He cursed himself again for not remembering to replace the batteries.

  The old buildings sat at angles to each other, though the courtyard they once lined was long gone. He could see candles flickering in his cottage, which was not supplied with the emergency power enjoyed by the office block and certain parts of the house. His wife was still up, probably peering at a book in the dim light. ‘Bloody books,’ he murmured, as he shivered in the cold.

  He rounded the large holly bush, its red berries poking through the snow like tiny rubies. On his left was the outhouse, to his right the former stable, which was now an office block used by Maxwell and the rest of the board when in residence. He was surprised to see bright electric light spilling from behind the blinds, an extreme contrast to the gloom he had to endure in his own home. ‘Wasteful bastards,’ he grumbled. ‘If we run out of diesel for the generator, the whole bloody place will be in darkness.’

  He crunched through the frozen snow and stood on his tiptoes to look through a chink in the blinds. Having expected the large office to be empty, he jumped back when a dark figure passed between him and the glowing computer screens inside.

  He collected himself, stomping to the door and banging hard with his fist. ‘Mr Shannon, just what is going on? They’ll be running out of diesel in Kinloch, you know. And bugger knows when they’ll get another delivery if it snows again. Mr Shannon!’

  As he heard footsteps on the other side of the door, he reversed. A blow to his back sent him tumbling to the ground.

  Brian Scott was just about to have another go at tossing the bale over the bar when he heard the scream. He looked across the field, white snow and shadows in the light of lanterns and torches. Bruce was trying to pull his daughter away from the unlit bonfire, shouting for help as he did so.

  People running, more screams. Scott was breathing heavily. He heard the distant whine in his ears and shook his head to try and rid himself of the sound that he had first heard in the dark room at Kersivay House and then on the road from Kinloch to Blaan.

  ‘No, fuck me, not now,’ he whispered to himself, beginning to feel strange, hot and disoriented, everything around him slipping away.

  The scene before him changed; the screams were louder, more visceral. There was no snow and a grey light shone on a sickening scene. Ahead of him steel flashed, slicing through frail skin and thudding into hard bone with a roaring agony. Red blood, muck and gore was spattered across his shoes. He tried to banish the whine as it rose to a scream, tightening his chest.

  Another blade swung before him, connecting with a man’s shoulder. He was kneeling on the ground, his long hair matted across his face. Scott saw blood pump from the wound as the stricken man struggled to regain his feet.

  A tall figure emerged, hooded by a dark cloak. He stood with his head bowed, hands clasped, then kicked the injured man in the back, sending him crashing face down onto the gory soil. The hooded figure walked calmly towards the victim and slammed his foot onto the dying man’s back, forcing him into the sodden ground.

  Scott was rooted to the spot as he watched the man struggle to get his head out of the bloody mire in a desperate attempt
for breath. Red bubbled for a heartbeat as he managed to wrench his head up to look at the light one last time.

  The man held out his hand, begging Scott to help, pleading through the blood-slathered hair that plastered his face. Scott felt as though his head was going to burst with the screeching in his ears, his chest seemingly constricted by metal bands.

  He watched the man’s lips move, but couldn’t hear what he was trying to say.

  He felt, but did not hear, himself scream as the hooded figure reached behind his back and with both hands swung a long sword up high.

  It was then that he recognised the man being butchered to death in this hellish field. Only for a second did he think of Jim Daley, then his vision began to clear and he was back, lying in the snow.

  Two men in police uniforms dragged Percy’s body into the bright office. One of them tied the old man’s hands and feet and left him propped up in the corner of the room.

  ‘Who the fuck is that?’ asked a thickset man.

  ‘He’s the old caretaker,’ shrugged one of the others, his face a spray of acne. ‘Light as a feather. Skin and bone, the poor bastard. Do you want me to slot him, Paddy?’

  ‘Leave him where he is just now. I want Maxwell in here as soon as you can get him. And stop using my fucking name! We have the upper hand here, but these bastards don’t mess about. When we’ve finished, they’ll be looking for us. So keep your pig hats on when you go into the house.’

  Percy started to moan in the corner and was soon silenced by another blow. ‘We’ll have to do something more permanent with this old geezer.’

  ‘Give him a jab,’ replied Paddy. ‘And hope to fuck he doesn’t die.’ He reached into a stainless steel briefcase and removed a syringe. ‘This’ll keep the old bugger quiet. Hope he’s got a strong heart.’

  ‘Will we go and get Shannon now?’

  ‘Yeah, tell him there’s been a development. Meet our man, he’ll pass this on so that bloody inspector doesn’t get wind. I’ll send him a message.’

  The two men made sure that the peaks of their police hats were down low over their faces as they left the bright office and stepped back into the yard, Kersivay House looming above them.