The Exiled

by William Meikle

  “Daft Davie? I haven’t thought about him in years. He was just a big gangly lad—soft in the head but no harm to anybody. The other kids used to poke fun at him, calling him a retard and a mong, but Davie just took it all in and smiled back at them. ‘The best-natured boy in Scotland,’ was how his mother described him, and for a while it seemed that was the case.

  “That was until he started going on about the black birds and the castle. He got it into his head that he wanted to be a big bird himself, so he took to tearing the wings off birds—crows and magpies at first before he moved on to seagulls, and when he started on the swans, we had to do something about it.”

  Alan was startled momentarily at the mention of a castle and black birds—too close to his earlier vision to be coincidental. The ex-cop put down his beer and looked over the table, clearly concerned.

  “Are you okay, son? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.”

  Alan remembered the job at hand—and the question he needed to ask.

  “This Davie—there was never any indication of him taking a fancy to kids?”

  The older man wasn’t slow on the uptake.

  “You think Daft Davie is the man they’re after? No—it won’t be him. The birds were his thing—he was obsessed. And in the end it drove him mad. They put him away years ago, and he’s rotting in a home somewhere in the Borders last I heard.”

  Alan shook his head and lowered his voice.

  “They let him out—two months ago. Care in the community, they call it—a way to save money on looking after him. Any idea where he’d go?”

  The older man tapped his wedding ring on a now empty beer glass.

  “I might.”

  Alan gave in to the inevitable and went back to the bar. When he returned, he got what he’d been after all along.

  “Davie never went far from the farm,” Weir said. “He liked to be close to his mammy. She died, but Davie’s brother took it on after that. Last I knew he was still alive and the farm’s still there, just off the New Lanark road. Galloway’s farm—you can’t miss it.”

  * * *

  It was nearing ten o’clock by the time Alan turned off the main road onto the farm track, and the only lights to be seen were his own headlights.

  He was aware he was pushing this hunch to the limits, aware that he might just be heading for a rude expulsion, maybe even bodily, from the farm.

  But I have to know.

  The detail about the black birds and the castle were just too closely related to be coincidence. That, and the fact that there was no news on any of the missing children, forced his hand. He switched off the headlights and drove, as slowly and carefully as he could manage, up the short drive to where a squat stone building stood in a thicket of spindly trees.

  No lights showed in the dwelling, or in the various outbuildings scattered at the rear of the property. Alan killed the engine, rolled the window down and sat there in the dark, listening. The only sound was a slight rustle of wind in the trees and the far-off muffled noise of tires on tarmac on the main road. It looked like the journey had been for nothing.

  I should have a look around. Just in case.

  The thought didn’t fill him with enthusiasm, but he was a reporter, on a case that might make his name. If he didn’t do his job now, he knew he would spend every night from here on wondering if things might have been different.

  The vision from earlier still had him spooked though, and he was loath to leave the safety of the car without a backup plan. There was only one person he trusted to do the right thing with the information on hand. He got out his phone and texted Galloway’s name and the farm’s address to John. It would be more than enough to get things moving should things go wrong.

  He got out of the car and made for the main farmhouse. He’d already decided that the bold approach was the only option—he didn’t have the nerve for skulking around in the shadows, not out here in the dark. He walked up to the front door and rapped on it, hard.

  Shave and a haircut—two bits.

  No one answered, but something shifted in the house, not too far from the door, as if someone had come to stand, silent, on the other side.

  “Mr. Galloway? I just need to ask you a few questions. Can I come in?”

  There was still no reply, but now Alan was sure there was someone there on the other side of the door, listening. He bent down and pushed open the brass letterbox. He peered inside. All he could see was blackness.

  “Mr. Galloway?”

  Without warning the door opened, startling Alan so much that he almost tumbled headfirst onto the hall carpet. When he recovered his composure, he looked into an empty hallway, so dark that only the first couple of feet inside the door were visible.

  “Mr. Galloway?”

  Something shuffled, deep in darkness.

  Alan walked forward into the hall.

  The door slammed shut at his back with a concussion that echoed in his ears before fading to silence. He was in pitch-black stillness except for the thud of his racing heart in his ears.

  Bugger this for a lark.

  He turned and reached for the door, meaning to make a quick escape. His hand met only empty space.

  That’s not right. I didn’t move that far—did I?

  He took a step, then another… and another. There was no door there to touch. He turned ninety degrees and walked forward, his hands outstretched. After five steps he stopped. The hallway he’d seen had been only five feet wide at most.

  So why haven’t I reached a wall yet?

  He stood still, hoping his eyesight might adjust to the conditions. But there was to be no respite from the darkness.

  Did I somehow walk though into a living area?

  He shuffled forward slowly and carefully, hoping to meet a wall, or even a piece of furniture. There was only more darkness.

  Someone laughed, softly, almost a whisper.

  “Mr. Galloway,” Alan said, hopefully.

  A man answered, rough and venomous.

  “I’m lost, Mammy.”

  9

  It was after eleven before Grainger checked his text messages, and quarter past before D.S. Simpson got back to him with Galloway’s history. While waiting, he drank more of the office’s strong black coffee—wishing there was some Scotch in it—and tried not to think about the vision he’d had in the courtyard. He put it down to stress—he was working himself hard, maybe too hard. But the missing kids demanded no less from him.

  I’ll rest when we find them.

  Simpson put a thick file on his desk.

  “I don’t have time to read all of that—is there a synopsis?” he said.

  Simpson smiled grimly.

  “I got the gen from his care officer—he hasn’t checked in for a week.” She tapped the file. “Dave Galloway—a mentally disabled kid who developed a thing for swans. He collected wings, and he just got released into community care a few weeks ago. I think your brother is onto something.”

  Grainger was on his feet and heading for the door almost before she stopped talking.

  “Let’s see how fast you can drive outside the city,” he said. “I’ll buy you a drink if you can make it before twelve.”

  * * *

  To her credit Simpson tried her best, but an accident near Livingstone meant they were reduced to a crawl for a long stretch of the M40, and the delay meant that it was ten after midnight when they drove up the dark farm driveway. He’d attempted to get Alan on the phone several times during the drive, but only got an engaged tone in return.

  When they pulled up in the farmyard, Alan’s car was there. Grainger was out of the vehicle before Simpson even killed the engine. He almost ran to the passenger side of Alan’s car and looked in—it was empty, and when he put a hand on the hood, it felt cold. It hadn’t been driven for at least an hour.

  “We should call for backup, boss,” Simpson said, arriving at his side. “I don’t like the look of this.”

  “We might not have time,” Grain
ger replied. “Besides, it’s my brother—I’m going in, backup or no backup.”

  “We don’t have a warrant…”

  “It’s my brother,” Grainger said softly.

  Simpson nodded.

  “Okay, boss. What’s the plan?”

  “Watch the back door,” Grainger said. “I’ll go in the front. And if you’re going to hit anybody, make sure it’s not my wee brother. If anybody’s giving him a skelp, it’s going to be me.”

  “Do you really think Galloway’s our man, boss?” Simpson whispered.

  “Alan’s an annoying wee shite at times,” Grainger said. “But he’s got a copper’s nose for trouble. There’ll be something here—whether it’s the lassies, we’ll just have to see. If I’m not out in two minutes, call for that backup and get some lads from Airdrie down here pronto.”

  He waited until the D.S. had moved away round the corner out of sight before approaching the main door. He stood off to one side and rapped hard, twice.

  “Police. We need a word.”

  The door rattled on its hinges, but there was no other sound. Grainger rapped on the door again, aware that, as Simpson had mentioned, he had no warrant—not even any real probable cause—just a hunch, and a trust in his brother’s nose for a story. If this was a case of mistaken identity, it was going to mean a whole other load of shite if he fucked up.

  In for a penny, in for a pound.

  He rapped again and shouted.

  “Mr. Galloway? I’m sure this will only take a minute.”

  There was no sound of a lock being engaged and no indication of any movement from inside—but the door swung open before he could knock again, revealing a dark hallway beyond.

  “I’m coming in, Mr. Galloway,” Grainger said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  He walked into the hallway, reaching to either side in search of a light switch. Just as his right hand found the mechanism the door slammed shut behind him. He was startled, drew his hand back, then reached for the switch again—and met only air and blackness.

  “Stop playing silly buggers, Mr. Galloway. I know you’re in here.”

  Something heavy shifted in the dark farther inside. There was a smell, faint but unmistakable, of bleach. The air tasted dry and musty, as if the house had lain empty for a long time.

  Maybe Galloway isn’t even here?

  “Alan? Is that you?”

  The only response was more shifting sounds in the dark. It sounded like something dragging—or being dragged—across a carpet.

  “If you’re hurt, Alan, stay still. I’m coming to you.”

  He moved deeper into the dark. Now there was no sound apart from his breathing and the shuffle of his leather soles on the carpet.

  Somebody sobbed, a hitching, like a child holding in tears.

  “Alan?”

  A man’s voice answered.

  “I’m lost, Mammy.”

  * * *

  Grainger stopped, keeping as still as possible. The speaker hadn’t been Alan—the voice was too deep and rough—so that left just one real possibility. He waited to see if the man would speak again, but there was just the darkness. Grainger spoke first, keeping his voice low and steady.

  “Galloway—it’s the police. You don’t want any trouble—you don’t want to get put away again, do you?”

  “You have no idea what I want,” was the reply. The speaker was over to Grainger’s left, some yards away—Grainger started to move in that direction as softly as he was able. It wasn’t soft enough.

  “I wouldn’t come any closer, copper,” the voice said. “Not if you want your wee brother to still have a head the next time you see him.”

  “We’ve got the place surrounded, Galloway.”

  “What? The wee lassie you sent round the back door? I’ve seen to her already. She won’t be bothering us.”

  Grainger risked another shuffle towards the direction of the voice.

  “Give it up, you’ve got nowhere to go.”

  “I think we both know that’s not true,” the voice said, and laughed. The sound echoed and rang, as if they were inside a large contained area.

  The darkness shifted, and Grainger’s eyes adjusted as it got lighter.

  “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” Galloway said.

  They stood inside what appeared to be a huge stone cathedral, one of some great age for the stone was weathered and worn. Several ornate panels of stained glass partially filled the tall windows but most were broken or gone completely. A cold breeze blew through the building, bringing the tang of sea spray and the sound of frantic gulls.

  Alan lay on an altar, fresh blood showing above his left eye—he was breathing, fast and shallow, but breathing. A big man, broad of chest and muscled with it, stood above Alan, wielding a large stone axe.

  Grainger moved towards his stricken brother.

  “No closer, copper—or I’ll do for him.”

  The big man raised the axe.

  “Where are we?” Grainger said softly.

  The man laughed.

  “Where we need to be. I brought you here to show you something—to show you that there’s no point in chasing me anymore. It’s over there, in the nave. Go and have a look. I’ll stay here with the wee man until you get back.”

  “How do I know you won’t just kill him?”

  “If that’s what was wanted, I’d have done it long before you got here. Would you just go—you need to see. You need to understand.”

  Grainger inched away towards the spot indicated by the big man. At some point in the last few minutes he’d slipped over into the Twilight Zone. Maybe he’d been right earlier in the evening—maybe the hard work had finally driven him over the edge. But Alan’s blood on the altar looked real enough, and this whole place had the weight and certainty of reality to it. There was that—and the fact that his copper’s instinct was telling him that he did indeed need to see what was waiting for him, even though that same instinct was also telling him that it wasn’t going to be anything good.

  A shadow passed across the windows as he approached the nave—large, winged and black, that’s all he could make out, but the gulls had gone silent outside, and the only sound was wind whistling through exposed rafters high above.

  He turned a corner—and it was as if everything stopped, the scene framed like a still from a movie, etched into his mind where he knew it would stay forever.

  He’d found the lost girls—or rather, what was left of them. All four were dead; all four mutilated. Swan wings, black and blood spattered, were roughly sewn in heavy twine onto the naked backs of each girl. The bodies were trussed up onto a wooden contraption much like a gallows and left to swing—and drip. Their blood, almost black now that it was dry, lay crusted over a statue on a stone altar under an intact window. Grainger forced himself to move closer to try to identify the statue, and as he approached he saw it was a representation in stone of something that was also depicted in stained glass in the window above it. He looked up at an outline of a huge black bird, wings pulled forward in a hood in front of it, only a long beak showing beneath pale white eyes.

  A breeze got up. The hanging girls swayed and spun in an obscene dance. Clouds scudded behind the window, giving the stained glass a semblance of life.

  The black bird in the window winked at him.

  * * *

  “Do you see?” the big man shouted from the main body of the building. “Do you understand why it has to be this way?”

  Grainger backed away slowly from the gruesome tableau in the nave. It took all of his will power not to rush at the big man in a blind fit of rage as he walked back through.

  “It should be you through there swinging from the gallows, big man,” he said. “Not those poor wee lassies. What harm did they ever do to you?”

  The big man was crestfallen and looked close to tears.

  “You don’t see, do you? He said you might not see—that it might be too early.”

  “Who said?” Grai
nger asked, stepping closer. The big man still had the stone axe raised over Alan’s head.

  “You need to go back,” the man said. “Go back and don’t bother looking for me. I’m staying here now—where I’ve always belonged.”

  The light dimmed, darkness seeming to fill in around them from everywhere yet nowhere. Grainger smelled bleach, tasted dust in his mouth.

  “Time to go,” the big man said, and wiggled the fingers of his free hand in a childish wave. “Bysie-bye.”

  The cathedral faded, becoming almost translucent. Grainger saw heavy flock wallpaper show through the wavering walls.

  “If I go back, you’re coming with me,” he shouted. He rushed at the big man, head tucked to his chest, intending to tackle him around the waist and bring him down. Beyond that, he had no idea what else he could do in this place.

  He didn’t make it. The big man stepped nimbly aside, as if he’d anticipated just such an attack. The stone axe went up; it came down across Grainger’s left shoulder. White pain flared and he fell in a heap at the base of the altar. He tried to roll away, expecting another blow—one he knew would probably kill him. He looked up as complete darkness fell like a pair of great black wings over the cathedral and pain took him away.

  * * *

  He woke looking up into the concerned face of a young uniformed officer.

  “Are you okay, sir?”

  Thin morning sunlight came into the farmhouse. He was lying on the floor in the main living area. Two other coppers leaned over Alan, who lay on the floor six feet away.

  Grainger rolled, tried to stand, but pain forced him back to the carpet.

  “Don’t move, sir. An ambulance is on its way.”

  “Alan?”

  “He’s better off than you, I think, sir. Unconscious, but alive and no bones broken by the looks of it.”

  Grainger saw where the young copper was looking and strained to see for himself. His left arm jutted out from him at a strange angle, almost hanging off, only held in place by stretched skin and sinew. Pain, almost unbearable pain, kicked in.