by Pat Young
Joe put the Land Rover into gear and the car lurched forward. He pulled hard on the steering wheel and the full beam swung in an arc across the dark landscape. The old car started to move down the hill towards the loch.
‘You’re going the wrong way, Joe,’ said Smeaton, his voice a patronising mix of sympathy and impatience. ‘The road’s the other direction.’
As they rolled nearer to the water, the headlights picked out the loch, laying a silver pathway across its surface.
‘Where in God’s name are you going, man?’
Joe stamped on the brakes and the car shuddered to a halt, jolting Smeaton forward. Joe grabbed a bungee cord, flipped it over the back of the seat and joined the two ends in front of Smeaton’s blanket-wrapped body.
Smeaton wriggled like an amateur Houdini as he tried to free his trapped arms. ‘Are you crazy?’
Joe thought about taping Smeaton’s mouth shut, but decided against it. ‘Ach, I’ll let you breathe,’ he murmured, as if he were doing the man a favour.
‘Joe, let me go, please.’
‘No way. Here’s what’s gonna happen.’ Joe leaned forward and tapped the dashboard affectionately. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know anything about an old car like this and how it works, so let me tell you. The gearing is so low that, when I put her into first gear, this old girl will start to move, without any need for a foot on the accelerator. Did you know that? No? Then, even if I get out of the car, she will gently coast, with no assistance from me, towards her final resting place. Which, incidentally, will also be yours.’ Joe pointed towards the loch. The headlights reflecting off the water cast enough light for him to see the terror in Thomas Smeaton’s eyes.
‘No, no, no. This isn’t right.’
‘I agree. She should have a much classier ending than this but drowning’s a better one than you deserve.’
‘Drowning? You can’t do that.’
Joe laughed, low and bitter. ‘Just watch.’
‘Oh, please God, no.’
‘Not sure your God can help you now, Mr Smeaton, but it might be time to start praying in earnest, just in case.’
‘Joe, listen. You can’t drown me. That’s not the type of man you are.’
‘You know nothing about the kind of man I am.’
‘I know you’re a decent man. I know you wanted only the best for the kids in your care. I know you felt responsible for their futures.’
A voice in Joe’s head was telling him to get on with it. Drown the bastard and walk away. Don’t listen to him. ‘Tell me something. If you know I’m such a good guy why did you treat me so badly?’
‘Because you were trouble, right from the start. Always causing me to question my decisions.’
‘So you did sometimes question your decisions? And yet you insisted on going ahead with the one to shut the bothy?’
‘Listen to me, for God’s sake, man. I’ll open it again, if you let me go. I promise. Come on, Joe. Please, I beg you. Don’t do this and I’ll owe you. Anything you want, I’ll see you get it. Your job back, the bothy re-opened. Anything. You name it.’
Joe looked at Smeaton’s face. He didn’t believe a word the man said.
‘Please, can you take this rope thing off me? At least do that. Give me a chance.’
‘Why should I? You’ve had plenty of chances. I’ve begged you in the past and now you’re begging me. How does it feel?’
‘This is different, Joe.’
‘How is it different? I was begging for my boys.’
‘I’m begging for my life,’ said Smeaton, lowering his voice, ‘and I think you’ll grant it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t believe you’re a killer. You haven’t got it in you.’
***
CHAPTER 95
Joe had heard enough. He couldn’t bear to listen to another evil, manipulative word. He put his hands over his ears and kicked the door open. He slammed it shut and walked away, trying to block out Smeaton’s pathetic whining. He needed space. He needed time to think.
Nothing was going according to plan. Smeaton should have been shot dead and and buried in a deep grave amongst the heather by now. Instead the man was still alive and still messing with Joe’s head. He wanted so badly to do everyone a favour, exact the ultimate revenge and rid the world of Smeaton. So why not just get on with it?
Behind him, the old car suddenly roared, revving into life. Smeaton had somehow managed to get into the driver’s seat. He was going to steal the car. He was going to get away.
Joe ran to the water’s edge and stopped. He knew how hard he had to pull on that old steering wheel to turn the car. Sometimes it took all his strength. Smeaton had gone without food and drink for days and he’d been drugged senseless twice. He was no match for this car.
The Land Rover ploughed on through the shallow water, barely deviating from its path. Joe could see Smeaton desperately trying to steer away from the danger. The car refused to cooperate, as if it had a mind of its own.
Joe shouted, ‘The handbrake’s fucked! Use the brakes.’
Smeaton turned to the driver’s door and Joe could see him battling with it. He had no chance. Not unless he knew to kick it in just the right place.
Joe raced into the shallows, compelled to help before it was too late. Maybe he could wrench open the door and haul Smeaton to safety. Joe grabbed the handle and tugged, but the door was too old, too heavy, too jammed and already too deep in the water.
‘Open the window!’ he shouted, hammering on the glass. Counter-intuitive though it was to let water into a sinking car, Joe knew it was the only way to escape.
Smeaton’s face appeared in the window, a horror mask, white with fear and desperation. His hands clawed at the glass and his mouth gaped, terrified.
Joe waded through the water, trying to keep up with the car. ‘For Christ’s sake, wind down the window. Now!’
The car rolled on, slow as a hearse. Black water crept up its sides as the floor of the loch began to drop away. Joe followed, the instinct to save a life powerful enough to draw him further in than was safe.
Chest-deep, he suddenly stopped, the icy water bringing him, at last, to his senses.
His faithful old Land Rover chugged past him on its last journey, and he banged a farewell fist on the tailgate. The headlights caught the silvery flash of a fish before dimming one final time. In the distance an owl hooted, its voice echoing across the dark landscape. As he waded towards the shore Joe imagined its cry joining Smeaton’s screams in a grotesque harmony.
For a few moments Joe stood at the water’s edge, examining his conscience. When he found it was clear and clean, he turned his back and walked away.
At the top of the slope Joe paused, shivering, and watched the brief maelstrom as car and passenger sank to the depths. The loch folded watery arms over its dark secret and settled into silence.
THE END
Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
Writing a book is the easy part. Getting it ready for publication is much more of a slog. Thanks to my readers who make all the hard work worthwhile – I hope you enjoy this one.
I am grateful, as always, to the many friends who read my earliest efforts. Linda Pryde, Winnie Goodwin, Stef Brierley (nee Young), Margo McAllister and (as always) Farley Weir helped a lot with this one. Thanks to my lovely sister-in-law Caren Young, whose feedback and praise I always value. Remember when you asked me how I got Joe’s boys to sound so realistic? 'One of the perks of teaching!' I said.
For information and advice on Roman Catholic doctrine, I owe a debt of gratitude to my very dear friends, Margaret and Gerald Donachie. Thank you, Alex McAllister, for sharing your experience and advice on matters police-related. You’re a good pal.
More recently Revenge Runs Deep was read by a new team of beta readers whose feedback was invaluable. Mandy Fullerton, Nicola Prigg, Suzy Kelly, Patsy O’ Neill, Julie-Anne Gard and Cherry Thatcher - stand up and take a bow.
Thanks to Su
san Barry, aka Susan Sinha, co-owner of the fabulous Celt Irish Pub in Carcassonne, for giving Big Sean his authentic Irish voice and for warmly hosting my book events.
One reader parted with more than the price of a book. At an auction in aid of the wonderful Ayrshire Hospice, Sheila Scott’s generous bid won her the right to be named as a character. Hope you like your namesake, Sheila.
Thanks to Sarah Hardy for her invaluable advice and for organising the blog tour. Thank you to all the bloggers and reviewers who support me, in particular, Sharon Bairden, cover revealer extraordinaire.
Many thanks also to those who’ve helped me live the dream by inviting me to appear in their libraries or at their amazing events: Bloody Scotland, Tidelines and the Boswell Book Festival.
For countless cups of tea, (allowed to go cold and undrunk when I’m lost in the story) and for endless support and advice, thanks and love to my best friend and soul-mate, Grant.
Finally, to Team Kelly: Michael for amazing cover design and Suzy for formatting and countless other bits of help and advice, thank you so much. I could never have done it without you.
