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547 lines
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<h1>19</h1>
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<p><em>July: Blackwood Farm.</em></p>
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<p>Ian's gone and twisted his back again but he won't go to the
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doctor while there's a field yet to be cleared.</p>
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<p>Jean McColl's script was clean and rounded and she had an
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artistic swoop on the tails of letters below the feint lines.
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Thirty years and more had aged the ink from a dark to a faded blue,
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but they had not diluted the fresh quality of the farmer's wife's
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account:</p>
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<p>"He'll come in for his tea with a hand behind his back and his
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neck all red from bending away from it, just like last year and
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he'll say it's just stiff from sitting up on the tractor. God love
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him. He doesn't want me to worry and yet he'll never take a word of
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advice. I know where young Ian gets his stubborn streak. The new
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hand, Joyce, is working well enough though he hardly says a word
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and doesn't come in for his dinner, but takes it to the shed. They
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moved nearly ten tons of early Pentlands from of south field,
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though Ian thinks there's a chance of wireworm in the late crop
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since it's just been turned this year from old pasture.</p>
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<p>Two tinkers have a tent down by the road and they're to get
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staying for a day or so while they sharpen the scythes and do a bit
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of fencing, but Ian says they look a bit shifty for his liking and
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that's why they're not staying in the outhouse with the new man.
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Must get the shutter fixed. I thought I saw something moving in the
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yard and it could have been my imagination but the labourer's a bit
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of an odd one, though he can dig potatoes. A letter from young Ian
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today, saying his barley harvest will keep him busy for the next
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few weeks, but he says he'll be coming to visit at the end of
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August. I wish he'd bring me news of a different kind of crop, but
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I'm supposed to be patient.</p>
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<p>The cats have laid out four rats in a row behind the hayrick, as
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if they expect applause for doing their job. The owl in the barn
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took a weasel right on the path and that's one less to be in after
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the chickens. Morag's been lying in the sun behind the byre. I
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don't see her making another winter, poor old soul, so we'd better
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start training another collie soon for next year's rounding.</p>
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<p>Picked peas today and shelled them all afternoon. I'll be seeing
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them in my sleep. There was a Flanders poppy growing in amongst
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them, a big scarlet flower standing above the pods. Inside it was
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the most delicate purple. Shame to pick it, but they only last a
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day. I wore a dress that shade of purple to the harvest dance the
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year I got engaged. Ian Blackwood looked me up and down as if I was
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royalty. I could have cried when I picked it, but it was lovely
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just remembering. Better look out the liniment for his back.</p>
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<p>The Flanders poppy, each petal wide and veined like a
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butterfly's wings, was pressed flat between the leaves of the book.
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The red had turned to a deep brown. Beside it, just below the
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script, done in pencil, was a small sketch of a barn own, wings
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raised, legs outstretched beyond the heart-shaped head, talons
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spread wide. The weasel was in the act of turning, a slender and
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sinuous shape on a stony farm track. Both had been drawn by a deft
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and confident hand, a thumbnail etching of a small death at
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Blackwood Farm on a summer's day. All of the years since it was
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drawn had not diminished the action or the finality of the
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swoop.</p>
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<hr />
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<p>He had watched the woman. She had looked at him with her
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bird-quick eyes, and the pounding had started again in his
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head.</p>
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<p>It had been hard work, trailing behind the rake spines of the
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tractor, hooking the potatoes out of the ground with the wide-blade
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fork, bending and lifting, exposing the white, almost skinless crop
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like lizard's eggs, to the light of day. It had been hot and
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sweaty, just him and the farmer out in the field, bending and
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lifting, then stacking the sacks on the trailer. They'd had a break
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at mid-morning, just enough time for a cup of tea from the flask,
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then back to work. Just after noon, they'd stopped again. Blackwood
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had turned the tractor around and they'd come trundling back to the
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farm to stack the sacks.</p>
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<p>He had been here for three days, and he'd been watching them.
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The light stayed in the sky until late, darkening it down to a
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gloaming purple that hid movement. Through the narrow window, she'd
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be writing in her book and he would be hunched over his model boat,
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both of them, hardly saying a word, as if they knew that the shadow
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of death was upon them.</p>
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<p>He could stand still, motionless so that the dogs stayed quiet
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and didn't start up their racketing as they had the first night. In
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the dark, he'd be invisible. The light inside would reflect back
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from the glass, making out opaque. He could stand here and he could
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watch and wait.</p>
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<p>The shadow was on them. <em>The shadow of the valley...</em></p>
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<p>When they came back from the field, the woman had left his meal
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on the barrel out by the door of the outhouse, a tray covered by a
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white linen cloth to keep the flies away. She had invited him
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inside to eat with them, but he wanted to eat alone, so she just
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left it for him. Strong cheese, light crusted bread and translucent
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strips of cured ham. A side dish of lettuce and spring onions and
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green tomato chutney. A ploughman's lunch.</p>
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<p>He ate in silence, chewing carefully and washing every mouthful
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down with a drink of thick, warm milk from the jug. The light
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slanted through the old shutters of the shed where he sat on the
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low bunk. It formed brilliant chevrons against the wall.</p>
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<p>He blinked against the glare, chewing. The light was in his eyes
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and he felt the pressure build.</p>
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<p>She came out of the kitchen and into the yard lugging a steaming
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kettle which she placed on the ground beside a tin basin. The
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farmer followed her, patting his belly and then arching his back as
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if he wanted to stretch the kinks and knots away. From the shadow
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in the bunkhouse he saw them caught in the light. Their shadows
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puddled on the cobbles where two cats snoozed. Around them, he
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could see the dark aura that told him the shadow of death was on
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them. It was close at hand. He could sense it pressing in. The time
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was nearing.</p>
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<p>The farmer went towards his tractor, heavy boots crunching on
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the slabs. The woman moved to the chicken coop. He could hear the
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rattle of the wire-mesh door and the cluck and flutter of the hens
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as she went among them. The smells of the farm came thick on the
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air. Beyond the coop, the manure heap, enclosed by walls of stone,
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angled away from the small byre, empty for now, but crowded with
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the half-dozen milking cows at four o'clock when they'd come
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shambling in from the pasture. Swallows came flicking in and out,
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red and blue streaks on the summer air. Overhead, squadrons of
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swifts wheeled and squealed. A mouse, or maybe a rat, rustled and
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scurried in the next-door tack room where the old bridles and
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harnesses lay in a heap or hung from rusted nails.</p>
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<p>She came back, walking quickly, almost bird-like, holding a
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white chicken by the feet. It fluttered and flapped in a panic as
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she crossed the yard to the block. Without any hesitation she laid
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the chicken across it, pressing down so that it's head was over the
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edge of the block. She jiggled the hand-axe until the blade popped
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free of the wood, swung it up and then down. The chicken's wings
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whirred in a sudden spasm as blood spurted from the neck. The head
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spun away to land close to the door of the outhouse. Its yellow eye
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stared up into the dark of the doorway.</p>
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<p>The smell of hot blood came wafting up.</p>
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<p>The sunlight glared from the whitewashed walls of the kitchen.
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The light was in his eyes and he could see the shadow on the woman.
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He could hear the approach of the wings. There was a buzzing as
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flies circled the chicken's severed head. His eyes started to
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blink.</p>
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<hr />
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<p>It was as she expected. Ian had come in with a hand pressed to
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the small of his back but it hadn't dented his appetite. He'd left
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only one slice of the ham and two thick wads of bread, wolfing the
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rest with relish. She'd had some soup and a cup of tea and little
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else, not wanting to spoil her own appetite for dinner. Ian had
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been pleased about the crop which would be in at the end of the
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week and down to the co-op store. She said she'd kill a chicken for
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dinner and he'd nodded cheerfully.</p>
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<p>"Make it a big one," he'd said, giving her a squeeze as she
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passed him on the way out with the freshly boiled kettle. "We'll be
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starving when we get back."</p>
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<p>The chicken's head flew away and after the flurry of spastic
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wingbeats, the bird went still but for the slow clenching of the
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scaly feet into right talon-fists. Ian was over at the tractor,
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while she poured the boiling water over the carcass to loosen the
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feathers and damp them down. As she stood up, she had the strange
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sensation of being watched, but when she raised her eyes there was
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no-one there. Against the whitewash glare, the outhouse door was a
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black oval, like a bottomless hole.</p>
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<p>Jeannie McColl plucked the chicken with deft, sure twists of her
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nimble hands, working from tail to neck. The axe lopped off the
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ends of the wings and within minutes the bird was bare and pimpled,
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steaming slightly as it gave up its heat. She slung the sodden
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feathers onto the dung-heap and took the chicken back to the
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kitchen. At the sink, she ran the water and opened the bird,
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watching the drain darken in a spiral as the blood flowed away.</p>
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<p>She bent to the task. Already the leeks and carrots were lined
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up waiting to be cleaned and chopped and if she got the bird into
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the oven early, letting it cook in its own juices for a few hours,
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she'd manage to get the washing out and dried. It was still soaking
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in the stone tub in the washhouse where a trickle of smoke curled
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out of the boiler chimney.</p>
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<p>The man they'd accepted as Les Joyce came walking out through
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the black hole of the doorway. The movement caught her eye and she
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looked up. He took two steps out and stopped, with his head cocked
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to one side. His eyebrows went up as if he was considering
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something. She saw his lips move and then the eyes blinked, twice,
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three times, very fast, screwed all the way closed as if he'd
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bitten into a bitter gooseberry.</p>
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<p>Outside the cockerel crowed again and its rival challenged from
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the other side of the yard.</p>
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<p>The man stopped and blinked some more, then he bent slowly and
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picked up the chicken head. He held it up, turning it in his hands
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as if he'd found something of great interest. A drop of blood fell
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to the cobble, leaving a stain that looked black on the stone.</p>
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<p>Ian called from across the way, but the man seemed not to have
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heard. He had taken off his shirt and she could see the tattoo high
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on his arm, dark against smooth, lightly tanned skin. His lower
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arms were matted with hair. He stood up straight, tall and spare,
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his hair glistening so black it was almost blue. Ian called out
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again. The man turned and went back to the doorway. He raised the
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chicken head up to head height, holding the door steady with one
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hand while he scraped the severed neck across the paint-peeled
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wood.</p>
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<p>Jean leaned forward, perplexed, leaving her own bloody
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hand-print on the window-sill.</p>
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<p>The man repeated the motion twice and then he daubed the
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bloodied neck on the doorposts and on the wooden lintel above it.
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When he finished, he casually threw the chicken head over his
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shoulder. It bounced and skittered against an old trough.
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Immediately a twisting whirl of flies danced over it. The door of
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the outhouse closed and she saw what he'd done.</p>
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<p>A dark red cross was slashed on the wood. Some of the blood was
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running in small dribbles, but the cross itself was plain enough.
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On either side and above it, splashes stained the grey wood.</p>
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<p>The man with the tattoos turned slowly and walked in front of
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the byre. He reached the chopping block and stood there as if
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listening for something, head twisted, straining to hear. His hand
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reached out and worked the axe out of the wood again.</p>
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<p>A cold sensation twisted in the pit of her stomach. She raised
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her hand further and pulled back the net curtain, leaving another
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stain. She leaned towards the window, craning to the left. Ian
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walked into view. He was saying something and wiping at his head
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with his handkerchief.</p>
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<p>The man swayed backwards and his eyes twitched again. Ian leaned
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towards him. The axe came free. Ian turned towards the motion and
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the sucking sound of metal pulling from wood.</p>
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<p>Jean called out, no words, just an inarticulate cry. Fear
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suddenly pulsed within her.</p>
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<p>The man spun quickly, bringing the axe up and then down in a
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fast arc. Ian jerked away from it. The blade came down and caught
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him hard on the left shoulder.</p>
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<p>"Oh," he said. He sagged to the left, head following the motion.
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His handkerchief fluttered to the ground.</p>
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<p>The tall man stood blinking, face expressionless. Her husband
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spun away and went down on one knee. For an instant she thought the
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blade had missed him, that the man had only hit him with the wooden
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haft of the kindling axe. Ian turned and she saw the look of
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surprise on his face. His hat rolled from his bib pocket and down
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onto the cobbles. His arm was twisted at a strange angle and the
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fingers were twitching with a life of their own.</p>
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<p>The big man took a step forward, flattening the white flutter of
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cloth into the muck. Ian lifted his head up and his mouth formed a
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perfect circle. The blood seemed to drain away from his red face.
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Joyce looked at him, bending forward from the waist, like a
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gardener inspecting a rose.</p>
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<p>In the kitchen, Jean tried to call out again but the words
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wouldn't come. Over on the far side, against the wall of the byre,
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the cat sensed violence and slunk away. Ian let out a moan or a
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groan, loud enough to carry over to the kitchen. It was a dreadful
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sound of shock and gathering pain.</p>
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<p>Joyce straightened up, twisted again and brought the hatchet
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down on Ian's other shoulder. Her husband cried out, a horrible
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animal bellow. Blood did not spurt. It simply washed down the front
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of his shirt in an instant flood, turning the blue chambray to a
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silky black.</p>
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<p>A wave of sick dizziness engulfed her and she felt herself sag
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back from the window. The net curtain ripped at the corner under
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her weight. The dizziness passed over her. Her eyes opened and
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without warning she was sick. It came blurting up, hot and acid,
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only tea and the crumbs of a scone, some barley soup. It spat onto
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the surface beside the sink.</p>
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<p>Ian was down on the ground. He toppled forward and one hand went
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out to stop himself falling, but there was no strength in the arm
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and it gave way under him. He twisted and fell hard, rolling over
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on to his back. He groaned, like an animal. His momentum carried
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him round and he got slowly to one knee, moving as if through
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treacle. The back of his shirt was soaked right down to where it
|
||
|
|
was tucked into his bib-overalls. His head was angled to the side
|
||
|
|
and she could see the sun glisten silver on the stubble of his
|
||
|
|
cheek. The left arm was still jittering as if it wanted to fly
|
||
|
|
away, but his shoulder was impossibly slumped and the stream of
|
||
|
|
blood was right down the length of his sleeve to where it was
|
||
|
|
rolled up at the elbow. Dark drops went splashing off to the
|
||
|
|
ground. Ian got one foot under him, managed to push himself up onto
|
||
|
|
one knee. Joyce took three steps back and watched him, blinking
|
||
|
|
fast. Ian looked up, his face twisted in agony and shock, eyes wide
|
||
|
|
and unbelieving.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Jean's sick paralysis broke. She turned away from the window,
|
||
|
|
hauling for breath. Outside the cockerel crowed again. She went
|
||
|
|
round in a complete circle, banged her hip against the heavy table.
|
||
|
|
For a second she did not know what she was doing, and then her eyes
|
||
|
|
lit on the blackened poker leaning against the oven. She bent and
|
||
|
|
grabbed it, got her other hand to the warm metal handle and ran for
|
||
|
|
the door.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Out in the sunlight the air was thick with the metallic scent of
|
||
|
|
blood, but it smelled different from the thin chicken's blood on
|
||
|
|
the worn stones. This was human blood, her husband's blood.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>"<em>No Jean</em>," she heard him cry, though the words were
|
||
|
|
hardly intelligible. They came out in a slobber and she saw a
|
||
|
|
bubble of blood froth up. Joyce waded back in again and hit him on
|
||
|
|
the jaw. For some reason the blade twisted and the axe hit flat-on
|
||
|
|
with a hard clank.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>This time Ian screamed. There was no other way to describe it.
|
||
|
|
There were no words, just a high bleat of sound, like the pigs in
|
||
|
|
the slaughter pen. His jaw fell to the side and another bubble of
|
||
|
|
blood burst between his wide open sagging lips.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>The dizziness threatened to come and carry her away, a dreadful
|
||
|
|
rolling dark wave that made her knees want to buckle. She staggered
|
||
|
|
forward and raised the poker. Ian's eyes opened wide. She could see
|
||
|
|
the enormous chasms the axe had ploughed on either side of his
|
||
|
|
neck, making both shoulders slump downwards. The blood pulsed up
|
||
|
|
and out at the turned-down collar of his shirt. She went stumbling
|
||
|
|
forward, gathering all of her strength.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>A black and white streak flicked in front of her. She had heard
|
||
|
|
it first, although in her horror and fear the sound had not managed
|
||
|
|
to get through to her consciousness.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Morag leapt up, growling in fury. Her jaws opened and snapped
|
||
|
|
shut on the man's upraised arm. Joyce was a big man and Morag, ten
|
||
|
|
years old that summer, was an old dog, but he was taken by surprise
|
||
|
|
and the weight of her charge throw him off balance. The collie
|
||
|
|
snarled and sank her teeth in. Joyce grunted, but it was a grunt of
|
||
|
|
effort, not of pain. He dropped the axe.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Jean did not stop, she ran straight in and swung the poker at
|
||
|
|
the man's head. It missed but it slammed against his shoulder with
|
||
|
|
enough force to send such a jarring vibration up her arm that the
|
||
|
|
metal rod flew out of her hands and landed with a clatter in the
|
||
|
|
yard. Joyce didn't so much as look at her. He turned again, grabbed
|
||
|
|
the collie by the neck and dragged it off his arm.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Morag snarled. He didn't seem to notice. He pivoted on his foot
|
||
|
|
and threw the dog down. Jean bent to pick up the axe, got her
|
||
|
|
fingers around it and spun round. She swung it, even harder than
|
||
|
|
she had swung the poker. Trying to crash the blade right into
|
||
|
|
Joyce's blinking eyes.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>The man's hand reached up and stopped the axe in mid thrust.
|
||
|
|
With a simple twist of his wrist, he snatched it from her.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>"The gun, Jeannie," Ian managed to blurt. "For pity's sake, get
|
||
|
|
the gun. Save yourself.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Morag came streaking in again, lips drawn back in a ferocious
|
||
|
|
snarl. Joyce whipped the axe down and split her skull. The old dog
|
||
|
|
dropped like a stone and flopped to the cobbles.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>"Oh," Ian said again, in a sick expulsion of air.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Joyce walked towards him and Ian's eyes widened. Blood dripped
|
||
|
|
from the hatchet. Jean tried to cry out but no sound came.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>"Gun," her husband muttered, still thinking of her, even in the
|
||
|
|
extremity.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>She turned, apron flapping, skittered into the kitchen. She
|
||
|
|
bolted through, feet pattering on the hard slate floor and into the
|
||
|
|
hallway. The gun-rack stood against the door. She opened it and
|
||
|
|
grabbed the double-barrelled twelve-bore, pulled it away from the
|
||
|
|
wood panel at the back of the rack. She stopped dead.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>The chain pulled taut on the trigger guard. The gun was
|
||
|
|
padlocked in the rack beside its neighbour, an ancient Spanish
|
||
|
|
birdgun that Ian had inherited from his father. He'd always kept it
|
||
|
|
locked, since their son had been small, just in case of accidents,
|
||
|
|
just in case young Ian wanted to play with the guns. It had become
|
||
|
|
a habit.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>The nausea came looping again. A slimy spittle coughed form her
|
||
|
|
mouth and stained the wood. The chain rattled but it would not come
|
||
|
|
loose.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p><em>Find the key. Find the key</em>. It was on Ian's chain. It
|
||
|
|
would be in his pocket!</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Jacket or trousers? She scampered back to the kitchen. His
|
||
|
|
jacket was on the back of the chair. She grabbed it, shaking it for
|
||
|
|
the sound of jangling keys. A boiled mint sweet rolled out and onto
|
||
|
|
the floor. The keys were not there.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p><em>Must be in his overalls</em>. The realisation came in a
|
||
|
|
shiver of cold.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>She groped her way to the window again and brushed the curtain
|
||
|
|
back slowly, suddenly absolutely terrified for her own life. She
|
||
|
|
might yet get the keys. She could get them and get the gun and
|
||
|
|
shoot him and get Ian on to the tractor and down to the hospital at
|
||
|
|
Lochend. She stood on tiptoe and peered out.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Joyce was walking towards the byre, his whole body leaning
|
||
|
|
forward. If she could get the gun, she'd shoot him in the back. He
|
||
|
|
wouldn't even see her.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Joyce walked further, coming fully into view. He was dragging
|
||
|
|
Ian by the foot. Her husband's shoe had come off and his sock had
|
||
|
|
rolled down. The friction of the ground had pulled his overalls
|
||
|
|
back and several inches of white leg showed. The man was dragging
|
||
|
|
him along, leaving a slick trail of blood on the cobbles. Two of
|
||
|
|
the terriers who had been exploring at the rabbit warren down by
|
||
|
|
the coppice came snuffling into the yard. They reached the trail of
|
||
|
|
blood and bent to sniff it. They whined, confused. Joyce did not
|
||
|
|
stop. He dragged Ian McColl into the byre. Jean watched, listening
|
||
|
|
to the dreadful scrape of wet material against the ground. Her
|
||
|
|
husband's head bumped against the low step and he made a low
|
||
|
|
sound.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>He was still alive.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>His red head disappeared into the shadow and that was the last
|
||
|
|
she saw of him.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Jean stood frozen, unable to comprehend what had happened. The
|
||
|
|
dizziness rolled inside her again and her vision faded once more.
|
||
|
|
She held tight to the sink, gasping for breath and in a moment her
|
||
|
|
lungs were pistoning uncontrollably in a sudden spasm of
|
||
|
|
hyperventilation. She fell over the old sink, feeling the edge
|
||
|
|
press against her chest, and the spasm passed.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>The gun. She could get it now. Joyce was in the byre. She forced
|
||
|
|
herself to move, got away from the sink and made it to the door.
|
||
|
|
The axe was lying in the middle of the yard. She darted out into
|
||
|
|
the bright day, bent and snatched it up. Her husband's blood
|
||
|
|
trickled down the handle. Her feet were in a puddle of it but she
|
||
|
|
couldn't think about that now. She knew he was alive. He'd be in
|
||
|
|
dreadful pain, and he had lost so much blood, but he could still
|
||
|
|
make it. She could still make him live if she could get the
|
||
|
|
gun.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>The scraping, dragging sound echoed out from the byre. She
|
||
|
|
squirmed from it and backed into the kitchen, following her route
|
||
|
|
again. She got to the gun cabinet and saw the black barrels of the
|
||
|
|
twelve-bore leaning outwards. Without hesitation she chopped at the
|
||
|
|
chain, trying to hit it against the heavy oak shelf. Wood
|
||
|
|
splintered. Twice the axe bit into the base of the rack and she had
|
||
|
|
to jack it back and forth, making it squeal to release it again.
|
||
|
|
She swung hard, managing to bite down on the chain, but there was
|
||
|
|
no effect. The force of the blow merely pressed the steel links
|
||
|
|
into the wood.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Sobbing sore, she tried again and again, swinging the hatchet
|
||
|
|
down as hard as she could.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Out in the yard, the terriers set up a frenzied yapping. Jean
|
||
|
|
stopped swinging the axe and looked out through the front door.
|
||
|
|
Joyce was walking fast, coming diagonally from the barn to the
|
||
|
|
house, heading straight for her. In his hands he swung the old
|
||
|
|
chopping axe, the one Ian used for the winter logs. Even in the
|
||
|
|
height of her terror and desperation she realised she would have no
|
||
|
|
chance against it. Instinctively she slammed the door and hit the
|
||
|
|
deadlock snib. Both shotguns were now leaning out from the rack,
|
||
|
|
black and deadly and completely useless. She ran down the hall,
|
||
|
|
went through to the living room, changed her mind and came back
|
||
|
|
again. A shadow loomed at the door, wavering at the other side of
|
||
|
|
the frosted glass and then the whole pane crashed inwards. The
|
||
|
|
man's hand came through, reaching for the Yale handle and found it
|
||
|
|
snibbed shut. She didn't wait, but dashed back to the kitchen,
|
||
|
|
right through to the back room and straight up the wooden
|
||
|
|
stairs.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>A ferocious crash followed her, followed by the hard slam of the
|
||
|
|
front door against the wall. Jean didn't stop. She got through the
|
||
|
|
bedroom and into her work room, where her ironing board and sewing
|
||
|
|
machine were laid out almost side by side, close to the old radio
|
||
|
|
beside the rocking chair where she used to sit and crochet while
|
||
|
|
listening to the evening plays. The door had a heavy iron latch
|
||
|
|
which she clicked home. In here, with the shutters closed, it was
|
||
|
|
dark and warm. A chink of bright sunlight knifed through a crack in
|
||
|
|
the old wood and slipped a blade of silver across the room. Dust
|
||
|
|
motes danced in the light.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>The muffled thud of the axe came pounding up from the hallway
|
||
|
|
and she shivered. He would kill her. He had killed her husband
|
||
|
|
without a thought, chopped him down like an animal. Her jittering
|
||
|
|
mind screened a picture of Ian trying to get to his feet with both
|
||
|
|
shoulders horribly slumped away from his neck and the sheen of
|
||
|
|
blood silken on his shirt.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Down there, beyond the workroom door, beyond the bedroom and
|
||
|
|
down the stairs, the crashing noise came again. Once, twice, then
|
||
|
|
another two thuds. There was a silence that stretched for a long
|
||
|
|
time. She cold hear her heart beating fast against her ribs and
|
||
|
|
both her hands fluttered uncontrollably. She moved unsteadily to
|
||
|
|
the window, trying to slow her breathing, to make it be quiet. On
|
||
|
|
the dresser, sliced by the blade of light, her diary lay angled
|
||
|
|
towards her.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>She moved towards it and right at that moment a thunderous roar
|
||
|
|
shook the walls. Joyce had the guns. He had got them out of the
|
||
|
|
cabinet.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>In that moment, she knew she was dead. He was going to kill her.
|
||
|
|
She could not get away.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Jean McColl slowly reached for the book and slid it towards her.
|
||
|
|
Out in the byre, Ian let out a loud and shuddering cry and her
|
||
|
|
heart almost broke in two.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>Down in the hallway, she could hear Joyce walking about, his
|
||
|
|
feet crunching on the glass where the window had caved in. He would
|
||
|
|
come looking for her, that she knew. There was no escape for her.
|
||
|
|
Ian groaned again and she tried not to listen to it. She prayed
|
||
|
|
with all her heart for it to be quick and then she sat in the
|
||
|
|
corner and made her hand be steady.</p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
<p>She began to write quickly in her book.</p>
|
||
|
|
</div>
|
||
|
|
</div>
|
||
|
|
</body>
|
||
|
|
</html>
|