May.
"Lucy. Lucy Saunders!"
The hoarse voice echoed across the Rough Drain where the run-off from the gully at Corrieside found a flat level that was swampy and crowded with a tangle of scrub willow and twisted alder. The winking of torches could be seen as the line of searchers edged their way along the waste ground, some of them up to their thighs in the stagnant pools. Now an again, a beam would angle up towards the sky, seeming almost solid in the fine drizzling mist.
They searched all night, teams of policemen, workers just off the back shift at the shipyard. Neighbours from the row of houses at High Cross road, gardeners and pigeon fanciers who had their huts and allotments down the west side of the rough drain scrub. Every now and again, somebody would shout her name and the call would drift along the flatland. Everybody listened for the reply, the cry of pain, the whimper that would mean little Lucy Saunders was at least alive and with luck, maybe even well.
They searched all night and they found nothing.
Lucy Saunders was eight years old and she disappeared in the warm light of an early May afternoon. She had got the bike for her birthday in March, a little fairy two-wheeler and her dad Charlie Saunders had taken the stabilisers off only a fortnight before, down at the park where Lucy had wobbled her tentative way to learning to ride properly.
"There was a man," Chrissie McKane told John Fallon. He listened gravely, towering over Chrissie and her sister Janice who was only six. "We saw him on the path."
"What was he like?" John asked. He had a deep and rumbling voice, but despite that it conveyed gentleness and security. He gave the girls a smile and they grinned back.
"Big," Janice said. "A great big man and his hair was black like yours. But not short."
"Good girl. And where was he?"
"At the trees near the allotments," Chrissie said. "He was just standing looking at us and then he waved to us. Janice went across, but I said to her to come back. We had to go home."
"And then you saw Lucy?"
Both girls nodded. "She said she was going down to the shop. She asked if we would come with her, but we had to go home. She went round by the lane and we saw the man waving to her and then she went across to him."
"And what happened then?"
Chrissie shrugged. "We had to go home."
"He had twitchy eyes," little Janice said brightly. "Like this." She screwed her face into a grimace, narrowing her eyes to slits and blinked several times in rapid succession.
"Just like that. I think he had something in his eyes."
Twitchy Eyes.
Tom Tannahill and Doug Nicol had come across the searchers on their way up from the scout hall at Castlebank. Their only concern was that because of all the activity they couldn't cut across by the old willow that had fallen across another blowdown, creating a natural shelter. It was one of their places, out of the way of prying eyes where they and their friends could creep into for a smoke or a game of cards, or a fascinated scan of a crumpled black and white picture from the magazines they could swipe from the top shelf of Walter Dickson's shop.
They watched the line of men trampling through the gloom of the rough drain, calling out the little girl's name, one voice louder, more desperate than the rest and that had to be Charles Saunders of course.
One of the men passed quite close and Tom asked what was happening.
"A wee girl's gone missing," the man said. "The police think she's been taken away."
It was all revealed the following day. Little Lucy Saunders' bike had been found not forty yards from the corner where the McKane girls had seen the tall stranger with the dark hair and the twitch in his eyes. The bike had been thrown well away from the track, the front wheel and fork still brand new and shiny but the back end now covered in slime and mud where it had sunk into the marsh. Somebody spotted the cleat-marks of boots on the soft earth beside one of the many tracks that criss-crossed the barren ground and another found an imprint of a kid's sandal. They searched the whole of the wasteland and all the area around it, down past the allotments and the old dye works. The police tracker dogs were called in and they followed the trail of something as far as the edge of the Ladyburn steam where it took its dog-leg turn down to the castle and from there the trail went cold. Lucy Saunders was gone.
Danny Gillan's aunt Bernadette lived only two doors from the Saunders house and Danny had listened, sitting quietly doing his homework in the corner of the living room, as she told of the girl's mother's complete and utter collapse and how the sobbing had gone on all night.
"There's no hope now," Bernadette said. "Poor wee thing's been taken away and they'll find her in a ditch somewhere, raped and strangled and cut to pieces."
Bernadette's prophesy was fairly accurate, so it transpired.
August 1. 10 am:
"How did you manage to get away?" Corky asked. The other three had fallen behind, two of them struggling with the weight of the tent.
"It wasn't easy, but he believed the Scout camp story," Danny said, grinning. "But if he finds out, I'm right up the creek. He said I had to go to mass tomorrow, no matter what, so I'd better find out who the priest is. He's always trying to catch me out. Asks me what the sermon was about or what colour of robes the priest wears. Sometimes I'd be better off just going to chapel. If he catches me dodging, it's me that'll need a priest, that's for certain."
"Oh, he'll never find out," Corky assured his pal.
"Well, if he does, it'll be the Bad Fire for me. He's dead keen on the old hellfire."
"Still got it bad?"
Danny nodded. "You know what it's like. Everything gets round to prayers and the holy virgin."
"My old man never bothered with that. He doesn't like priests. Me neither. But he was always kicking the hell out of me."
"I know," Danny said. He'd seen the bruises many a time. "Same as my dad. He's started using the buckle end of the belt. Says I have to show an example to the rest of them and if I don't, he'll show me an example. I got a thick ear last night just for not kneeling up straight."
"That's a real bummer. Having to pray all night and then getting a smack, that's not fair."
"You're telling me. You've got it made. I sometimes wish my old man was in the jail sometimes."
He nudged Corky to let him know he was kidding. His friend took no offence.
"He'll be back in a month or so," Corky said. "With a bit of luck it'll get Phil off my back, He's been acting the hard man ever since my Da went into Drumbain. But sometimes the old man's just as bad. Once he gets a hold of a bottle then everybody has to stay out of his way. Sometimes he'll come looking anyway and if you think the buckle end of the belt's bad, you want to see what he can do with the toe of his boot."
Danny and Corky had grown up together, along with Doug and Billy. Tom had been born two streets away, but his family had moved down south when he was seven and had come back again only two years before, just after they found out Tom's little sister Maureen had leukaemia. Tom had fallen right back into the way of things until the winter when little Mo had died and then he'd gone quiet, hanging around on his own, and occasionally hanging around in the cemetery, close to his sister's grave. It was only when the spring had turned to high summer that he really started chucking around with the boys again, going down to the ganghut at the Rough Drain or even to the new place they'd found under the bridge, but he was still silent, still withdrawn. He was taking a long time to get to grips with his loss.
"My Ma just said to be careful," Corky said. "She's still scared of old Twitchy Eyes."
"She's not the only one. If my Mum found out I was going up the hills she'd throw a fit."
"He's gone," Corky said. "I heard they think he's topped himself."
"But they never found a body or anything."
"Only a matter of time. I just wished he'd grabbed Phil before he went," Corky said, very sincerely. "He's a crazy fool, so he is."
"He who calls his brother a fool is in danger of hell fire."
"Jeez Dan, wherever do you get all this crap?"
"That's one of the old man's favourites. It's in the bible."
Corky laughed aloud, head thrown back. "Well, I'm in for a right old roasting Danny Boy. I reckon I've called Phil a fool a million times."
"Maybe it doesn't work if you're telling the truth."
Danny glanced at Corky who looked back and then they both suddenly burst into a fit of laughter that swept through and over them, doubling them up so hard their sides hurt. It took them a while to chuckle it all out and it was the first real laughing Danny could remember since the spring. The sun was rising high over the oaks bordering the edge of the Corrieside Gully as they made their way up the hill in the warmth of the summer day. They were just two boys, only thirteen years old, glad to be out in the sun, glad to be out from under at last.
Behind them, tinny music floated up the slope of the path.
"Billy's brought his radio, silly idiot," Corky said. They sat down by the grass at the verge, waiting for the others to catch up. Corky leaned back and almost put his hand onto a wide cowpat and sent a riot of red dung flies whirling into the air.
Corky bared his teeth. "Remember the flies in the window?"
Danny nodded. His expression had gone flat and the bright twinkle of laughter faded from his eyes. "That could have been us, couldn't it?"
Jeff McGuire hadn't been the only youngster up on the roof behind the house on River Street. Corky and Danny and another fellow called Al Crombie had been on their way home from school, when they'd gone exploring up on the low roofs. You could always find a ball stuck up on the slates, or a birds nest in the eaves, even though it was still early in spring. All of the trouble was yet to erupt, so there was no reason to hurry home. They had gone clambering, pretending they were commandos, up and over the tin ridges and the swaybacked slopes on the roofs. Alan Crombie, who would have been with them on the trek to the Dummy Village if he hadn't been sent away, for safety's sake, to his uncle's farm at Creggan, had hooked a plastic toy glider out of a drainpipe.
They'd gone across the roof of the outhouse behind the old building and Corky had seen the movement in the window.
The flies had been crawling up the pane, hundreds of them, big and black, with that sheen of metallic blue at the edges. The three boys had stopped to look at the swarm on the glass, almost thick enough to cover half the window.
"Worth a look," Corky had said, but Danny had thought it was really creepy.
"There's millions of them. I read a story about flies that came and choked somebody to death and it gave me nightmares for weeks."
Just then, somebody shouted from a window of one of the tenements further along. A man was leaning out of a window and bawling at them to get down off the roof. The three of them had turned and scuttled over the ridge and down the far side, using the downpipe to get to the ground. They had forgotten all about the flies until Jeff McGuire had been a little bit more curious than they had. Now he was up in Barlane Hospital which was only one step away from being committed to Dalmoak where the real crazies were kept locked up.
"It could have been us," Danny said, giving a little shiver, though the day was warm.
"Flipping glad it wasn't." Corky said, chewing on a stem of grass he'd plucked. "Old Mole Hopkirk lying there with flies coming out of his mouth and all his hair growing across the floor. That would give you the heebie-jeebies. They say he was there for weeks and weeks and his nails just got longer and longer."
"If I'd have seen that," Danny said, "I'd have died on the spot. That would have been worse than Paulie Degman in the water and I had bad dreams for weeks after that."
Tom, Doug and Billy had almost reached them and the tiny music had swelled. Mick Jagger was growling that this could be the last time.
"Maybe the last time," Billy sang, well off-key. "I don't kn-o-ow...oh no."
"Give it a break Harrison," Corky told him, quite reasonably. "You can't sing for toffee."
"Great song that," Billy said. "But not as good as good ol' rock and roll."
"It is rock'n roll, idiot features."
"No. I mean the old stuff like Bill Haley and Elvis. My Ma's got dozens of records. Plays them all the time."
"So does our Phil. He's got all that old fashioned crap. He says Jagger's a poof and all the Beatles are big nancy boys." Corky turned to Danny and grinned. "Another step closer to hell for me. Phil really is a fool."
The other three looked at them askance. Danny and Corky burst into laughter again and the others watched them, wondering what the joke was. Billy waited until the end of the song and then turned the radio off. It was a tiny thing, hardly the size of a paperback, that he'd won by collecting tokens and you could pick up Radio Caroline, one of the pirate stations run from a boat of that name anchored just outside the official limit. Everybody agreed that the pirates were better at music and their deejays were far superior to anything on dry land. The radio was Billy's pride and joy.
They had reached the edge of the row of houses close to Cargill Farm Road that would take them up parallel to the Ladyburn Stream and then up onto the moorland. Here, the self-service general store served most of the families in the area. They came up round the back, still carrying the tent.
"How much have we got?" Doug said. They had pooled their money, not much of it, and certainly not enough for any expedition longer than a day. Corky told him not to worry as he unslung his haversack and brought out a bundle, wrapped in an old towel. He half unwrapped it until a beady eye showed, then a rounded head. It was a pigeon.
"What's that for?" Tom asked. Corky grinned.
"We can get what we want," he said. "You wait here and guard the tent". Billy laughed and Doug showed his big teeth. They followed Danny, who was holding the fistful of coins, into the shop and sauntered up the aisle while he went up the counter and pointed to the string of big beef sausages. He checked the price, saw that he could afford two pounds, and asked or it. Mrs Fortucci behind the counter, the mother of Brenda Fortucci who was a class above them in school and gifted with the most substantial breasts of anybody in the whole school, counted the sausages onto the weigh-plate, wrapped them, and passed them over. She cocked an eye up the aisle, checking on the other two. Danny was just handing over the change when the back door opened. He saw a hand push in, quick as a wink and then the sudden grey flutter.
The pigeon exploded into the air in a panicked clap of wings. A small downy feather tumbled out and rocked slowly as it fell towards the floor.
"What on earth...." Mrs Fortucci yelped. The pigeon came fluttering past her, heading for the window. It got half way there, saw the grille over the glass, veered, then flew in a tight, frenzied circle around the store.
"Oh, get it out of here," the woman squawked. She turned to the side and lifted a broom, swung it up into the air and started jabbing at the pigeon. Corky wasn't concerned. It was an old scrag from his father's pigeon loft, one of the street-tykes lured down b the big arrogant cock bird, and not a real homer. Even so, it was still easily fast enough to avoid the swinging brush head.
Up in the aisles, Doug and Billy were stuffing tins into their bags. Billy scooped cans of beans and tomato soup. Doug went for the corned beef and spam. He crossed the aisle, grabbed a loaf, stuffed it into his pack so hard that the paper burst, but he didn't stop. He spun and lifted a jar of strawberry jam and a packet of chocolate homewheat biscuits.
Above them the pigeon fluttered in a tight circle, wheeling round the light.
"I'll get it missus," Corky cried, running across from the back door. Beside him, the girl assistant was whooping in fright, hands clasped to her hair in the mistaken assumption that the bird's claws would get tangled in it. Corky crossed to the door, opened one side, then reached to swing the other, jamming it back. By now, Billy and Doug went out the back way. Light shone through the double doors and as soon as Corky moved away, the pigeon arrowed straight for the gap and swooped out into the summer air.
Mrs Fortucci dropped the brush, face flushed. Danny stood at the counter. She pointed at Corky.
"Come here," she said, beckoning with a thumb. Corky looked at Danny, wondered whether to make a break for the door, shrugged and came forward.
"I'd never have thought of that," Mrs Fortucci said. Her chest was heaving up and down, a vast double mound in magnificent motion. "That was good of you."
Corky shrugged again. She moved towards him and for a moment Danny thought she was going to hug him. He got a sudden vision of Danny disappearing into the deep valley and never coming out again. Mrs Fortucci passed him, heading straight for the till. She reached beyond it, lifted a large bar of chocolate and handed it to him.
"Can't stand birds in the shop," she said. "You go and enjoy it, son."
Corky almost burst out laughing, but he managed to keep it in until they were half-way up the farm track and then it all came out in a mirthful explosion. He sagged to the ground, dropping his end of the tent. Danny, holding his belly again, sat beside him. In a second they were all braying like hyenas. It took nearly five minutes before they could speak.
"Want a smoke?" Billy asked a while later, producing a packet. Doug took one and sat down on the rolled up tent. They were unfiltered full strength smokes that smelled like pipe tobacco. Doug inhaled, coughed heartily as the thick smoke dragged itself down into his lungs, and looked up at them, eyes brimming.
"Far to go now?" he asked through a dry throat.
"Miles and miles," Danny told him. "We've only just started."
"I'm whacked already."
Billy blew one of his famous smoke rings and made another one roll thorough the first. He'd been smoking since he was eight and had spent nearly six years practising the trick which he thought was just about the neatest party piece you could do.
"Great smoke. My old man used to smoke these in the war before he was killed."
The rest of them looked away hoping Billy wouldn't start about his war hero father.
"That's what my mum said. She's got a picture of him in his uniform and he's smoking a Capstan. Dead casual, like he's never been scared of anything."
Doug looked at Danny, a quick private glance.
"When we get up to this place," Billy continued. "And if we really find the dummy village, then I'm going to find something to bring back. Something from the war."
"Of course we'll find it," Corky said, trying to get Billy off the subject. Billy was fourteen and the oldest of them all and for most of his life he'd believed that his father had been a war hero, killed fighting the Germans. His ambition was to become a soldier when he grew up and go marching off, rifle in hand, to wreak his revenge. It was getting difficult for the rest of them to say nothing. They were hoping that Billy, who might have been the eldest but was academically the weakest, would do some mental arithmetic, some simple subtraction and come to the inevitable conclusion, and then shut the hell up. Nobody wanted to tell him to his face what he should already know.
"We should get going," Danny said. He stood up and took an end of the tent. Corky took the other and they hauled it up off the ground. Billy deftly nipped his cigarette and Doug tried the same manoeuvre without success. A red ember flew off the end and landed in the tall grass close to the hedge and immediately a wisp of smoke spiralled up. Billy stepped in and stamped hard.
"You'll set the whole place on fire," he said, giving Doug a shove.
Just then, something crackled, like a small branch breaking underfoot. It came from the shadows of the stand of trees on the other side of the track, and they all froze. Something moved again., a heavy object. Dry bramble runners snapped. Everybody looked at everybody else. Billy was about to speak but Corky held a finger to his lips. Ssssh!
Another footstep, slow and deliberate. Somebody was in the trees, moving towards them, hidden only by the sprawling hawthorn that lines the track.
"Phil?" Danny asked in a tight whisper. Corky shrugged.
"Have they followed us?" Tom asked softly. "Sneaky rotten shites"
They looked at each other again, all of them holding their breath. Out there in the shadows beyond the farm road, under the canopy of oak leaves, something was moving slowly towards them, using the forest as cover. Danny felt his scalp prickle. Doug turned on his heel and scooted up the track. Billy was right on his heels and then they were all running, going hell for leather despite the drag of the stolen booty and the weight of the rolled tent. Behind them the sounds faded as the distance widened but they didn't stop until they reached the ruins of the old shepherd's cottage at the far end of the lane far above the town.
Tom climbed up onto the crumbling wall, right up the gable slope and craned over the chimney to see back the way they'd come. He scanned over the hedge and saw the black and white cow come shambling out of the trees, munching on the dry grass in the corner of the narrow field.
"It's only a cow," he called down. "We ran away from a bloody cow."
The relief was so great they all started laughing again. It wasn't Phil and Pony McGill come to beat the living daylights out of them. And it wasn't anything worse that all of them had thought of and none of them had mentioned.
Billy said how if it had been Phil he'd have pulled his own knife and squared up to both of them and everybody just jeered that notion to scorn. Billy was tough when it came to talking but everybody knew Corky was the toughest of them all and even he would think twice about taking his brother Phil on in a serious square go.
They were still laughing when they turned and squeezed their way through the stile and headed up across the field of gorse, listening to the seeds snap and crackle in the heat of the sun, winding their way through the maze of vicious little spines, heading for the line of trees that separated the high and low pastures, the rugged moorland from the rich agricultural loam of the farms.
They were quite unaware that while they struggled with the tent and the weight of the rucksacks, a pair of black eyes watched them from the cover of the thick plantation high on the far hill.