Blair Bryden's story had coined the phrase and it stuck. Newspapers prefer it when the crazed and the criminal have tags to hang their stories on.
SHRIKE!
The tabloids and the broadsheets blasted the name from every front page.
SHRIKE: Teenage Victims Impaled. Shrike Strikes in Police Cell: Policeman Brutally Murdered.
NIGHT SHRIKE: The town which lives in fear!
And because most people hadn't the foggiest clue what a shrike actually was, they wheeled on a famous naturalist and bird watcher, who had already been thrown off three Scottish islands because the farmers objected to his protection plans for the geese which were eating them out of crop, field and homestead.
"The Shrike," he expounded on every networked news programme, "is a little bird with a very nasty habit. It feeds on lizards, frogs and often helpless nestlings of other birds which it impales on the spines of a thorn-bush which it uses for its larder."
A photograph of a neat little bird flicked up on the screens, a bright-eyed, sparrow-sized and quick moving thing with an elegant red back, a black stripe covering its eye and beak with a delicately fearsome, almost hawk-like curve. The picture immediately flicked to a filmed scene of a bird with a small naked nestling still wriggling helplessly in its beak, forcing the blind wingless creature down onto a blackthorn spike. The baby bird squirmed as its outsized head was forced down onto the sharp thorn. The shrike bobbed its head vigorously, hammering down on its victim and the spine came forcing up between the bulbous closed eyes. The nestling wriggled a little more then went still.
"Lanius cristatus," the popular ornithologist said, "is an efficient predator and carnivore which revels in its nickname, the Butcher Bird. It is such a successful hunter, that many of its impaled victims are uneaten, and decompose where they hang." The picture panned left, showing an array of pitiful little bodies, feet dangling groundwards, some of them shrivelled and dry.
Massive Hunt for the Shrike, the papers shrieked, and that was true enough. Two busloads of policemen drawn from divisions all over the region had been drafted in to comb every inch of the town. Every school in the Levenford closed its doors at two thirty and squad cars followed the clusters of pupils home, while it was still light. Some mothers kept their children at home all day. At night, the streets cleared quickly as workers, men and women, hurried home, casting quick glances to the side when they passed a darkened close mouth or a narrow alley, jumping in alarm if the wind rustled the needles of the evergreen trees lining the edge of the park.
A heavy pall of fear descended on the town. It was as if the people of Levenford were under siege.
A roadworker just finishing a job on Denny Road, close to where Neil Kennedy had lived, was shovelling the loose rocks from a surface awaiting tar infill where the electricity engineers had dug a forty yard trench, got the fright of his life when scratchy footsteps came up behind him. Something growled and before he had time to think he had whirled round in an absolute panic and with one blow of his spade, smashed the skull of a friendly black labrador whose owner had let it out for a piss. The dog dropped like a sack, without so much as a whimper, its brains leaking onto the hardcore surface.
A mother of three, who like Shona Campbell had gone down to the Castlegate Bar to salvage some of her husband's pay packet was coming along Rope Vennel up to River Street when a shadow loomed into view, a bulky silhouette which clumped jerkily towards her. She backed against the alley wall as the faceless shadow stumbled forward. It lurched to the side, heading straight for her and she screamed so loudly she was heard by two patrolmen who came running down River Street at full tilt and thundered down the alley. By the time they had got there, however, the Castlegate Bar had emptied and the screams of pain and fear were echoing from the narrow walls. They found, under a press of bodies and flailing fists and feet, the battered and semi-conscious form of a seventeen-year-old amateur footballer who had twisted his knee at a five aside match that very night and, far from attacking the petrified and still screaming woman, had merely slipped on a patch of ice while limping home. At Lochend Hospital doctors stitched a nasty gash on his forehead and strapped up three broken ribs. They put dressings on his multiple bruises and contusions, and then they examined the boy's knee. It needed no treatment. A week later, his dental bill cost him three weeks wages.
Out in East Mains a stranger seen talking to two teenage girls was chased for his life.
In Corrieside a burglar shinned up a roan-pipe to break into the fourth storey of a tenement building. He came silently down the pipe half an hour later, with a haversack containing a video recorder slung over his shoulder, only to find a waiting group of men in ambush behind the privet hedge. They beat him half to death. The men, hyped up with the fear and alarm that had spread through the town, then went on the rampage in what was one of the rougher areas of the town. In Corrieside, there were two houses which had become regular pharmaceutical dispensaries. Neighbours had complained to the council and to the police about the needles and syringes picked up by their children on the verges by the side of the street. There had been a couple of raids, but the occupants had re-inforced the doors and by the time they were battered down, any evidence had been flushed down the toilet. The fathers of Corrieside took the law into their own hands and required no evidence but what they already knew. One of the homes was on the sixth storey of a squat block of flats. One of them used a sledge hammer to smash the door off its hinges and they stormed in. A sleepy, unshaven and skinny man, known until then as something of a hard-ticket and who already had done two stretches for grievous bodily harm, came diving out of a bedroom with a plastic bag in one hand and a wickedly curved sheath knife in the other. The hammer came down in a swift arc. The man's wrist shattered and the knife whirled down to the floor where it stuck, quivering. In the bedroom a woman started screaming as the man was forced back inside. The group of men battered the skinny fellow all round the walls, each of them punching, kicking and gouging until he was a bloodied scrap. Then they threw him through the window to tumble forty feet or more to the ground where he broke his other arm and fractured his skull. They dragged the woman out of the house and down the stairs where they beat her to a pulp and left her naked on the pavement before moving in a determined posse up the road to the third floor home of two brothers who were selling pills and worse to schoolchildren. One of the boys escaped through the window and suffered only a prick from a needle in the grass which later gave him hepatitis and a nasty infection which turned gangrenous and caused him to lose two fingers and a thumb. He never returned to Levenford again. The other brother was kicked senseless and his legs were broken so badly that it took fifteen hours of surgery to make them look like legs again, though they never worked like legs after that. The men went home to their houses with the feeling that they had hit back against what was wrong with Levenford that winter.
The town huddled in the grip of the cold and the crazy fear that hunched at the back of everyone's mind. The people of the burgh, battened down the hatches and waited for it to be all over.
Superintendent Cowie ordered the printing of a set of posters which were stuck on every wall and lamp post, bearing a picture of Michael O'Day culled from a passport photograph which had been taken three years before. It showed him as a chubby-faced, dark-haired smiling man, with light blue Irish eyes, and bore no resemblance whatsoever to the wasted, haggard, grey-haired wretch Jack Fallon had spoken to in the bell tower of St Rowan's Church.
For two days nothing else happened. The huge and painstaking search turned up nothing, no sign, not a hair of Michael O'Day. Jack spent his time between his sister's home and Lorna's house. On several occasions, Lorna tried to go into the kind of trance-like state she'd demonstrated before, but she could see nothing. For those two days, her hopes were beginning to rise that it had gone. Jack even suggested the possibility that O'Day had died, because he'd looked far from healthy the last time he'd seen him, or, like the others, had commited suicide and remained only to be found. He offered the suggestion that because O'Day had been the last of the people who had been at Marta Herkik's seance, then the whole thing might be over.
On Monday, the wind veered northwards and brought a freezing blast of air straight from the Arctic. At five o'clock in the morning, Graham Friel kicked his motorbike to a stuttering start and came down the Arden Road from Westerhill on the far side of the town. He had to wipe the icy crystals of snow from his visor as he turned over the old bridge and into the centre of the deserted town, heading for Riverside Bakery just off Barley Cobble. The bakehouse had been producing fresh bread and well-fired rolls and traditional mutton pies for more than two hundred years. Graham had worked there since he left school, and within a year he'd be a fully fledged master-baker, a title which caused not a little hilarity among his friends.
He throttled back on the turn on River Street, careful of the black ice on the morning-cold road, and made his way past the deserted shop fronts. When the river had burst its banks and flooded Benson's Tailors, Woolworths and the other shops along the row, Graham Friel had been one of the two boys who had sped on their bikes over the flooded tarmac and along the soaked pavements, sending up bow waves and almost knocking the feet from Mickey Haggerty as he made his way homewards on the night of the storm, the night Marta Herkik had died in Cairn House.
Now he was keen to get in to the bakery and lean with his back against the hot brick of the oven to take the cold out of his bones. The icy air, colder in the wind-chill of his speed numbed his lips and bit at the enamel of his teeth as it whipped under the edge of the visor. None of the shops were open and the place had that ghost-town emptiness of the early winter morning.
Graham moved slowly along the main street, slowed further as he came up to Rock Lane which parallelled all the other alleys leading down to the riverside, turned and dropped a gear to drive down towards the bakery. Inside, he unstrapped his leathers and put his helmet down on the bench. Gregor Christie had fired up the ovens and when Graham stepped through to the bakehouse a delicious flour-dusted breeze of heat enveloped him. His boss nodded from under his white hat, a big-bellied jovial man who was already up to his elbows in white dust. The slow egg-beater paddles in the kneading churns were dancing around each other as they stirred the dough. Graham leaned against the bricks and felt the heat banish the cold. He stood there, spreadeagled, flattened against the surface for a few minutes, the most enjoyable of any winter's morning, and then got to work. The two of them manhandled the tub to the table and with deft expertise, they heaved the dough out onto the board, flattened it with their palms and sliced it into strips which they balled into small ovals and laid on the trays. Working steadily, Graham used his long paddle to slide the bake-trays along the grooves on the oven sides, enjoying the fiery scorch when the door was opened, until he'd loaded the first batch of rolls. When the hatch clanged shut the heat died immediately.
He made tea for both of them, while Gregor prepared the bread for the stores along River Street, then when the timer rang, he started unloading the first bake. The rolls were hot and light and mouth-watering.
"Where's the milk?" he called over to Gregor. "I've buttered the rolls."
"Good man," the baker said, squeezing the last of the dough into the high silver pans. "There's a bottle in the bag. Where did I put it?" Gregor scratched his head, then raised a finger.
"I must have left it in the car. It'll be behind the front seat."
Graham pulled a face at the thought of going back outside into the dark and chill morning. Gregor ignored it and chucked the keys over to him then turned to start loading the second oven, whistling merrily. The younger man went out of the bakehouse and through the store-room, jamming his hat down on his head. As soon as he opened the outside door, a draught of frigid air leached the heat from his face. He shivered and bent his head as he hurried down the unlit narrow space between the store-room and the wall of the neighbouring building. He quickly opened the car, reached behind the seat and found the bottle of milk in Gregor's tote bag. Graham slammed the door, locked it and turned back up the gap. Just before he got to the end of the passage, where the double doors of the gate faced on to the alley, hiding the loading bay and the little space where Gregor parked his car, he stopped, listening.
Above him, the noise came again, a rough scraping sound, just audible over the moan of the wind which rattled the tall gates. Graham half-turned. Already the cold was draining the warmth from his bare arms. He looked up to where the roan-pipe on the wall disappeared into the early morning dark. For a moment, he thought he saw a movement, and he stood puzzled. Nothing happened and he turned back towards the car. The noise came again, a rapid scuttering of something hard rasping on the stonework. He turned again, looked up, and the dark simply rushed down towards him.
In the bakehouse, Gregor Christie slammed the oven gate shut with a resounding clang and put his paddle against the wall. He yawned mightily, and strolled towards the table to where his breakfast, two hot and crusty rolls dripping with butter awaited. Graham had poured the tea, but it was still black. Gregor sat down heavily on the seat, grabbed a roll jammed it into his mouth, tearing off a gargantuan bite. He lifted the tea, despite its lack of milk and took a sip just as the frantic howl shattered the dusty peace of the bakehouse.
Gregor jerked back and spilled half a cup of tea right down his front, scalding his considerable belly from breastbone to crotch. He let out a whoop of pain and went stumbling back from the table, dropping the rest of the cup onto the wooden surface while he hauled the burning cotton away from his skin. Outside, in the narrow gap between the building, Graham was bellowing incoherently.
Despite the pain on his belly, Gregor stumbled to the door, pushed his way through the storeroom and pushed the exit-bar.
"Oh get off," Graham screeched, though the words were hardly intelligible. "Oh Jesus. Gregor! It's got me it's got me it's oh help me for chrisake I'm..."
The babbling screech soared up so high it sounded like a woman's shriek and then cut off abruptly.
Gregor bulled his way out into the back alley.
"What the hell's going on?" he bawled, peering down the gap. There was no sign of Graham.
Up above, there was a scraping noise, like stone rubbing on stone. Gregor looked up. For an instant he thought he saw something light in the shadows, but it disappeared as soon as his eyes focussed. He scratched his head and hurried down the passage, squeezing his stout frame between the stacks of plastic baskets to where his car sat in the shadow. Graham was nowhere to be seen.
A pale pool of milk spread out on the concrete of the bay and shards of glass were scattered all around. Graham's hat was lying upside down in the middle of the puddle.
Gregor took a step back. For some reason his legs were shaking and his heart was pounding and he was suddenly very scared. He did not know what happened. He stole a glance at the double gates and saw the padlock still on the chain. Graham had locked it, as usual, after parking his bike, a precaution against opportunists who might sneak in while they were busy. There was nowhere out of the yard, except back the way he had come. Graham hadn't been in the alley, and his desperate and scary screams had come from outside.
Gregor backed away from the pale pool of spilt milk. Every nerve down his back and arms was jittering and jumping as a huge and nameless fear shivered through him. He took one quick, and very nervous glance up at the dark space between the two buildings, and then he skittered up the alley like a fat and frightened cat, barged through the door and slammed it hard behind him. He got to the bakehouse and flopped down on the seat and sat there for several minutes until the distressing and dizzy pounding of his heart slowed down enough for him to reach for the phone. The police arrived within five minutes and it took another half an hour to get any sense out of Gregor Christie. The mug of tea which Graham Friel hadn't had a chance to drink went cold.
At five past six Laurie Liddell jumped off the back of his milk-float and scurried up Yard Vennel, only four hundred yards from Christie's bakery, with two eight-bottle crates rattling in his hands. The scaffolders who had set up their frame for the sandblasting operation on the Ship Institute, an old Victorian pile from a bygone era of commercial and maritime wealth, started early and they started on gallons of tea. Laurie was fourteen, and despite the warnings on every poster, he had not thought for a moment of quitting his job. It paid too much, despite the hours.
He ran on, head down, past the metal bars on the side of the building when he heard a noise a few feet above his head. He glanced up and something snatched him clean off the ground so quickly he didn't have a chance to utter a word. The crates of milk went flying forward, tumbling as it went. The bottles flew out and shattered on the cobbles in a series of glassy explosions.
The milk-float driver moved on another forty yards while the two other boys darted up the alleys, hurrying to keep warm.
"Hey, where's Laurie?" one of them asked when he got back into the warmer cab.
"Is he not with you?" the driver asked.
"No. He did the delivery for the workies. He's not down yet."
"Och, away and tell him to get a move on," the driver growled. "We can't hang about here all morning."
"He's probably taking a piss,!" the boy protested.
"I don't care if he's having a shite and a haircut. We've a run to finish. Now get back and haul him out of there." The driver jerked his thumb over his shoulder and bent to his tally book.
Colin Jamieson, who was Laurie's cousin and older by ten months, jammed his hands in the pocket of his heavy jacket and huddled against the cold as he scampered back towards the institute. He rounded the vennel at a trot and ran to the far end where the workers had their storage hut.
"Hey Laurie, come on. He's spitting bullets."
There was no reply.
He stuck his hear round the side of the hut, expecting to see Laurie hunched against the slatted wall, a cloud of steam rising from a spreading puddle. There was nothing there.
"Hurry up, will you?" he called again into the dark, but there was no reply.
Puzzled, the youngster went right round the back of the hut, next to where the scaffolding rig clambered up the black side of the old building. His foot kicked a piece of glass and it tinkled against a brick. He looked down and saw the pool of milk, just as Gregor Christie had done on the other side of River Street.
"Aw Laurie, he'll murder..." he started, but did not finish. Something struck him on the back of the neck with such colossal force he went flopping to the ground. One second he was standing there, gawping and the next he was face down on the cobbles. Dazed, but still conscious, he managed to raise himself to his elbow when a grip clamped on his head and lifted him straight off the ground. The shadows of the scaffolding swung and somersaulted in his vision as he was flipped upwards. A terrible pain cracked in his neck and everything started to go dark. The last thing he saw was a single yellow glow, like a poisonous moon, right in front of his face as the thing that had hit him, then picked him up like a rag doll watched as the life drained out of his eyes.
At six forty it was still dark and bitter cold. On Swan Street, just round the corner from Cenotaph Stand, in one of the oldest parts of town, Lisa Corbett went upstairs to check on her grandmother, who lived in the little flat above in the old and crumbly tenement. The old woman had applied for a sheltered house because the worn stairs up to the fourth floor were getting too much for her, though she knew she'd miss being so close to her daughter's family. Lisa was nineteen and worked an early shift on the lines at Castlebank Distillery. In the mornings, she always went upstairs to make her gran a cup of tea and find out if there was anything she wanted from the shops.
She closed the door behind her. The light on the stairwell was off, which wasn't unusual because most of the tenants would rather wait for the council to fit a bulb than spend the money themselves. It mattered little. The teenager had been up and down the steps almost every day since she could walk. She took the first flight, and was turning to the second, past the sash window which looked down onto the back courts when a gust of freezing wind came blasting in from outside. She turned automatically, reaching to slide the frame down, when everything went dark. A sickly smell of rot filled her throat and she screwed her face up in disgust. Then with such speed that the girl had no time to blink, she was dragged right out over the window sill. The skin of her leg peeled down from knee to instep as she was whipped over the edge against the sandstone. She never made a sound.
Half an hour after that, the old woman, who had been expecting her grand-daughter because Lisa was as regular as clockwork, went to her front door and peered down the stairs. Something lay on the flat landing in front of the window. She toddled down the flight and picked it up. It was Lisa's handbag.
At eight, still wintry dark, the wind had picked up. It tugged at George Wilkie's heavy coat when he opened the front door of the old college, which was now used as the town planner's office. The milk, he noticed, hadn't been delivered, and the janitor knew there would be complaints from the pen-pushers when they arrived at nine. He shivered in the cold and closed the door behind him before going downstairs to switch on the old boiler to get the heat running through the ancient pipes. He could have done with a hot cup of tea himself, and muttered grumpily. He lit his pipe and blew out a plume of smoke on his way to the back door where the black plastic bags were leaning against the wall. The rubbish would be collected by the cleansing department later in the morning. He shoved the door open and started hauling the bags out into the little quadrangle at the back of the building where the planners, now that the building was a no-smoking area, would huddle for their morning cigarettes. He'd hefted the last of the bags outside and dumped them against the wall, and was just turning back towards the building when the wind whooped fiercely into the confined space, picking up pieces of paper and cigarette packets and whirling them together in a dust-devil circle. Something rasped on the wall above his head and he looked up. Something black fluttered against the wall. For a moment he assumed it was an empty bin-liner back caught by the wind.
Then it dropped down on him so blurring fast he didn't have a chance to even open his mouth. A tremendous blow hit him on the top of his head and the force snapped his teeth together so hard the stem of his pipe was bitten cleanly in two, and the upper plate of his dentures broke into three pieces. Sparks of burning tobacco fountained out and were whipped upwards by the blustering wind. Old George, who was due to retire in February was slammed to the ground and then without warning, lifted up again. The force of the blow had detatched the retina of his left eye. The other, still blurred, was vaguely aware of the old, dusty windows passing by, although he did not know why they were moving. When he reached the level of the guttering, George was hauled onto the slates beside the corbie-stepped gable. Something black opened an eye and stared into his. Still dazed, it took him some time to realise that an inexorable grip was squeezing at his neck. He gasped once as the pressure built up inside his head, then the vision of his good eye just faded out. The yellow orb glared until the life-light drained away, then the thing turned and began to climb, dragging the old man like a bundle of rags.