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<h1>21</h1>
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<p><em>Interlude....</em></p>
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<p>"We thought he'd gone away." Angus McNicol's voice, gruff with
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the years conveyed the regret that had hung about him since
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then.</p>
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<p>"We all did, even the Commander and Dr Bryce who was a
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psychologist from the university. He was a new-fankled kind of
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expert, trying to get inside the man's head. My boss, Hector Kelso
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who was head of CID, he never put too much faith in Bryce and to
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tell you the truth, neither did I.</p>
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<p>"You see, nothing had happened since the middle of June, a few
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weeks before the school broke up for the holidays and Bryce said
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that gave us two choices. He had either moved on, in which case we
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would have had more murders somewhere else, or he would have burned
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out and killed himself.</p>
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<p>"Nobody really considered the truth. The killer just took a
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break between June and the end of July or he had killed somebody
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else who hadn't been reported missing. We never found a body, so
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probably he just took time off. Hell, everybody needs a holiday,
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don't they? Where he had been, nobody knows and I reckon John
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Fallon must have been the closest to guessing the truth when he
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said the man was probably ex-army, and used to living rough."</p>
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<p>The former detective, now silver haired and only slightly
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stooped, looked up and his eyes were filled with remembering.</p>
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<p>"Then Johnson McKay the postman got a bit concerned when the
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mail hadn't been collected from the box at the bottom of McColl's
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farm road and he took a stroll up there just to check. If it hadn't
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been for him being curious, then it could have taken another few
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weeks, maybe a month before anybody would have found out.</p>
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<p>"I'll never forget his face and I'll never forget what we found
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there and down at the side of the trees alongside Blackwood Stream,
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not as long as I live. It was a slaughterhouse, a
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<em>shambles.</em></p>
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<p>"I followed Hector Kelso around the whole day, and that man was
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damned good. Taught me everything I know. The only detective I ever
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saw who was any better was John Fallon's boy Jack, and it's a damn
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shame he's left the force after that trouble a year or so back, but
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that's another story. Anyway, Hector went round the place and gave
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me a running commentary, like a professor teaching a student. That
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was exactly how it was." Angus looked at the little machine on the
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table. The cassette spindle turned slowly. "I wrote everything down
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because we never had tape recorders then, and they'd have been a
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godsend to us, believe me. The boss was a hell of a lot better than
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the psychologist because he could follow a sequence right to its
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end and that's how he was able to tell me what had happened. He was
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a genius."</p>
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<p>Angus closed his eyes, frowning with concentration.</p>
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<p>"It was the blood on the curtain. Threw him for a bit, and for a
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while he thought the wife might have done it, despite the fact that
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she was a tiny wee thing. But then he figured it out quickly
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enough.</p>
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<p>" 'Gus,' he says to me. 'Go stand out there on the other side of
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that patch on the ground.' I knew it was blood, we all did, and it
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had dried there to a crust on the cobbles. I stood there and the
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boss bent down, getting himself to about the same hight as Jean
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McColl. He leaned forward and took a hold of the curtain, pulling
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it to the side, then brought his other hand up and laid it on the
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sill.</p>
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<p>"From then on, he just walked his way through it, as if it was
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some kind of a slow dance. He had that kind of mind. He could
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choreograph it all in his head.</p>
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<p>"The chicken was still in the sink, crawling with flies and
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maggots and Hector realised she had been cleaning the bird when it
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happened. She must have had a ringside view from that window. She'd
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seen it happening, seen her man die right there in the middle of
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the yard."</p>
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<p>The policeman had almost totakl recall of how the CID boss had
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worked it out, from Jean McColl seeing her husband cut down with
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the axe. He knew the killer had used the chicken head to mark the
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bothy doorposts and he could tell by the slant of the crossses how
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tall the killer was. "Hector talked it right through and he walked
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it right through, never stopping for a moment. He told us where
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McColl had fallen like a sack and how his wife had fought and how
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the collie had attacked the stranger. It was all written there in
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the clues, in the sequence, if you had the experience to look.
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Hector Kelso had the experience, and the way he told it, never
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showing any emotion until later, made it unravel like a
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nightmare.</p>
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<p>"I can still remember Hector going through the motions, over six
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foot tall and built like a wrestler, trying to keep low, the same
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height as the wee woman. He runs into the farmhouse, through to the
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kitchen and then to the hall and he showed how the killer had
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broken the hasp the get at the shotguns</p>
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<p>"I can tell you straight, we were all pretty damn concerned when
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we realised he had the guns. He'd shot a couple of holes in the
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ceiling, maybe just to make sure the gun worked and then gone
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looking for Mrs McColl. He'd about two weeks of a start on us, give
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or take a day or so.</p>
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<p>"Dr Bryce, he said he was very close to the edge and it was
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likely he'd turned the gun around and blown his head off, but while
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we lived in hope, there was no evidence of that whatsoever. Kelso
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dismised it as so much hog wash.</p>
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<p>"He asked the psychologist about the chicken's blood smeared on
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the door. Bryce said the scent of blood had probably enraged him,
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or maybe it had dredged up some childhood trauma, but he hadn't
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seen the other places where the man had done his killing. I reckon
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John Fallon got it right.</p>
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<p>" 'Read the bible,' John suggested to me when we were standing
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there in the sun with all the flies buzzing around that crust of
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blood in the yard. He was never a smartarse was John, but despite
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his build, he was pretty clever. ' He wants the angel of death to
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pass over.'</p>
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<p>"I reckon that was fair comment, from the pages of the bible he
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left lying around and all the other signs he left, most of them
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covered in shit. The press, they got the story about the Twitchy
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Eyes, and that's how the name stuck, but in the squad, over that
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summer when we were hunting for him, waiting for him to make his
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next move, we started calling him The Angel.</p>
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<hr />
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<p><em>July:</em></p>
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<p>She wrote fast, almost tearing the page in her hurry, crabbing
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the letters together in a slant across the page. Her clear and
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rounded handwriting changed to a spidery scrawl, almost illegible.
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The wavering strokes showed how badly her hand was shaking.</p>
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<p><em>He's killed Ian. God save me. Cut him down in the yard.
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Lesley Joyce. He hit him and took him into the byre. Got the guns.
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He's mad. Killed my man with axe. Cut down. Lesley Joyce.</em></p>
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<p>The words began to repeat on the page, just as they were
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repeating inside her head, ricocheting around almost out of
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control.</p>
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<p>Out beyond the workroom, beyond the bedroom and down the stairs,
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she could hear the heavy tread of the man's boots. The shotgun had
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blasted like a thunderclap and she had felt the whole house shake
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with the concussion. Her heart had almost stopped dead in her
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chest. She tried to write more, to put down in words what she had
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seen, but the fingers of her hand seized up in a tight clenched
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fist and the words wouldn't come. All she could see was the picture
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of Ian going down in the yard, making that awful deadly sound.</p>
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<p>Nausea rolled and surged inside her and a trickle drooled from
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her open mouth as she tried to gulp it back, tried to clear that
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image from her head so she could think.</p>
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<p>Downstairs she could hear the man muttering, at least that's
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what it sounded like in the distance, through the closed doors, but
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she knew he had to be talking aloud. It sounded like chanting.</p>
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<p>Ian's bewildered face swam in front of hers refusing to vanish.
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His hat had rolled away on the stones and he had tried to crawl
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away, his eyes wide and blank, like a bewildered animal in pain. He
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had tried to crawl away, dripping blood onto the cobbles. He'd
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crawled away from where she was, even then attempting to draw him
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away, despite the pain and the shock and the sudden awful fear.</p>
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<p>And even then he'd tried to warn her. She jerked, found she
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could still write:</p>
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<p><em>Couldn't get the gun. Ian said to get the gun and shoot but
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it was locked. He has the guns and he's shooting.</em></p>
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<p>Somehow her mind unhitched itself from the crazy ricochet of
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images and she managed to scribble more. She had slammed the book
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open, not pausing to flip the pages to the correct day and date.
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She'd found a blank page and started writing fast, knowing there
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was little time. No time at all.</p>
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<p>The little window on the thick wall was slightly ajar. In the
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high summer, it let in the perfumed scent of sweet peas from the
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garden and the lazy humming of the busy bees, and in the mornings
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she got a slant of golden sunlight across the old dresser she used
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as a desk and a work station. She put the book down and laid the
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pen on the surface. It rattled from her shaking fingers. Outside
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she could hear the whine of the terriers and the lowing of the cows
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in the far side of the byre. They could smell the blood and the
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instinctive fear of the predator had spread among them. The
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terriers had sniffed at the pool of blood and they were confused
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and panicky, their tempers now stilled. Downstairs the man's
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hobnailed boots <em>crumped</em> on the slate floor.</p>
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<p><em>Aaah</em>.</p>
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<p>Ian's groan came drifting on the pollen scented air. A bee flew
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in the window, turning lazily by the latch.</p>
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<p>Jean snatched up the pen again.</p>
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<p><em>Still alive. He's alive now. Please save him God.</em></p>
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<p>Footsteps came thudding up the narrow stair.</p>
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<p><em>Coming now. Gun.</em></p>
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<p>The bedroom door kicked open. She could hear the latch spring
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and the wood splinter and the slam of the heavy panel against the
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wall. It sounded loud as gunfire. Almost.</p>
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<p>She dropped the book on the bed. The workroom, on the east gable
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of the house, was a low, square space with slanted walls that
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followed the pitch of the roof. Just above the dresser, a small
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trapdoor, barely two foot square, led to a crawlspace under the
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joists.</p>
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<p>She could hear the man's breathing. He had kicked the bedroom
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door open and he was standing there. She could visualise his dark
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and blinking mad eyes.</p>
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<p>Jean McColl clambered silently onto the dresser, pushed the
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hatch upwards, and despite her age and her freezing terror, she
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managed to haul herself up into the dusty space. She lowered the
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door closed again as silently as she could and began to crawl over
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the beams, careful not to slip and fall through the plaster of the
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ceiling until she got out of the narrow roof space above the
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work-room and into the loft proper. She crabbed her way though the
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narrow gap in the stone, onto the bare planks. Ahead of her
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something squeaked in the dark and she couldn't tell whether it was
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a rat or a mouse. Underneath her the workroom door blasted open and
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crashed against the wall, just as the bedroom door had done.</p>
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<p>Footsteps, even louder now, thudded on the boards where the rug
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didn't cover. The tinkling of glass. A vase? The window? She
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couldn't wait. In her mind she kept seeing Ian trying to crawl
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away, mortally hurt, with the shadow of death reflected in his
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wide, stunned eyes. She heard again the dreadful animal groan.</p>
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<p>Below her, the man called out, and whether there were any words
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or whether it was simply a bellowing cry of rage or anger or
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madness, she couldn't tell. She crawled further into the roof-space
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until there was enough room to let her gingerly get to her
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feet.</p>
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<p>Thunder roared.</p>
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<p>In the confines of the loft, that's what it seemed like. It was
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as if the world had exploded under her feet in one enormous
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blast.</p>
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<p>Splinters of lath-wood and pellets of dry plaster erupted
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upwards from the floor just behind her. She tripped, rolled on the
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boards and the thunder crashed again, even closer. Instantly a hole
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maybe six inches wide appeared in the floor just beyond the limit
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of the planking. Dust and splinters blew out in a fountain and
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rapped against the slanted sarking-planks under the slates. Jean
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reeled back and hit her head on a jagged nail showing through the
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wood. It caught her behind the ear and an instant trickle of blood
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flowed. She spun round and saw the column of light, like a blazing
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pillar, reaching from the hole in the floor to the slant of the
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roof.</p>
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<p>He could hear her moving. He could hear her moving and he was
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trying to follow the sound and blast her to death with the
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shotgun.</p>
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<p>His footsteps clumped almost directly underneath her and sudden
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terror unfroze her legs. She whirled, using the light coming
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through the gaping blast-hole and ran for the corner, pushed
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through the second hatch to the space over the main part of the
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farmhouse and clambered over the trunks and boxes that had been
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stored there since before she was married. Beyond the clutter a
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dusty skylight showed a dull rectangle of light. Behind her the
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shotgun roared again, a vast and deafening sound in the close
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confines of the loft, but for the moment there was no danger of the
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blast coming through the old boxes of crockery and pre-war
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clothing. Dust billowed chokingly, making her fast breath rasp in
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her throat. At the far end of the attic there was a narrow wooden
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stairway that would lead down to the store-room where Ian stacked
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the potatoes and turnips and the clamps of carrots. She thought
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about reaching the stairs and following them down, but that would
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put her out into the closed yard where he could shoot her from
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almost any position.</p>
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<p>She had to get away, get help. Against a man with a gun, against
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the crazy blinking man who had smashed Ian to the ground, there
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would be little chance, hardly a chance at all, but she had to try.
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If she could make it to the far wall without being seen she could
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use the hedge as cover and get down the track, escape to the
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Lochside Road only three miles down, heading west. If she could get
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to the road then she could make it and call the police and an
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ambulance.</p>
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<p>Through the blast-hole, she heard the man's voice, rough and
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ragged and dreadfully angry. The shotgun's metallic clash came up
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to her over the growling rumble, a deadly and cold sound in itself.
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He was re-loading.</p>
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<p>It snapped closed again and she knew there were two more shells
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in the chambers</p>
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<p>Jean got past the collection of boxes and reached the skylight.
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The glass was festooned with cobwebs that had gathered so much dust
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they made the window almost opaque. She twisted the catch, got it
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free in a couple of seconds, and swung the heavy frame upwards. It
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squeaked alarmingly and then stopped when it was almost upright.
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Thankful that it hadn't crashed down onto the slates, she crawled
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out onto the slope of the slates. The shotgun boomed again,
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dreadfully loud, but not so deafening now that she was out. A puff
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of dust rolled out of the skylight like flour in the kitchen when
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she baked her bread. It smelled of lime and burning.</p>
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<p>She managed to get a grip on the iron lip and swung herself up,
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moving gingerly lest she slip on the moss-covered shingles, reached
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the ridge of the roof and got to the downslope. From here she was
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hidden from the yard. The roof fell away to the pasture side, a
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long slide of black slate warmed by the sun. She negotiated it,
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trying to keep her feet flat on the surface to give her as much
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friction grip as possible, reached the far end where the farmhouse
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proper merged with the old barn. Here there was an old door at the
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corner, set high in the wall where Ian used to mount a block and
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tackle for hauling sacks of feed and bales of straw up to the high
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store. She got there and pushed at the door but it was locked.</p>
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<p>Inside the house, the man was talking to himself. From where she
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perched it was just a low rumble. Ian had fallen silent and in a
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way that was better than the awful groaning. She wondered if he was
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dead and a part of her prayed, despite the devastation of that
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loss, that he was not suffering any more. Footsteps sounded below
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her and she turned away from the door, climbed back over the ridge
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to the end of the barn and let herself slide down to the level of
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the gutter. She managed to grab a hold of it and lower herself down
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to the window ledge and let herself in through the old shutters.
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Here, in the old swaybacked store-room, old tack lay in heaps,
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mouldering bridles from the days they'd kept Clydesdale horses for
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pulling the plough, giant horseshoes dusted with rust, a set of
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twisted and cracked traces hanging from nails. Rats scuttled and
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scurried in the shadows, alarmed at her passing, while down in the
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yard, the terriers had set up a strange, frightened howling. The
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tack balcony led to the space above the byre. She had to push aside
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a pile of old sacks, sending a family of mice squealing and running
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for cover and then she was through to the ledge overlooking the
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tiled butchering shed that was tacked on to the byre.</p>
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<p>A shape moved close to the far door. Her heart lurched, thinking
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the man had discovered her and then it kicked hard in her chest and
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seemed to stop beating altogether.</p>
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<p>It was Ian. He was hanging down from the hooks, head close to
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the ground. A spreading scarlet puddle caught the light beneath
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him. A sluggardly ripple showed that fresh blood was still
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dripping.</p>
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<p>There was no sign of life. Jean leaned on the metal railing,
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breath locked in her throat. One of Ian's shoes was down there in
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the trough along with his blood and she could see where the
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butcher's hook had spiked through his heel. He'd been hung up like
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a carcass, spiked by the Achilles tendon, the way farmers hung pigs
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to let them bleed.</p>
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<p>She started for the steps, knowing they would take her down to
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the yard when outside, right then, the shotgun thundered again. She
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flinched, expecting the blast to knock her off her feet, but
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immediately a screaming sound, like a stone saw cutting into
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granite, cut through the air. The dogs started up a frenzied
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yapping and the gun fired again and they went silent. A moment
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later, a shadow appeared at the butchery door and the man came
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backing through, dragging a heavy weight just as he'd pulled her
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bleeding husband over the step at the door. The cause of the sound
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was clear enough. He'd shot one of the yearling pigs. It was still
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alive, still screeching but there was a gaping hole in its side. He
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pulled it past Ian, put the gun down, hoisted the pink, shivering
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animal up to a hook and let it twist there. He picked up the gun
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and reached behind him for the knife he'd stuck down his belt. She
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watched as he leaned forward and slit the pig's throat. It kicked
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into a spasm, sending blood spurting all over the floor and all
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over her husband. She groaned aloud, an involuntary blurt of shock
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and fear.</p>
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<p>The man whirled round. His eyes had stopped blinking. He looked
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up and those eyes were like pits, black and mad. She pulled away,
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went back the way she had come, heart bucking inside her. His feet
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clattered on the stone stairs. She got back through the window,
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tried to climb on the gutter, slipped back and her blouse snagged a
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rusted bracket which caught right through the material. Her feet
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scrabbled for purchase, slid off the stone wall and she slipped
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forward before being brought up sharp by the hook of metal. She was
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left hanging there.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>The man reached out massive hand and gripped her arm. Without
|
|
ceremony and with no hesitation at all, he pulled her back in over
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|
the window sill, ripping her blouse from collar to waist and
|
|
leaving a white rag flapping on the bracket. He dragged her across
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|
the tack-room and down the steps to the byre. She tried to pull
|
|
away but he clamped his hand on her neck, fingers and thumb almost
|
|
toughting, and walked her past her dangling husband. Her feet
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|
splashed in Ian's blood. She tried to look to see if he was still
|
|
breathing, but the hand held her tight, made her face straight in
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|
front. She felt as light as a feather as he propelled her across
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|
the yard, past the bodies of the three dogs and the dark patch
|
|
where her husband had fallen, through the front door and into the
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|
farmhouse.</p>
|
|
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|
<p>She awoke when it was dark and when she tried to walk she could
|
|
not move. Dull and heavy pain throbbed inside her and stayed with
|
|
her until the sun came up in the early morning. The light flickered
|
|
in the sky, just visible through the open shutter and the bantam
|
|
cocks were the first to greet the dawn. It seemed to take forever
|
|
for the early light to creep round the corner of the byre and
|
|
brighten the wall of the little slaughtering pen where Ian was
|
|
dead.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>She knew now that he was gone. There had been no sound, except
|
|
for the grunts made by the insane man when he had finally left her
|
|
alone and had gone out to the byre, swinging the big blade of the
|
|
knife. He muttered to himself constantly and it seemed as if he was
|
|
talking to someone standing beside him. She couldn't make out the
|
|
words, but the tone of it sounded like conversation. The man would
|
|
ask a question, cock his head as if awaiting a reply, and then he'd
|
|
nod, or he'd shake his head in answer. He had gone out to the byre,
|
|
swinging the knife and she'd heard him grunt with effort. There had
|
|
been a dull crack, like the sound of a stone dropping on another,
|
|
and then the man had gone walking away, muttering to himself.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Now she was huddled on the floor, something angled and hard
|
|
pressed against her ribs but unable to do anything about that. A
|
|
dark tide of despair welled up in her heart. Way off in the
|
|
distance, the blast of the quarry rumbled like an approaching
|
|
storm. It reminded her of the sound of the shotgun.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>She closed her eyes, squeezing away a tear that was mingled with
|
|
blood from a burst vessel at the edge of her eye.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>And she prayed that he would come with the gun and stop the
|
|
pain.</p>
|
|
<hr />
|
|
<p>In the night he had taken the head and put it on the top of the
|
|
manure heap, waiting for the sun to come up. Every now and again he
|
|
would hear the voice whisper to him, faint for the moment, and he
|
|
would try to catch the words.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>The smell of blood was still hot and thick and he remembered how
|
|
the woman had stared at him, paralysed with fear, her whole body
|
|
trembling uncontrollably. The owl hooted back in the barn and he
|
|
waited under the moon, not cold and not hungry. The sun began to
|
|
rise and when there was enough light in the sky he could see the
|
|
flies crawling over the pale round face.</p>
|
|
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|
<p><em>Dung fly...</em></p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Like Conboy. The eyes crawled with flies. Like the boy in the
|
|
back room of the old house. Like the girl under the bridge. Like
|
|
the boy who had come in through the door of the old wagon he'd
|
|
taken over as his bivouac.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>The flies buzzed and danced and as the day lightened and the
|
|
morning mist trailed away, there were more of them, flying in from
|
|
the trees, round the coppice at the far end of the pasture. Already
|
|
the pool of blood in the yard was a crawling mass of them, coming
|
|
to feed and coming to breed. He cocked his head to the side,
|
|
listening to the small voice, one of the many that tugged for his
|
|
attention whispering softly by the light of day. At night they'd
|
|
maybe talk louder. After a while, he slowly got to his feet and
|
|
went back into the house, leaving the farmer's crawling eyes
|
|
staring at the sunrise.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>The woman did not move. Her eyes followed him, devoid of all
|
|
expression. He considered lifting her back up onto the table, but
|
|
after another while, eyes blinking hard, he turned and went back
|
|
outside. He picked up the gun and crossed the yard, climbed the
|
|
fence and into the pasture.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Three of the cows were moaning, and two of the others were down
|
|
on the grass twitching. Their udders were swollen like the bellies
|
|
of dead children. He considered putting them out of their misery
|
|
but then he blinked some more and went striding sunwards along by
|
|
the wall and down towards the trees. A half a mile down he could
|
|
still hear the crowing cock. The land sloped towards the stream, a
|
|
densely wooded valley here, downsteam from the high moorland
|
|
pasture, thick with oak and beech trees. He'd been here before, in
|
|
the lush valley that reminded him of that other gorge, long
|
|
before....</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>Up at the farm, the old man had glared at him, just as Conboy
|
|
had done, through the crawl of flies that festered in his mouth and
|
|
under his brows. The tongue protruded between grey lips, blackened
|
|
and torn where the blow with the flat of the axe had sent the teeth
|
|
snapping together, biting right through the flesh. There were
|
|
thousands of them now, all laying their eggs, breeding fast on the
|
|
glut. The head stared at him and he waited for it to speak but it
|
|
stayed silent for the moment. He could wait. He sat there, in the
|
|
sun, contemplating the thing on the dung heap, listening to the
|
|
drone of flies, and then he went back to the house, to the kitchen.
|
|
Here the smell was thick and heavy and the buzzing was loud in the
|
|
confines. The woman was crumpled on the floor, her arms twisted
|
|
awry, and her thighs stained black in streaks and dribbles. There
|
|
were biscuits in the barrel and a joint of smoked ham up in the
|
|
cold store. He cut a slice, not at all put off by the cloy,
|
|
familiar scent of rotting flesh. He ate slowly, sitting on the
|
|
table, then drank some tepid water from the tap.</p>
|
|
|
|
<p>He finished eating and laid the chewed ham bone down on the
|
|
table then went back out to sit by the side of the dung heap to
|
|
wait for a while. He could sit as still as stone.</p>
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