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<h1>10</h1>
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<p><em>August 1. 1.30 pm.</em></p>
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<p>They sounded like.....</p>
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<p>He watched from up on the hill, listening to them calling to
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each other. He blinked his eyes hard, once, twice, against the
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glare and for a moment their cries sounded like...</p>
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<p><em>He was going up now, into that cold place where he
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remembered</em></p>
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<p>....."I have to go home mister." The girl had said, clear and
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high.</p>
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<p>She stopped her bike. Here at the edge of this waste ground
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where the pools of run-off drainage water lay black and deep in
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places, overhung by fronds of willow and the umbrella leaves of
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giant hogweed that looked just like jungle rhubarb in the steamy
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gulleys.</p>
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<p>"Not far," he'd said, blinking against the sunlight on the slick
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surface. "You'll like it."</p>
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<p>"I don't see a rabbit," she'd said, looking up at him in
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quizzical innocence. There was the slightest hesitation in her
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eyes, the merest flicker of doubt. But they were beyond the low
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bridge now. Here the pathway was narrow and it forked three ways
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and he knew this place from a long time ago.</p>
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<p>"Just down here," he told her. "You'll like it." He blinked
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furiously. Under his tongue, the familiar surge of saliva squirted
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juicily. "What's you name?"</p>
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<p>"Lucy."</p>
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<p>Lucy. Lucinda. <em>The light</em>. He remembered that from the
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priests.</p>
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<p>And the light was in his eyes.</p>
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<p>He stood back to allow her past and she pedalled forward,
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concentrating on avoiding a piece of broken bottle. He let her get
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a yard ahead then stooped. Quick as a snake. His hand clamped
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around her mouth and in a smooth motion he lifted her upwards. His
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right hand shot out and grabbed the seat of the bike. She squirmed,
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but he was too strong. He turned and slung the bike high over the
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stand of hogweed. It spun in the air, red and silver, flickering in
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the sunlight, to land with a splash.</p>
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<p>She kicked her heels and he felt her fear sizzling through her,
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letting it arc into his own body.</p>
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<p><em>Dung fly.</em> The sound came back to him and fell out of
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his mouth. He repeated it again and again, just under his breath as
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he made his way quickly along the path. No-one came. He crossed the
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water, wading knee deep through the reeds and iris stalks and then
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he was past them, reaching the heavy cover of the far side. He
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travelled some distance, stopping only once to settle her up in his
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arms to make the carrying easier and in his head the thrilling
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vibration was as pure as the hum of a mosquito.</p>
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<p>She shuddered, shaking her head from side to side and the air
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snuffled through her nose. He glanced down, and saw her eyes roll
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madly and the fear was wide and clear in them. After a while he got
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through the scrub and reached the bridge. In an instant he was
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under the span. The door swung open with hardly a squeal. He
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turned, pulled the girl behind him. Her foot hit the ground and a
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little red sandal flipped off. He hooked it back towards him with
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his foot, leaving a heavy cleat-mark on the damp clay.</p>
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<p>He pushed the door shut. The girl hiccuped, sending a delicious
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shiver through him. He waited until it passed and then he turned
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and sat down on the wide metal pipe that carried water down from
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the reservoir. He loosened his hand from her mouth, confident now..
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She did not cry. A small groan escaped her but her whole attention
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was focused on getting air into her lungs. He let her have one or
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two breaths, great whooping scoops of air and then he closed her up
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again.</p>
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<p>"Blow," he said, and all she heard was the deep rumble of his
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voice in the dark. "Blow <em>hard.</em>"</p>
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<p>She blew hard, clearing both nostrils. When he was satisfied she
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could breathe easily, even though the lungs were bellowing fast as
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a rabbits, he reached down and found her foot, tugged hard at the
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sock until it came off, balled it in his hand and then used his
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thumb to force it between her teeth. She shook head with violent
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desperation and a spasm rippled through her, but he persisted until
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she made no sound. He could feel the shiver and knew she was beyond
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crying out for the moment. He knew the fear was running around
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inside her. It would chase her down in to the valley of the shadow
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and she'd come through the other side, up in the cool, place where
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there was no pain, the place that he himself could reach.</p>
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<p>She knew. The certainty of it came off her in waves, like
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electricity. There was no escape. She would die here.</p>
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<p><em>Whatever thou doest to these, the least of my children, you
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do also to me</em></p>
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<p>In the dark, he nodded and he smiled a sly smile. <em>My Lord,
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why hast thou forsaken me...?</em> His desolation was past now. He
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was.</p>
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<p><em>I am who am!</em></p>
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<p>He reached for the mtches and lit the little lamp by sense of
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touch. It flared, sent up a sputter of smoke and then began to
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glow. He turned to look at her, a small form, pale and shaking
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uncontrollably, a frightened bird caught in a trap. Her eyes were
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wide and fixed on him and in them he saw the knowledge.</p>
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<p><em>Dung fly..</em> the eyes of a child far away, begging
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him.</p>
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<p>The lamp guttered and Conboy's flies buzzed in the shadows and
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the voice of the priest had come back to him.</p>
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<p>"Holy orders. A gift from God. To make sacrifice to him."</p>
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<p>But there was no god here.</p>
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<p>After a while he crossed to her.</p>
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<hr />
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<p><em>Interlude:</em></p>
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<p><strong>"</strong>We knew, or at least we were fairly sure at
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that time, that it had to be somebody who knew the area," Angus
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McNicol said. "That was what we thought at first and we pulled in
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the usual suspects, shirtlifters, flashers, the whole gamut. The
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Hopkirk boy, he could have been just a one off, and that's what we
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thought, until we found the girl. We'd spent six years teaching men
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how to kill and were bad people then, just like there are bad folk
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now. Look at your Nilson's and that nutcase down in Hungerford and
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god save us, those babies in Dunblane. And nutters like the
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Jonestown mob who think they're doing it all for the glory of
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god."</p>
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<p>Angus leaned back against the thick upholstery of his easy chair
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and ran his fingers through a thick head of white hair.</p>
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<p>"After we found Lucy Saunders we realised he knew that access
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duct to the chamber under the bridge. "But how local is
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<em>local</em>? "I mean it could have been somebody who had been in
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the town before and moved away. I thought it had to have been some
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fellow who played around the Rough Drain and up the stream as a boy
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and knew the paths. But you have to remember <em>when</em> it
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was.</p>
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<p>"What I man is that there were no credit cards or the like.
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"There was more work then, at least more than there is today and
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people came to work the bottling lines for the summer and then were
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off again. There were potato-pickers and dry-stone wallers, and
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teams of folk who'd come in to help with the fencing for the
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forestry commission, or digging the drainage ditches up on the
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Langcraig moors for the plantations. A lot of movement in those
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days, when you were doing the twist and growing your hair long.
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Don't think I forget giving you a toe up the arse for breaking that
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street light over at Station Street." He grinned again and the eyes
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twinkled.</p>
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<p>"The only thing we had was that people noticed more. If it was
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somebody who lived in the town, he'd have been recognised and a
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stranger would be noticed. That's why that poor Indian fellow got
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such a beating up by Arden Road. Our man man was cunning enough,
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though he took risks and let himself be seen a couple of times.
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That made him arrogant and maybe not in control of himself.</p>
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<p>"He was a big fellow. Bigger than me probably, going by the
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weight he put on his toe-tector boots. And he took a size twelve,
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which is about normal for a big man. He had dark hair and he
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blinked all the time as if he had something in his eye and that's
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how the name got around. We had his fingerprints, mostly from the
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old surgery where they found the Hopkirk lad and they didn't match
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with anything on CRO file. We could have done with some of this
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computer technology then. Press a few buttons and you've got it.
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Then It was all done with files and teleprinters.</p>
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<p>"We had casts made of his boot-prints and we had pictures of his
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bite-marks that showed he'd a bottom tooth mising. Fabric from his
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jacket, hairs from his head and his crotch and we had bugger-all
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really because <em>Twitchy Eyes,</em> he was a nobody. He just came
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and he went.</p>
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<p>"Oh, we knew he had religion, <em>Christian</em> religion, from
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the pages of the bibles he left. You know this place. We've been
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murdering each other for years in the name of God Almighty and
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there's nothing to chose between them all. This man left the word
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of God covered with shite and flies, and he was killing as
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well.</p>
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<p>"When I think of what he did to that wee girl under the bridge,
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I tell you, I still wake up some nights and my hands are clenched
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so tight the nails are digging half-moons into my palms. If I had
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got that bastard, pardon my language, if I'd got him when I was on
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my own, I'd have torn his arms off, I kid you not."</p>
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<p>Angus McNicol drained his glass, but he did not smack his lips
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as before. He put it down slowly.</p>
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<p>"I would have done to him what he did to those people. I'd have
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done to him what he did to that poor wee soul under the bridge, and
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I'd have made it last. And then I'd have buried him."</p>
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<hr />
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<p><em>Interruption:</em></p>
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<p>Angus McNicol's face had twisted with anger when he described in
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detail what had happened to little Lucy Saunders in the mud under
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the bridge, and I believe then that he would have done what he
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said. He'd have killed the killer. The memory for him was as clear
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as day, as defined and sharp as if it had happened only yesterday.
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Some memories are like that.</p>
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<p>Here I have to intrude. <em>Author intrusion</em>. My editor
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will scream blue murder and I'll have to explain that sometimes
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when you tell a story, you have to find your own way through it and
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round it, and that's just the ones you make up and knit together
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from the ideas in your head. Maybe one or two of you have read my
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other books under my pen name, and you'll know I butt in now and
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again, but hardly ever. But that's in the stories I made up, or at
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least the ones which I dragged out of my nightmares to make into
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horror stories and chillers to help me get rid of the dreams.</p>
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<p>Now I know the dreams will never go away because this is where
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they all live.</p>
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<p>Back then. Back in the memory, hunched in the shadows under the
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bridge like the troll waiting to eat the billy goats, under the
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bridge like the man with the twitchy eyes. Under the bridge with
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the smell of rot and the buzzing of the flies.</p>
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<p>When I spoke to Angus McNicol I let him have only half of the
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truth. I told him I was researching for a book, but I had no
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intention of writing one then, not a true <em>story.</em> I was
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asking for <em>myself</em>, in the hope that I could find some
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meaning for all of that, for the monkey that's been hunched on my
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shoulder, pressing down with the weight of the years. I thought I
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could find a cure, a magic bullet, that would kill the thing off
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and rid me of the dreams.</p>
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<p>Dreams don't give up easily, and memories don't give up at
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all.</p>
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<p>In the end, I had to admit that part of it was just a need to
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bring the memories right out into the open and face them in the
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light of day instead of running away from them. I honestly don't
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know if it's done me one bit of good.</p>
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<p>But writing it down lets me spread it around a little, maybe in
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the hope that a nightmare shared is a nightmare halved and I know
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that might sound a little bit flippant. I am just not sure any
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more.</p>
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<p>Anyway, a little more patience and I'll be out to leave you on
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your own if you want to read further. I've tried to put the
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thoughts into people's heads, to express them the way they were
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thought. Not an easy job, but further along there will be
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occurrences that explain enough, that gave me hints as to what
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thought processes - some of them murky and dreadful - were going
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on.</p>
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<p>Also, for many years before I sat down to write my first book,
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and for some years after that, I worked as a newspaperman, checking
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out facts, digging in under the surface of things, and I'm still
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proud of the little card tucked in my wallet that tells me I'm a
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journalist, a reporter of fact, a life member of a tarnished, but
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still honourable breed, no matter how governments wriggle and
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twist. Some of the stuff I got from Angus McNicol and some of it I
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dredged up my memory and a few other facts I got from digging
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around in some old dusty places. Maybe I've taken a bit of licence
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here and there, but I don't believe I've gone over the bounds. I
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want to impart some of the <em>taste</em>, the bitter apples and
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hard pears and exotic black grapes.</p>
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<p>But remember also that the five of us boys knew reach other, had
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known each other and you know what it's like being a kid of
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thirteen or so, just getting ready for your hormones to kick in,
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getting set for big strides into that big world up ahead. You can't
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keep a secret and you try to keep a promise and most of the time a
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thought's in your head no longer than the time it takes to speak it
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out, spit it out. Mostly we knew, just at a glance, what each other
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was thinking.</p>
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<p>Five of us.</p>
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<p>There was Corky with his drunk of a father banged up in Drumbain
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Jail and not for the last time either. There was Danny and his
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father who had given up a good paying job in the shipyards to start
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at university and spent all of his time either studying or praying
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and threatening everlasting punishment from an angry god. There was
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Doug whose father was already in Toronto, run out of town by his
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wife's shame and the need to take his family out from under the
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cloud. There was Billy and his strange failure to accept his
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inheritance, nurturing his belief in a father who did not exist, or
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who lived and battled only in Billy's imagination. There was Tom
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Tannahill who had watched little sister slowly die of leukaemia in
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the front room of their house while his mother was out at the shops
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and who walked with the knowledge of death shadowing his steps.</p>
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<p>Five of us.</p>
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<p>And yet despite the storm clouds of those strange and crazy
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times, we were trying to grow our hair long and get away from those
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slick-quiffed old fogies who jived to Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis. We
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wanted to be different from teddy-boys like Phil Corcoran and Pony
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McGill with his cratered face. We wanted to be like Donovan, trying
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to catch the wind and we had a ticket to ride. Gil Favor and Rowdy
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Yates were our heroes on Rawhide. Old William Hartnell was Doctor
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Who, going through time in a police box and that was the
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mind-blowing marvel that made adventurers of as all. Woolworth's
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still had wooden panels on the counters and sold bags of broken
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biscuits for a penny. And a policeman could still kick your arse
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and send you on your way to sin no more.</p>
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<p>It was a year when everything was exploding and we had no
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control over it and we knew that Mick Jagger was telling the truth
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when he strutted up and told us <em>this could be the last
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time.</em></p>
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<p>Because it <em>was</em> the last time, and even then, in the
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warm summer sunshine, struggling up the hill with a bellyful of
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grapes and chicken, lugging the packed tent and (unsuspected by us)
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a strange man's eyes drilling into the back of our necks, we knew
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this <em>would</em> be the last time.</p>
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<p>The world was changing and plans were in the air. In a couple of
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months, in less than a year, most us would be scattered to the
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winds. Jobs were hard to find even then, and besides that, other
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things had happened that set in motion the irrevocable machinery
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beyond our control.</p>
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<p>There was the knowledge of the past season, from spring through
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to summer, still fresh in our minds, the realisation forced upon us
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that sudden death could come out of the blue, in the cold light of
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day, whether by accident, or creeping sickness, or looming shadow
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under the trees on the Rough Drain. There was the prescience of the
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year to come that would change things forever.</p>
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<p>Maybe it was to save something of it all, keep the essence of us
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intact that we went up the hill searching for the decoy target,
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looking for the Dummy Village. It was our last chance to find that
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Eldorado before it was gone forever.</p>
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<p>Maybe even then, we were trying to find ourselves before it all
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slipped away from us and got lost.</p>
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<p>And maybe that's what I set off to do when I began all of this.
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Who really knows? I don't.</p>
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