The Drowning Tide (Blair Dubh Trilogy #2) (21 page)

Craig frowned. “I said you can go home Mr Doggett.”

“Yes I will, I just….Freya, remember what I said. It’s close. You must take care.”

She shuffled uncomfortably beneath his forceful gaze. “I remember. I’ll be careful.”

“It’s important,” he said earnestly.

She grabbed her hair in one hand and held it back in a makeshift ponytail so she could see. “I know.”

They all watched as he walked back down his garden path, Steve and Gary standing aside to allow him to pass. When he shut the door, blocking out the light, they were plunged into blackness.

“Let’s get back to the pub. Quick,” said Craig, taking Freya’s hand and setting off at a run, almost causing her to fall.

“Careful,” she cried, only just managing to stay on her feet.

“He’s right, it is dangerous,” he yelled over the rising wind. “We have to get inside now.”

His words scared Hughes, who bolted past them and up the steps into the pub, cutting so close to them Craig stood on the back of his heel and he staggered, ran headlong through the door and ended up in a heap on the floor.

Everyone in the pub just glanced at him flailing on the ground before returning to their conversations. Only Jimmy and Jeanette bothered to help him up.

“There was no need to push the man Craig,” said Jeanette.

“I didn’t, he fell over.”

“Oh dear, what a shame,” said Jimmy sarcastically while Jeanette sat him in a chair and told Gordon to fetch him a brandy.

“Did Lizzy patch you up?” Jimmy asked Craig.

“Aye she did. Just a scratch, like I said,” he replied, ignoring the look Freya gave him.

“What went on up at the churchyard?”

“We’re not entirely certain. Actually that’s why I’m here. Can I have everyone’s attention please?” called Craig.

The room went expectantly quiet.

“We need your help. We’re looking for a woman, five foot nine inches tall, long red hair, green eyes. Very striking-looking.”

“Aren’t we all?” called out Fred, raising a few laughs.

“You wouldn’t want this one, trust me. If you do see her don’t approach her. Let me, Gary or Steve know.”

“Is she dangerous?” said Gordon from behind the bar.

“Yes and extremely unbalanced. It’s important she’s found as quickly as possible.”

“Why, who is she?” boomed Bill from the back of the room.

Craig looked to Freya, who nodded. “It’s alright, they’ve a right to know if she’s causing havoc here,” she said.

Craig turned back to the room. “Some of you might remember her, she’s been here before, although it was a while ago. Mandy Allan, my ex-girlfriend.” Some of them obviously did remember her judging by the faces they pulled. She hadn’t been very popular with the villagers. “She’s been stalking me and Freya for months and causing havoc. We think she might be here to cause more.”

“We’ll keep an eye out, won’t we?” said Bill, casting a determined eye around the room.

They all nodded and murmured their assent.

“Thank you,” smiled Craig. “We really appreciate it.”

Craig, Freya, Steve and Gary meandered up to the bar.

“Pint lads?” said Gordon.

The three men nodded.

“Lemonade Freya?”

“Please,” she smiled.

“I believe this pub is licenced to serve until eleven and it’s five past,” Hughes called out.

The room went deathly silent, everyone regarding him with outrage.

“That’s the law,” he added in a quieter voice, refusing to lose face twice in one night.

Bill made his way towards him, heavy boots thudding on the wooden floor, everyone moving out of his way to allow him to pass. Hughes stared up at his towering frame and felt his bowels loosen.

“Listen you,” began Bill. “This pub is the beating heart of the village. It’s where we all come to meet and talk and now two of our own have just told us they have a very serious problem and need our help. This pub is vital to them getting that help.” His lip curled with disgust. “You’re not from round here but we still welcome you in and this is how you repay our hospitality. If I were you I’d keep my head down and that big gob full of Gordon’s very high quality drink because one more stupid remark and you’ll be out on your arse.”

“I’m a police officer, you wouldn’t dare,” he retorted.

“Try me and see.”

Hughes looked to his colleagues for back-up. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that?”

“This pub stays open until Gordon decides to close,” replied Craig. “That’s how its always been and that’s how it’ll stay. If you don’t like it you can get tae buggery and if you try telling anyone about this we’ll all deny it. That wouldn’t look good for you, twenty people’s word against yours.”

“But…” Hughes shut his mouth and sighed miserably, knowing he was beaten.

“Freya was right, you are a wee fud. You’ve got some big shoes to fill. Shame your feet are too small,” said Bill before wandering over to the bar, pleased with his clever word play. He wasn’t usually so quick-thinking.

Hughes looked hopefully to Jeanette, who suddenly appeared embarrassed to be sat at his table. She shot to her feet and rushed to join a table of four ladies in the corner, who all moved up to make room for her. He sighed again and curled up in his seat in an attempt to become invisible.

“What went on up at the churchyard?” Bill asked Craig. “Jimmy said you got stuck in some brambles.”

“No he didn’t,” said Freya when Craig just nodded. “He was stabbed.”

“What?” exclaimed Steve and Gary in unison.

“Ssshh, we don’t want the fud interfering,” said Freya, nodding her head in Hughes’s direction.

“I’m not sure what happened,” said Craig. “Something tripped me…”

“Or someone,” added Freya.

“Or someone. I fell. I thought brambles got me in the stomach but Lizzy said it looked like a knife wound. It’s just shallow, nothing serious but she could be wrong. Personally I think I fell on something that had been abandoned in the woods. Things get dumped in there, it happens.”

“You think Mandy might have been responsible?” said Steve, not buying his
I fell on something
story for a second.

“Yes,” replied Freya.

“So who’s the man you were chasing? Was he her accomplice distracting you so she could attack?” said Gary.

“Possibly. Right now it’s all conjecture, we’re not even sure she’s here,” replied Craig. “The man in the woods might just have been an obsessed tourist and I fell on some abandoned rubbish.”

Freya shook her head in disbelief.

“Whatever’s going on we’ve got your back,” said Bill.

“Too right we have,” said Gordon as he placed their drinks on the bar.

“Can we keep my injury from Mum? She’ll only worry. Oh no,” he said when Nora walked in.

“Craig, are you alright?” she exclaimed. “Lizzy called me and said you’d been hurt.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Let me see,” she said, attempting to pull up his t-shirt.

“Mum please, it’s fine,” he said, pushing his t-shirt back down. “Lizzy’s sorted it.”

“What caused it?”

“He might have been stabbed. Sorry,” added Gary when Craig gaped at him.

“Oh my God. Stabbed,” she shrieked, causing everyone to look their way.

“Please keep your voice down,” chided Craig.

“Sorry son. Stabbed?” she repeated in a quieter tone. “Who would do such a thing?” Her eyes widened. “Mandy?”

“Possibly. I didn’t see who or what it was. I fell and got hurt.”

“You have to find her fast. She’ll be coming for Freya,” said Nora, looking scared.

“Craig’s the one who got hurt,” said Freya. “I was standing on my own in the middle of the graveyard but she went for him.” She recalled that chilling laugh and visibly paled.

“What is it?” said Craig.

“When I was standing there waiting for you to come out of the woods I heard a laugh.” She shook her head. “It was probably my imagination, it was pretty freaky up there and the wind was getting up.”

“The attack on Craig was just a cry for attention, typical of Mandy. If she’d wanted to really hurt you she could have done. She’ll be coming after Freya next,” said Nora more forcefully.

“Mum, please,” said Craig, pulling Freya to him. “We don’t know that, the attack was focused on me. Anyway, we can’t be sure it was Mandy. This might all be to do with the man I chased through the woods.”

“What man?” said Nora.

“I don’t know.” He sighed heavily. “What the hell is going on?”

CHAPTER 22

Docherty was freaking out again. Now the sun had finally sank it was absolutely pitch black up here. The wind snuck in through every little gap in the church, moaning through the old stone, making it sound like someone was whispering in the dark but he refused to be driven out by the ghosts of Blair Dubh. He’d no idea what had happened earlier. He surmised it had been Supercop chasing him, but why he’d suddenly stopped he had no idea. By the time he’d plucked up the courage to look out the window everyone had gone, including Freya. Now the shock of being chased through the woods had worn off he was angry at losing his quarry. She had been right in front of him, alone, vulnerable, until that stupid woman with the bob had spoilt it. If she hadn’t been there he could have jumped out and done her there and then. He wouldn’t have had time to enjoy her like he wanted to but at least she would be dead and he would be a little more at peace.

He laid down on one of the pews, for the first time in days feeling cold, knowing he was going to get no sleep on the hard wood with the sighs of ghosts echoing around him. It was tempting to go down to the dock and return to that little boat he’d slept on the previous night but the sound of the wind battering the building kept him inside. If he went on that boat in this weather he’d either spend the entire night throwing up or be capsized. For his own safety it was important to remain in the shelter of the church, he just hoped his mind survived the strain.

Docherty screwed his eyes tight shut and attempted to dream of the punishment he was going to mete out to Freya, but the images wouldn’t come. Instead, every time he was on the verge of dropping off strange shapes seemed to loom over him. He could see them as clear as day although he kept his eyes firmly closed.

The most commanding of these figures was of a man in swirling black robes, his deep voice yelling in his ear. Still Docherty refused to open his eyes. When an icy breath touched his face he involuntarily jumped awake, heart banging against his ribcage, eyes darting about seeking the figure, but when he looked it was always gone. He’d lie back down again, putting it down to extreme fatigue, then that voice would start up in his ear again.

“Stop it,” Docherty yelled, clamping his hands down over his ears.

The third time this happened Docherty’s eyes involuntarily flew open, unable to ignore the demanding voice any longer.

He wished he hadn’t.

A cold hard face just inches from his own glared down at him, black eyes as hard as granite. Despite the darkness every detail of the face was shockingly clear, the red veins in the whites of the eyes, the glimmer of spit on the wide lips, which stretched back to reveal a hollow gaping mouth.

Sheer terror stole the scream from his throat. All he could do was stare up at the face impotently. He’d never felt fear like it in his life.

The lips distorted into what he imagined was a smile, but it twisted his whole face, making him look deformed. Finally Docherty found his voice, his own scream bouncing back at him off the walls. He screwed his eyes tight shut and lashed out with his fists, which sailed through the air, failing to connect with anything.

When he dared to look again the face had vanished.

Docherty curled up in a ball and buried his face in his hands, refusing to look up until dawn light filtered through the stained glass windows. Thank God it was summer and it came early.

For the first time in days Will was sitting up, or to be more specific, propped up, shaking with nerves as the bandages were unwound from his head by a doctor who looked like he wasn’t long out of nappies. If it hadn’t been for Moira’s presence he didn’t think he could have coped, but it was a dilemma because he didn’t want her to see how ugly he was.

Moira watched as first his chin was revealed, the skin marred by a couple of red lines. His lips were worse where the attack had been particularly concentrated. The lower lip was swollen and scarred, the upper lip twisted slightly to the left by a particularly savage cut. His cheeks were crisscrossed with more livid red lines, partly hidden by the heavy blonde stubble. She held her breath as the end of the bandage was reached then it was gently pulled away to finally reveal those eyes in all their glory. Instinctively Will turned his head away, not wanting her to see his perceived hideousness. Moira wanted to tell him to look at her, that the scars didn’t repulse her in the slightest but thought that would be unprofessional in front of her colleague so she held her tongue.

“Good news Will, the wounds are healing very well,” said the doctor. “Looks like we caught the infection in time.”

“Is…is it bad?” It was strange to talk without the thick bandages but easier and the air felt cool on his skin. Finally he could breathe again.

The door burst open with a noisy rattle and Harry barged in. “Will mate, bloody hell look at you, Nightmare on Elm Street err, I mean looking good. I thought it would be much worse. You almost look human,” he joked.

“Do not talk to him like that,” said Moira.

“Why don’t you do one you do-gooding tart,” retorted Harry.

Something inside Will snapped. He’d spent months being afraid of this prick, being bullied into covering for him when he wanted to rough up a prisoner or skive off. He’d had a gutful. The insult to Moira was the last straw.

Will stood on shaky legs, swaying slightly, gripping onto the bed frame. “You just go fuck yourself Harry. You’re only here because you’re frightened someone will find out what a lazy, incompetent, sadistic bastard you really are.” The words came out slurred and his audience had to concentrate on translating what he was saying but they got the gist. To Will it felt so good to talk again he was empowered. He’d waited long enough to put Harry the bastard Jacobs in his place. “And don’t you dare insult this wonderful woman you big dirty shitebag. Get out.”

Harry was amazed. No one in his entire life had ever spoken to him like that. “You don’t know what you’re saying Will.”

“Aye I do. I’ve wanted to say it for months. Get tae fuck.”

“Fine. I’m leaving and I won’t be fucking back. Deal with this on your own.”

“He’s not alone,” said Moira, making Will smile. The effect was eerie, more of a grimace than a gesture expressing joy but it delighted her.

Harry left, slamming the door shut behind him. Will released a sigh of relief and sank back onto the bed, shaking with a confusing combination of fatigue and adrenaline.

“Thank God he’s gone,” said the doctor. “Well Will, a couple more days and I think we’ll be able to release you.”

Moira swallowed hard and kept her gaze on the floor.

“When the wounds have had time to heal we can discuss plastic surgery options.”

“Okay,” he mumbled, more concerned with not seeing his nurse again than his face.

“Right, I’ve got to continue with my ward round. I’ll leave you in Nurse McDiarmid’s capable hands. She’ll clean you up. I’ll be back to check on you later.”

When the doctor had gone Will and Moira glanced at each other then looked away, Will not wanting to show her his face full on in case she ran out screaming.

“How does it look, really?” he said.

“Not as bad as you think.”

“I don’t know how you can look at me.”

“Why don’t you see for yourself?”

“I can’t,” he said, the prospect horrifying.

“The longer you leave it the harder it’ll get,” she said, taking the small mirror down off the wall.

“No please, I really can’t,” he said, holding up his hands.

“Yes you can. Look.”

But he refused to.

“For me, please.”

Will found himself unable to resist the lure of that voice. “Fine. I suppose if you haven’t run out screaming then I should be able to manage it.”

“I’m not going to leave you Will,” she said.

“Thank you,” he replied in a small voice.

He took the mirror and she watched as he slowly raised it with shaking hands then lowered it again. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can. Let me help,” she said, taking the mirror from him and holding it. “Look,” she whispered.

Not wanting to appear weak and stupid in her eyes he forced himself to look at his reflection and his heart sank. He was a mess, face a patchwork of ugly scars and jagged lines, his upper lip misshapen. He was a terminally ugly bastard. Plastic surgery might help but it would never cure.

“Oh Christ,” he sighed, turning his back on the mirror.

Moira hung it back on the wall. “It’s not so bad.”

“My life’s over. No one’s going to want to employ me or date me. I’ll be jobless and alone for the rest of my life.”

“No you won’t, you’re still good looking.”

“You don’t need to lie.”

“I’m not.”

He forced himself to face her. This good woman deserved nothing less. “You have such a kind heart but please don’t lie to protect me.”

“I’m not. I think any woman would be lucky to have you.”

He snorted derisively. “Yeah, right. Who’d want to kiss a mouth like this?”

“I would,” she blurted out before thinking.

He gaped at her and she blushed.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” she said, scurrying for the door.

“Wait, don’t go.”

She stopped and turned to face him.

“You haven’t cleaned up my face yet.”

Blushing furiously she took a pair of latex gloves from a box on a table and pulled them on then picked up a tray containing everything she needed and placed it on the bed.

“Why won’t you look at me?” he said. “Is it because of my face?”

“Not at all. It’s because I’m embarrassed.”

“Why?”

“You know why. Don’t make me say it,” she replied, dabbing at one of the cuts on his cheek with cotton wool, avoiding his searching blue eyes.

He took her hand and gently lowered it.

“I really need to clean you up,” she said.

“It can wait.”

Heat went racing through her body. His voice was soft and gentle with a gravelly tone. After he’d been silent for so long it was like music to her ears.

They gazed at each other, Will raising his hand to touch that pretty soft face. Hastily he lowered it again when the door opened. An overweight middle aged woman dressed like a teenager in leggings and a tight t-shirt waddled into the room, red-faced and sweaty.

“Jesus H Christ Will, look what they did to your lovely face. You’ll get some fucking good compo for this.” She frowned at Moira. “Who’s this weegie?”

Will sighed and rolled his eyes, looking apologetically at his nurse. “So you finally made it Mum?”

Freya slept very badly that night. Deciding it would not be sensible to return to the boat where they would be isolated and which would be as restful as a rollercoaster to sleep on she and Craig had agreed to spend the night at Nora’s cottage. Freya hadn’t found it easy to sleep in a house where she’d almost been killed and Gary had his head bashed in. Rather than stay in the spare room where the attack took place they’d slept in Craig’s old room.

When she had eventually managed to drift off she’d been disturbed by the door slowly opening to reveal Martin Lynch in an advanced state of decomposition. He’d opened his mouth to speak and his lower jaw had dropped off, fetid water pouring from the black hole. She’d only just managed to stifle her scream as she’d jumped awake. Sleep had eluded her after that and she’d turned away from the door, afraid to look at it in case it opened to reveal her nightmare so she’d nestled into Craig, listening to the wind raging outside. Occasionally the roar was punctuated by a crash or bang as something was blown over. At one point there was an almighty smash. Freya went rigid, straining to listen. It hadn’t sounded too close but close enough and she wondered what it was. Briefly she contemplated getting up and peering out of the window but she was afraid of what she’d see so instead she pulled the sheet around her tighter and pressed her face into Craig’s shoulder, pining for her safe little flat in Glasgow. The weather was getting worse, which meant it wasn’t over.

Mercifully dawn arrived early this time of year. Glad to see its light she leapt up and peered through a chink in the curtains, not wanting to disturb Craig. Her heart sank. The boats were still being thrown about on the choppy sea, which was being agitated by the strong wind. Could they even sail in this weather? She felt seasick just thinking about it. Debris was strewn across the main street, a large fishing net sitting on the pub steps.

“Jesus Christ,” she exclaimed when a pair of arms wrapped themselves around her waist.

“Did I make you jump?” said Craig’s voice in her ear.

“Just a bit.”

“Sorry. I hope Gordon doesn’t trip over that when he opens up the pub,” said Craig, indicating the fishing net.

“Can we sail in this weather?”

“No way, it’s too dangerous.”

“Shit,” she sighed.

“We could always leave the boat here and go somewhere else. I don’t want to go home until we know where Mandy is. We could take the ferry over to Arran.”

“Will it be running this weather?”