Redemption Road

by Lisa Ballantyne

  ‘You’re all right now,’ he told her. ‘You’re safe, but you have to come with me.’ She was heavier than he had expected.

  ‘No,’ she screamed, kicking him in the shins so hard that the pain took the breath from Angus. He let her go and had to clench his fist to curtail his urge to hit her in retaliation. There was rebellion in her that should have been crushed early. Did she not realise that Angus was here to save her?

  He took a handful of her sweater in his fist, and pulled her back as she again tried to lunge at the van. ‘It’s on fire. It’s not safe. Don’t you understand, child? You need to stay back.’

  The child covered her face with her hands, and she seemed to be screaming ‘Daddy,’ although Angus could not be sure.

  There was a sudden explosion from inside the van, and Angus covered his face with his arm and instinctively pulled the child into him to protect her. He opened his eyes to the heat of fire and the taste of smoke. Angus peered through his fingers at the van. The explosion had not come from the fuel tank. The fire raged, burning from the inside out.

  As he drew closer, Angus saw that George McLaughlin was engulfed in flames and trying to get out: his large white palm pressed against the glass of the side window.

  Angus moved closer still, so that he was able to stand on tiptoe and peer into the rear windows of the van. He could hear George screaming.

  He walked closer, his hands heavy at his sides, immobile. It reminded him of the Sabbath day when he had watched Maisie in labour; listened to her long, low moans as she tried to push out the calf inside her.

  Perhaps the locks had jammed in the heat or perhaps the door was also on fire, but George could not get out. Angus drew closer, watching the urgency in his face – teeth and staring eyes as the fire covered his body. He was shouting something, but Angus could not hear what.

  ‘Help him!’ Molly screamed.

  Angus turned to glance at her, behind him, elfin, shorn, indignant.

  ‘Help him.’

  The smell of burning combined with the brine of the sea was intoxicating. Angus felt a rare exhilaration. He was watching justice, he realised. God’s hand had reached down and delivered judgement. He moved closer, unblinking.

  He watched George flailing, twisting and turning, as if the fire was an animal on his back, rampant, possessed, hungry. The fire was roaring, and above its cackle and spit was the sound of George screaming. So quick that Angus could almost not believe it, the fire consumed him, so that even the hand which now pawed at the glass was engulfed in flames.

  Angus’s lips moved but made no sound as he whispered the words of the Lord: ‘As for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulphur, which is the second death. Revelation, chapter twenty-one, verse eight.’

  Angus felt a strange relaxation seep through him. ‘… and they will be tormented day and night, forever, and ever.’

  Molly began to beat the sides of the van, screaming, and Angus had to use all his strength to drag her away. He heard the sirens now, throbbing, pulsating as they came closer and closer.

  Just then, over the roar of the fire, Angus heard the sound of the camper van’s engine, revving up. Angus held on to Molly’s upper arms as she thrashed and pulled against him. He couldn’t believe it, but – on fire – George was attempting to escape, to drive away. Angus tightened his grip on the child and smiled at George’s folly.

  The van screeched into reverse and Angus stared, his mouth open as he watched the burning driver. The van paused, back tyres on the edge of the field, headlights facing the ocean. It was impossible for him to drive and Angus shook his head at the man’s ridiculous attempt to escape justice. Just then the back wheels spun and the smoking, burning van charged forward, right over the edge of the cliff. As it fell, there was a second, larger explosion that blew the van open.

  The child screamed and then went limp in Angus’s arms as together they watched it take off from the cliff at Land’s End and fall, head first, into the wild waves below.

  They went to the edge and watched as the van bobbed in the water, only its boot and back wheels visible. It had been blown to pieces. A tyre floated alongside kitchen items: plastic plates and cups. The police arrived: a male and a female police officer. The female officer took Molly to the police car and called the ambulance and the coastguard, while the man took Angus’s statement. Angus peeked over the edge of the cliff, as the van sank from view.

  Back in Thurso, Angus sat in his study, with his fingers poised over the keys of the typewriter. It was the afternoon and his eyes were hot with tiredness. He had driven up from Penzance the day before, driving overnight and sleeping for a few hours in service station car parks. He had arrived early this morning, and had bathed but not slept. He had changed all his clothes and asked Hazel to wash those he had been wearing, but he could still smell the smoke from George’s burning van. The stink of McLaughlin was still on him.

  Angus was annoyed that the article he now had to write was not as revelatory as he had dreamed. He had seen George McLaughlin burn to death for his sins and he had saved young Molly Henderson from a wicked, brutal criminal. Only the Bible had better stories, and Angus had wanted to write it. He knew the truth and he wanted the world to know.

  But the police had been last on the scene. Molly had been taken away first by ambulance, then the coastguard had been called to dredge up the van and look for a body. Angus had enjoyed describing George’s slow death to the police officers. He told of the flames engulfing his body and the two explosions that had come from inside the van.

  By the time the police were ready to take statements, Richard McLaughlin was long gone. Angus emphasised to the police that it had been George McLaughlin driving the van, but a day later the police had failed to verify it. The owner of the camper van had recognised Molly’s squint and contacted them, and then police in Cornwall had had reports of sightings, but George had been merely an unconfirmed suspect. Angus’s editor forbade him to print George’s name in the article. Molly Henderson cried at the scene but quickly became mute and would not say a word to either investigators or hospital staff about her kidnapper or anything else.

  Chewing his lip over his typewriter as he considered what it was possible for him to write, Angus remembered with some bitterness the jibes that his colleagues had made about his obsession with George McLaughlin.

  Angus was familiar with this situation: he knew the truth; he had seen the light, but he was surrounded by heathens who lacked faith.

  The van was dredged from the ocean, but the police couldn’t find a single usable fingerprint inside. Gas canisters were found, which explained the two explosions. The coastguards had been tasked with finding the body, in the expectation that it would be in pieces. The tide had been going out and the divers were searching a wide area. They found a burned shoe, but no remnants of the body. Back in Glasgow, all George’s family and friends said that he was alive but had skipped town to see a girlfriend and would be back soon.

  Angus had called Inspector Black as soon as he returned to Thurso, but the inspector had called him ‘obsessed’ and hung up before he was finished speaking.

  Merely because Angus had been seeking George, his achievement in finding him was not recognised.

  ‘Do you know George McLaughlin?’ Inspector Black had asked him.

  ‘I know it was George driving that van…’

  ‘But do you know him really? No, you don’t. How could you tell George McLaughlin from a hundred other tall, dark men? You were only in Penzance to find George and find him you would, come hell or high water.’

  ‘Hell or high water indeed,’ muttered Angus.

  He placed his palms together as he prepared to write. It was not the story he had intended, but sometimes one had to deal with reality. What Angus believed had happened was not the accepted story and, as a journalist, he had been reminded that he was
duty bound to report only accepted facts.

  There was a knock on his study door and Angus turned. It was Hazel. She was wearing her coat and hat and looking different from how he remembered her. He narrowed his eyes for signs of make-up, but could not detect any. Still, she seemed smarter, cleaner and more awake than he had seen her in some time.

  ‘What is it?’ he said impatiently, turning back to his work.

  ‘I’ve washed the clothes you brought back. I’ve made dinner and Rachael says that she will serve it. I’ll be back some time this evening.’

  Angus wasn’t listening. He turned around to his work before she had finished speaking.

  It was only when she had left the room that Hazel’s words reached him.

  Angus got up and bounded to the top of the stairs. He hung over the banister and called to her.

  ‘What do you mean, Rachael will serve dinner? Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going out, Angus,’ said Hazel, with a strange new wilfulness in her eyes that reminded him of the Henderson girl.

  ‘But where are you going? You can’t…’

  ‘I’m going to a women’s Bible group in town. Rachael knows what to do. I’m sure you’ll be fine.’

  She pushed her hands into leather gloves and started down the stairs.

  He was still standing there, almost paralysed by disbelief, when Rachael came out of her room.

  ‘Your mother’s gone out,’ Angus announced to her.

  The girl’s skin was red from acne, and he noticed that her ears were still reddened and scabbed since his last punishment. Rachael always tied her hair back but he wondered why she did not wear it loose to cover the marks.

  ‘She’ll be back later,’ said the girl coolly. ‘I can sort dinner.’

  Angus rubbed his nose and then dared, ‘You should let your hair down. Your ears, they’re… not pretty to look at.’

  Rachel was halfway downstairs but she turned and looked up at her father. ‘Were you afraid someone saw?’ she whispered to him strangely.

  He pressed his lips together. He had been gone for only two days and in that time it seemed as if the spirit of the Henderson girl had taken over his wife and daughter.

  Angus turned but then called down after her. ‘I don’t care who sees, but I thought you would. You might have put your hair down just this once.’

  ‘I thought you would disapprove.’

  ‘And why would that be?’

  ‘Women should adorn themselves… not with braided hair and gold or pearls or costly attire, but with good deeds.’

  ‘First book of Timothy, chapter two, verse nine,’ said Angus.

  ‘So Mum has gone out to do good work, and I will make your dinner.’

  Angus sensed that there was dissension afoot but could not be sure, so he returned to his study.

  He began to type. It was not a scoop. It would not be syndicated worldwide. It was a dull, factually accurate article about a recent unsolved crime. He knew the truth, but still no one was willing to listen.

  It would not make him famous, but it was all he could write at this time.

  The John o’Groat Journal, Friday 11 October 1985

  HENDERSON CHILD SAVED AS MANHUNT ENDS IN DIVINE PUNISHMENT

  By Angus Campbell

  Molly Henderson, who went missing from Ravenshill Primary on 2 October, has been found and reunited with her parents.

  She was abducted as she walked to school, sparking a nationwide search. Although Molly was found alive, the vehicle her abductor was driving caught fire and plunged over a cliff into the English Channel. Molly was lucky to escape the van before it caught fire and fell into the sea. As it plummeted from the Land’s End cliff, there were two explosions inside the van, killing Molly’s kidnapper, who burned to death.

  Pieces of the van have been recovered, but the abductor’s charred remains have not yet been found. Police and coastguards continue the search for the body.

  The child was at the scene when her abductor died, but has not spoken since and is said to be suffering from extreme shock. Molly has been taken to the Royal Aberdeen Children’s Hospital in order to ascertain the extent of her physical and psychological injuries. The identity of the kidnapper is unconfirmed but it is hoped that Molly will bear witness when she recovers.

  Trained police officers and medical staff experienced in treating children who have suffered sexual abuse and psychological trauma are working with Molly and the Henderson family to try to ensure a speedy recovery.

  Molly’s mother, Kathleen, gave the following statement: ‘I’m just so glad to have her back. I thought she was lost but to have her back in one piece is the greatest gift.’

  Molly’s father, John Henderson, thanked the public for its unflinching support.

  34

  Margaret Holloway

  Thursday 26 December, 2013

  Ben and Margaret walked hand in hand along the corridor in Ward 21.

  ‘He’s not pretty to look at.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ said Ben, and Margaret nudged him gently.

  When they arrived at the bedside, the curtain was half drawn and the nurse was taking blood from George’s arm. ‘You think I’m a pincushion,’ they heard him tease her.

  ‘Doctor’s orders – we need to make sure you’re out of the woods.’

  ‘Ah, you’re never out of the woods. I learned that a long time ago.’

  George noticed Margaret and her husband standing a few feet away. His face stretched into a smile.

  When the nurse drew the curtain back, she frowned sympathetically at Margaret and Ben. ‘Only a few more minutes. His blood pressure’s very high.’

  Since Margaret had left he had been connected to a heart monitor, which now emitted a low pulsing sound.

  ‘My Moll,’ he said, turning up his palm to ask for her hand again. ‘My Moll.’

  She slipped her hand into his. His fingers were still cold.

  ‘This is Ben,’ said Margaret, stepping out of the way, so that Ben could lean in to shake hands.

  George kept hold of Margaret’s hand while he offered Ben a free one. There was a needle taped to his arm for administering drugs.

  ‘George McLaughlin,’ he said as he took Ben’s hand. He said the name carefully, breathing out as he did so, as if with relief.

  ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Ben looked weary, overcome.

  ‘You married my little girl.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘You better look after her.’

  ‘It’s a harder job than you think,’ said Ben, raising both eyebrows at Margaret. ‘Stubborn and independent.’

  ‘You always were… weren’t you, button?’ said George, turning to her.

  Margaret felt her eyes prick with tears, but fought them back. She pulled up chairs for her and Ben and they sat down.

  ‘What happened to you?’ she dared to ask. ‘I saw you die.’

  ‘A man dies more than once in his life,’ said George. Margaret found that when she met his eyes and looked straight into them, the rest of his face reformed, so that she could imagine it as it had been. He was still holding her hand, coursing the back of it with his thumb, and she remembered nights leaning into him as he sang to her. ‘I suppose I was trying to kill myself, but the old bastard upstairs – if there is one – had other plans for me. When the van sank, I managed to get out – I’ve no idea how. There was an explosion and I must have been knocked unconscious for a time – thrown out somehow. The seawater – I think it helped, with the burns… I tried to swim for a bit as best I could, not swim as such but tried to stay afloat. I kept passing out and was sure I would drown. I had no idea how badly hurt I was. A woman walking her dog helped me when I was washed ashore. When I woke up in hospital, they told me I was in Torquay. I had floated so far along the coast. I told them I couldn’t remember anything except my name and that I’d been in a boating accident. I told them my name was Maxwell Brown. I said I was born in 1955 instead of 1958. I was in h
ospital a long time. I expected the police, or my family, or someone… but no one ever came. All those years I hadn’t wanted to be a McLaughlin, and then there I was, erased. But…’