Loch of the Dead

by Loch of the Dead (retail) (epub)

  McGray decided to see how Mr Nellys was faring, if only to keep his mind occupied. The old man’s room was two doors from Dominik’s. To his surprise, the door was slightly open.

  McGray knocked softly. ‘Mr Nellys? Ye all right?’

  There was no reply. McGray walked in quickly, but to his utter relief the frail man lay peacefully on the bed. Alone. His curtains were drawn too, only a thin line of light falling diagonally over the richly embroidered bedding.

  The man turned his head to McGray, and despite his weakness he smiled.

  McGray walked closer, conscious of a sudden, inexplicable nervousness. Are . . . are they treating ye well? Ye look pale.’ Even more than before, he decided not to say.

  ‘I’m not in pain, my son, if that’s what you mean. Come, have a seat. I shall like some company.’

  McGray sat on the bed, somehow reminded of the old priest. The mere memory of the bloody mess that had become of that old man made him shudder.

  Like Frey had said, it did not look like Mr Nellys was going to live for much longer. We can always see it, he thought, even if our minds refuse to accept it.

  Mr Nellys let out a prolonged, tired sigh. ‘I had a horrible dream last night. The islands were on fire: Maree and Juniper. The sky was full of flames and smoke, and I couldn’t breathe.’ He stared at the thread of light between the curtains, and he squinted, but not because of the glimmer. ‘My children were screaming but I couldn’t see them. My Lazarus and my poor Helena . . . The ashes were burning my eyes – and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything to help them. Like always!’

  Natalja suddenly played with renewed intensity. McGray wished she would stop.

  ‘Just a dream,’ he whispered.

  ‘No . . . I don’t think so,’ Mr Nellys said, biting his thumbnail. ‘We’ve got too close to the fire. And now we’ll burn.’

  McGray felt the man’s pain as if it were his own. For a moment they even breathed in unison, as if facing the very same threat.

  ‘Mr Nellys . . .’ McGray said, leaning closer to him, ‘what’s troubling ye? Maybe I can help.’

  Again the man smiled, showing his crooked teeth, his dry skin wrinkling like parchment. ‘We are beyond help now. I only wish my poor children hadn’t been dragged into this . . .’ His eyes were watery yet burning with remorse, bitterness . . . and dread. ‘I wish they didn’t love me like they do.’ He placed an icy, bony hand on McGray’s and squeezed it with what little strength he had. ‘Love is a burden, my son. I’m sure you know that by now.’

  McGray felt a cold prickling at the back of his neck, almost like a physical presence building up from thin air.

  Mr Nellys’s eyes widened. ‘I must confess something. My son . . . I hope you can forgive me.’

  The man squeezed McGray’s hand a little harder.

  ‘Confess?’ McGray repeated, his mouth suddenly dry. The ghostly presence felt stronger. ‘Did ye do it? Was it ye? Was it ye who killed the constable?’

  Mr Nellys half smiled. ‘We know your name . . . your other name, Mr Nine-Nails.’ He stared at the gap where McGray’s missing finger would have been. ‘We know what you investigate . . . Millie read about you, about your interest in banshees and witchcraft and demons. You might understand as soon as I tell you this . . .’

  ‘Understand?’

  The man’s veiny eyes locked on McGray’s, disturbing and penetrating.

  ‘You do need a certain frame of mind to understand about demons . . .’

  The piano came to a halt, almost as if that word had stolen the music from the air. Then it resumed in sharp, staccato notes, like the pricking of needles. Mr Nellys put a weary hand to his belly. ‘You’ve read plenty about demons, I imagine.’

  ‘Ah – Aye, I have, but . . .’

  The man grasped McGray’s forearm, startling him, pressing the still aching wound. ‘Yet you fail to recognize one when you see him.’

  There was a flash of madness in those eyes, the hint of a creeping smile, and the hand suddenly felt like an animal’s claw around McGray’s arm. He had to pull it away, disgusted by its touch, yet fearing he might snap those old bones.

  ‘Don’t say something ye might regret later. Ye better rest, Mr Nellys.’

  The music resumed, low and funereal, and the old man’s eyes filled with malice.

  ‘Our family name isn’t Nellys, my son. That’s a contraction my grandfather made up so we wouldn’t sound so foreign.’

  The man looked sideways, listening intently to the music for an unnervingly long time. When he finally spoke again his voice sounded much lower, as if to come in tune with the dark serenade from downstairs.

  ‘Our full name is – was . . .’ he drew in air with a repulsive, throttling sound, ‘Nelapsi.’

  McGray rose to his feet, jumping back as if stricken by fire.

  Mr Nelapsi finally allowed himself to grin wickedly. He no longer looked like a feeble, dying, sweet old man; he now looked like a desiccated corpse, freshly risen from the ground to torment the living.

  ‘So you know the meaning,’ he hissed with manic pleasure.

  McGray nodded. ‘Slavic folklore. It’s an ancient name for –’

  Mr Nelapsi cackled, and spat out his words as if stabbing the air. ‘Monsters. Undead. Blood-drinkers.’

  And just as McGray thought he understood it all, the presence he’d felt behind him became real, and a mighty blow fell on the back of his head. As he stumbled to the floor, searing pain darting through his skull, he had a fleeting vision of Mrs Nelapsi and her daughter.

  And Benjamin.

  42

  Boyde smelled of lemon juice and garlic, which, combined with his perspiration and the reek of the corpse, made my face turn green: I caught my reflection in the water as he rowed swiftly towards the island. I tried to focus my attention on the slight breeze, the bright greenery and the imposing mountains all around us. Even at that moment, the loch instilled calm, a majestic mirror beneath the blue sky.

  It took us just under half an hour to reach the island, the Koloman manor always visible behind us.

  As we approached I had a better view of the shore. The pines rose abruptly from the very edge of the island, their trunks thin and perfectly straight, like the columns of a cathedral, and behind them the island was nothing but deep shadow.

  The shore was not a beach but a rocky edge, sharp and unforgiving. Boyde had to tangle the rope around his waist and then clamber clumsily over a round rock, wet and slippery, before he could tie the boat to the nearest tree.

  Getting the corpse ashore was a thousand times harder than I expected. Boyde jumped back into the boat and lifted McEwan’s upper body, and only then did we realize our conundrum. I could carry the man’s feet, but there was nobody on the rocks, level with my chest, to receive the load.

  ‘I will go up there,’ I said, climbing precariously up the wet stone. I knelt down, stretched out my arms and strived to take hold of the body, whilst Boyde did his best to bring it within my reach. He grunted and jerked, trying to heave that head and shoulders towards my hands, but he nearly fell over the gunwale. Try handing me the feet,’ I said, and Boyde lifted McEwan’s legs, dragging the man’s head along the bottom of the boat, and again he tried to toss the body in my direction.

  I wished we hadn’t wrapped the corpse like a mummy, so I could have pulled his arm or leg, but then I had the ghastly image of a decaying limb coming off.

  ‘Oh, this is a disaster,’ I grunted, seeing the streaks of sweat on Boyde’s temples. ‘Prop him against the rock. I might be able to . . .’

  Boyde again lifted the torso, and after nearly falling he managed to slam it against the granite. The spattering sound it made was repulsive.

  Boyde sandwiched the corpse between the rock and his own body, pressing hard so it did not slide into the water.

  I had to lean down so far I feared I’d plunge into the loch face first, but I managed to grab some folds of the flour sacks. I tried to pull up, but I did not have
a good enough grip.

  ‘Push!’ I growled, feeling the jute tear, my fingers suddenly coming into contact with the body’s actual skin.

  Boyde snorted, squatted and thrust the body upwards with his last ounce of strength. I saw the wrapped head projecting up like a dart, and managed to seize the bundle and drag it so that it rested on the very edge of the rock. McEwan’s torso, at least, was now firmly on the island, his legs hanging slackly above the water.

  Boyde and I let out simultaneous sighs of relief. He joined me on steady ground, bringing the two shovels, and we both carried McEwan to a less precarious position.

  I could finally take a look at the terrain before us. The island was dark and ominous. Clearly the sun never reached the soil, for nothing grew underneath the majestic pines, their dead needles left there to dry and accumulate over the years.

  ‘No need to bury him very far in,’ I said, my mind set on getting back as soon as possible. ‘Any spot will do.’

  ‘Here?’ asked Boyde, pointing with the shovel at a nearby clearing. It looked like the gap left by a tree fallen years ago.

  I headed there, feeling the bumpy ground underneath the bed of needles and nearly losing my footing a couple of times. I glanced around with absolute weariness, cursing my luck at having to perform, with my bare hands, the last rituals for a lazy, irresponsible, misogynistic and insolent piece of rustic dung. Not that I would do a terribly solemn job . . .

  Digging was not as difficult as carrying the corpse ashore but a soul-destroying task nonetheless. The bed of dry pine needles, even in that clearing, was almost a foot thick and below it the soil was hard and gritty.

  By the time we’d dug deep enough I had blisters on my fingers, my arms and back and waist ached mightily, and I was dripping sweat like a coal miner – fittingly, for I was just as soiled.

  Exhausted though we were, we managed to drag the body to the makeshift grave, doing our best not to breathe its offensive fumes, and then, without even thinking of saying something Christian, we rolled it over the edge. The corpse fell into the hole in the most ungracious manner, bouncing and then landing on its side.

  Boyde wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘Shall we position him properly?’

  I looked at the curled up legs and the head, bent slightly upwards against the pit’s wall. That poor body had been abused, mishandled and disrespected in every way imaginable.

  ‘Would you care to?’ I sighed.

  Boyde shrugged, and we immediately began shovelling soil and stones back into the hole.

  We were soon past caring, sweeping grit and kicking pebbles with our boots. Somehow, when we were finished, there was still a huge pile of rubble sitting next to the grave – far more than McEwan’s body would have displaced.

  I marked the place with a smooth, particularly dark stone, and rubbed the dust off my hands. We both sat in silence for a few minutes, not out of respect but simply catching our breath and resting our weary limbs. I looked at my now grubby watch; nearly three hours had passed since we left the manor. McGray would be sorely impatient by now.

  Boyde saw me check the time and stood before I said a word. He picked up the shovels and started back to the boat, looking up at the fragments of blue sky visible through the canopy. I noticed a protrusion on the ground, right in front of him, and opened my mouth to warn him. But before I could speak Boyde tripped and fell flat on his face, the shovels rolling on the ground. I nearly laughed, but then he looked back at the object, the thick carpet of needles disturbed by his boot. And he squealed in panic.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, jumping forward. Instead of replying, Boyde crawled away in an almost comical manner and ran for the boat.

  I advanced cautiously, not knowing what to expect, until I spotted something white nestling in the dead foliage. Gingerly, as if it were a poisonous animal, I kicked the clumps of needles aside. I felt a chill, and I gasped.

  It was a human skull, eroded and bleached by the elements. Its dark, empty sockets seemed to stare right back at me. Its jaw, almost toothless, had fallen open, locked in what looked like an everlasting cackle.

  I gulped, giving myself a moment to recover from the first impression. After a few deep breaths I squatted down and carefully removed more dead needles. I uncovered a broken breastbone, surrounded by only a few remaining ribs.

  ‘Dear Lord . . .’ I muttered, peering at the sardonic-looking skull. It was completely dry, cracked in places, without a shred of flesh left on it. That body had lain there for years.

  ‘Let’s go, sir!’ Boyde whimpered from the shoreline.

  ‘Oh, come back, you silly brute! I need help here.’

  I rose, thinking that this would open an entirely new line of investigation. I’d have to inspect the surroundings thoroughly, so that when the constables arrived I could give a comprehensive statement – and I would have only the help of this smelly young man.

  ‘Why do these things always happen to me, while McGray is away having a bloody good time?’ I grumbled, picturing him standing by a window with a large glass of wine.

  Boyde approached, covering his mouth with his fists in a most childish way.

  ‘Let’s leave it here, sir. I don’t want to –’

  ‘Boyde,’ I interrupted, trying very hard to sound comforting – not my greatest skill. ‘There is nothing to be afraid of. This person has been dead for a good while. Now, help me uncover it. I need to see what lies here before we can go back.’

  He bent down reluctantly, and began shifting foliage with quivering hands, almost one needle at a time, avoiding at all costs touching the skeleton.

  ‘Boyde, you have just handled a cadaver that leaked and reeked, yet this – Oh, move aside!’

  I sighed in resignation, not understanding this sudden change in him. I knew only that I would have to do most of the work myself.

  Then, almost as if I were stepping out of my body, as if someone else had put the thought in my head, I said aloud, ‘What are the chances you’d simply stumble across a dead body? This is a square-mile island.’

  Just as I said that, Boyde again jumped backward, shrieking like a child.

  ‘Oh, what now?’

  He was looking away, covering his face, his voice muffled by his hands. ‘That . . . that sod has three hands!’

  ‘Boyde, do not be ridiculous. How could there be –’

  I prodded into the carpet of needles with my shoe, and again I caught my breath. Boyde was right. On top of the breastbone there were the bones of two hands, resting like those of a body in a coffin. And then, right under them, I saw another set of phalanges. I uncovered two, three, four fingers. I dug further and followed the thin bones of a small forearm.

  Then my boot rested on another bump. I stepped back and tossed aside handfuls of needles. There I found a ribcage . . . only it lay too far away to belong to either of the first two bodies.

  I stood up at once, nearly tripping over another ‘rock’. I dug: another skull. I dug a couple of feet to my right: two sets of femurs. I ran ten yards away, panting, and found another lump on the ground: a wide pelvic bone.

  It became hard to breathe, and with my mind overwhelmed I turned in circles, staring at the myriad lumps in the ground that were still untouched.

  I understood the enormity of what I was seeing, and my chest suddenly felt cold and hollow. I fell backward from the shock, dragging myself over the uneven terrain, knowing that each bump underneath my feet might be another skull or ribcage.

  ‘God . . .’ was all I could get out, a plea rather than a mere exclamation. And, to my own utter horror, I laughed.

  Rory Island was a vast boneyard. A dumping ground for discarded bodies, left there to rot under the shade of that thick canopy.

  43

  McGray felt the rough rug pressing against his face, heard the rattle behind him, and then was perfectly conscious of someone tossing the blankets aside to pull Mr Nelapsi out of the bed. Downstairs the music stopped with a strident chord, followed instantly by
Natalja’s screaming. McGray could picture the scene in his mind, and his imagination went wild when he heard furniture breaking, shelfloads of books being hurled and brass instruments rolling about.

  Yet, for a horrible moment, he could not move. He had to summon all his willpower to get his palms to the rug and then drag himself forward. The room spun around him madly as he grasped the edge of the bed to help himself up.

  ‘I thought I’d knocked him down!’ Mrs Nelapsi cried, and McGray saw Benjamin rush towards him, brandishing one of Mr Koloman’s rifles.

  It fell on McGray like a bludgeon, but just before it could crack his skull he raised his arm instinctively and pushed the rifle aside.

  ‘Yer not that strong, laddie,’ McGray panted, managing to stand on unsteady legs.

  Benjamin retreated a few steps, pointing the rifle directly at McGray’s chest. ‘It doesn’t take much strength to pull a trigger.’

  McGray was about to tell the boy he would not dare, but Benjamin’s expression told otherwise. His face was unsettling, stripped of every emotion but the purest hatred. McGray raised his palms. ‘Don’t do something ye might regret.’

  The rifle was shaking in Benjamin’s puny arms, but he was standing so close it was impossible he’d miss McGray’s heart. ‘I’d say the same to you.’

  McGray moved his eyes sideways and saw Helena and her mother wrapping Mr Nelapsi in a thick coat.

  ‘Konrad’s best,’ said Mrs Nelapsi with a sneer. A new beginning.’

  Miss Fletcher came in then, carrying a gun and checking that the cylinder was fully charged.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr McGray,’ she said. ‘We must do this.’ She nodded at Benjamin, who walked backward towards the door.

  ‘How can ye go with them?’ McGray cried. ‘Half this is legally yers. Yer family is here.’

  Benjamin let out a scornful laugh. ‘Family! They only brought me here to carry on their name. And Helena too. They want us to breed for them as if we were bloody goats, since my cousin is a damned pillow-biter.’

  Miss Fletcher picked up the frail Mr Nelapsi and cradled him in her arms like a small child. She muttered, ‘Don’t judge him so harshly for that . . .’