by Ian Cook
Jim threw his hands in the air, went to the mini-bar, took out two small bottles of red wine and poured himself a generous glass. Lying down on the bed, he propped himself up against the pillow and drained the glass.
Then he lay back and ran the extraordinary events of the day through his mind. Something very odd seemed to be happening to Rebecca. She was clearly mentally disturbed. But could it all really be connected to the cosmic changes going on? That seemed to be the rational explanation. Even Greg had said that redheads all over the States were acting oddly and having visions. It could all be part of the same phenomenon. Could it be true, after all, that she had been receiving messages from the dead? Surely that was going too far. Then there was Dr Neferatu. How did he fit into it all this, if indeed he did?
And what about his own feelings towards Rebecca? They seemed to be all over the place. He acknowledged that he had been strongly attracted to her on Easter Island. At least until that dinner.
It must have been after that weird evening that their relationship had changed. It was as if she had become different person. He couldn’t help thinking about the way she kept losing her temper. She seemed to have become quite wild. Frighteningly so, like someone possessed. He didn’t know if he could handle her, or even if he wanted to. One minute he was drawn to her, the next he was almost repelled.
Then perhaps it was his attitude towards Rebecca that had been affected. Maybe the cosmic changes were affecting him. It was all very confusing. And yet, deep down, he found he still had strong feelings for her. He was even beginning to feel sorry she had walked out.
He half-heartedly watched a bit of television, then, after finishing off the second bottle of wine, switched the television off. He was tired, so he got ready for bed.
As he lay there, his head in a pleasant haze and waiting for sleep to come, he found he could not stop his mind returning to Rebecca.
He must have drifted off and yet, if what happened next was just a dream, it nevertheless seemed very real. He was suddenly aware that Rebecca was lying next to him in the bed. As she lay on her side, he could actually feel the warmth of her body and smell the fragrance of her skin. He gently turned her on to her back and kissed her, passionately. Yet, when he opened his eyes, still half-asleep, he was bitterly disappointed to find that he was hugging a pillow.
He lay there for a while, gazing at the blinking fire-detector above. From that moment he knew that, despite everything, he was indeed very much in love with Rebecca.
CHAPTER 60
Stromness was the second main town of Orkney after Kirkwall. A place with a romantic feel, it had always had associations with voyages of exploration, and it was the last port of call where Captain Cook took on food and water, before crossing the Atlantic to survey the coast of Canada.
In the clear, bright early morning, the town was getting ready for the day, and the first ferry for Scrabster on mainland Scotland was already leaving the port.
A postman was approaching a house at the end of a terrace, overlooking the sea. Reaching the front door, he appeared, to any casual onlooker from the street, to be taking letters from his bag and slipping them through the letterbox.
Inside, a little red-haired girl of about six years old was sitting at the kitchen table with her teddy bear in her lap.
Her mother heard the flap on the door rattle, as she was serving breakfast. “Shona – will you go and get the post, darling?” she asked her daughter.
Shona obediently went to the front door, but there were no letters on the mat. She opened the door, hesitated for a moment and then came running back. “Mummy, somebody has painted a funny picture on the door,” she cried.
“I’ll go and have a look. Just start your breakfast, or you’ll be late for school,” her mother said, as she went to look at the door. The child was right. There was a freshly-daubed sign on the door. It was similar to a swastika but painted bright red. She couldn’t help the chill of fear and foreboding that ran through her.
Stepping into the street, she looked up and down. No postman to be seen. Otherwise, everything seemed perfectly normal and she could see a neighbour going into the corner shop. Going back inside, she was still alarmed, but felt inclined to blame it on the local young lads.
The back door stood ominously open but, as she stepped into the garden, there was no sign of her daughter. She called her name again and again and then, with gathering panic, she ran inside and checked upstairs. No Shona. Running back downstairs and into the kitchen, a sudden terror gripped her. There was no escape from the dreadful truth that Shona had gone, and could have been taken by someone or something connected to the horrible red daubing on the front door.
“Oh, no! Shona, no!” she cried.
CHAPTER 61
The disappearance of Shona on its own would normally have constituted a major event in Orkney, but she was not the only child to disappear that day. During the previous night and early that morning, identical signs had appeared on numerous front doors where red-haired children happened to be living. It soon transpired that red-haired children had been disappearing all over the islands.
Rebecca heard about the abductions on the radio and immediately set off for Aberdeen airport to catch the first available flight to Kirkwall.
When she arrived, she found the police had already commissioned a public meeting room in Kirkwall for a press briefing, and so she sat herself down in the front row.
The spokesman, pending the arrival of the Chief of Police for Scotland, was Chief Constable Douglas MacKenzie, the most senior officer in Orkney, and he was already having a hard time. One Glaswegian reporter was haranguing him for more details.
“I’ve told you already,” said the exasperated policeman, “we simply don’t know anything. We have nothing to go on. Nothing remotely like this has happened before. There is simply no precedent for it. All we know is that something like fifty children have disappeared since last night – and they all have red hair.”
The reporter was sceptical. “What? All with red hair? And you say you haven’t a clue? There are clearly some people out there with a grudge against red hair. You must have some inkling who they are? It can’t just suddenly happen overnight.”
The policeman gave him a level look. “Listen. I know no more than what I’ve just told you. Nothing remotely like this has happened before in Orkney. It could be locals, or it could be outsiders. We just don’t know.”
The reporter tried a different tack. “What about these red swastikas? Who exactly are we dealing with here? Some sort of sick cult, a neo-Nazi group?”
Chief Constable MacKenzie looked affronted. “Now listen here. I can assure you, there’s absolutely no history of Nazis in Orkney,” he said. “Occasionally, we have some funny happenings with so-called local ‘covens’ of witches, but this is not their sort of thing.”
He waved an arm in the direction of the town. “Look at the place – it’s a closed community. If anything sinister were going on here, we would know about it.” He paused. “Anyway, let’s be clear. This is not exactly a swastika. It is very similar, but these signs have got a tail. Like this.” He turned to a flip-chart and drew a sign that Rebecca instantly recognised as similar to the ‘sun-sign’ she had previously seen on the Newton Stone.
While the press corps was contemplating this, Rebecca jumped in to ask, “Why do you think it’s only red-haired children who have disappeared?”
He looked over to her, noting her hair colour. “I’m sorry, miss – we’ve no idea. It’s clearly not just a coincidence. As you might have noticed, we have plenty of red-haired people living here. But precisely because red hair is so common, we don’t tend to get any cases of prejudice against it. It’s just normal.”
At that point a policeman handed him a sheet of paper and whispered something in his ear. Chief Constable MacKenzie read the message carefully then pulled himself up straight and looked hard at his audience. He waited for silence before making his announcement.
“I’v
e just received a directive from the Home Secretary that will affect you all. I’m sorry to tell you, we are having to operate a total shutdown in Orkney. I’m afraid no one will be allowed to come in, or leave, until this has been sorted out. No exceptions, apart from the emergency services, of course.”
The place predictably erupted to cries of “What!” “Why?” “You can’t do that!” “You’ve got no right!”
Chief Constable MacKenzie held his ground. “You all came here to get a story. Well, when we do sort this out, you’ll be the first to know. Now, I must ask you all to leave the hall and find accommodation, if you haven’t already found somewhere.” He waited until the outbursts had finished, before continuing. “From now on, Orkney is officially in a state of emergency. Anyone who does not cooperate will be confined to a secure place where we can keep an eye on you.”
Again uproar ensued, but the appearance of uniformed officers at the doors soon reinforced the sincerity of his intentions.
CHAPTER 62
The morning ferry from Kirkwall was nearing its destination of the island of Norstray. The sky was grey and overcast, threatening rain, but a few passengers were braving the weather and standing outside at the stern of the ship. Most of them were idly watching the white foam wake as it streamed out into the distance.
A middle-aged lady, well-dressed for the winter weather in an anorak, stood by herself. A swarthy-looking man, dressed only in a completely unsuitable business suit, came on deck, eyed the passengers for a minute, then casually went and stood alongside the lady.
He watched the coastline passing by for a short while, before turning to her. “Are you visiting Norstray as a tourist?” he asked.
Within a minute, the lady was excitedly explaining that she was visiting the place of her birth after twenty years of living and working as a civil servant in London.
Neferatu listened to her intently.
As the sea breeze gusted, she let go of the rail, pulled her brightly-coloured woollen hat hard on to her head and adjusted her glasses.
“I don’t know that anyone will remember me now,” she said. “My family moved to Mainland a long time ago. I thought I’d come and visit the place for old times’ sake.”
Neferatu’s striped blue tie was fluttering like a flag, and his greasy hair was completely dishevelled by the wind.
“But what about you?” she said, eyeing his suit. “Are you here on business?”
“I suppose I am,” he replied. “I am an archaeologist. I came here for a meeting in Kirkwall to talk about the excavations at Brodgar. So I thought to myself, why not have a look at the prehistoric burial site on the north of Norstray. In fact, I think I am not wearing the right clothes, but, you see, it was not in my plan to come here.” He tried to tuck his tie back into his jacket and turned to face her. “Are you planning to stay long in Norstray?”
“Just a couple of days. I’m staying at the pub in Sandy Ness. There’s not a lot of choice. And you?”
“Oh, I am only here for one day. I need to take the bus to the north of the island. Do you know if there is a bus which goes from the ferry terminal?”
“Bus! You’ll be lucky, I think. You might get one from Sandy Ness, I suppose. Do you want a lift to Sandy Ness? I’ve hired a car which I have here on the ferry.”
An instant smile spread over Neferatu’s face. “Thank you so much,” he said, smoothing back his hair.
As they entered the port, Neferatu squeezed himself into the small car and talked nonchalantly about the weather as they drove off the ship.
“Perhaps you will allow me to turn the heating on,” he said, reaching for the controls and turning them to maximum.
The lady took of her hat and put it on the back seat. Her mousy, lightly-permed hair showed grey at the roots.
“I wonder if I could ask a great favour of you?” asked Neferatu, as they climbed away from the terminal.
“Of course.”
“I have read about the Devil’s Clawmarks – they are at a ruined kirk. I would very much like to see them, and I think the kirk is very close to Sandy Ness.”
“Yes, it’s just outside the village. In fact, we go right past it.”
“You are too kind.”
They drove on in silence until the car slowed down for a road junction.
“Did you hear the news?” Neferatu asked, without looking at his companion.
“What news?”
“About the children disappearing – the children with red hair.”
The lady grimaced. “It wouldn’t surprise me if the gingers set it all up themselves. Nasty people. It’s probably all about witchcraft.”
Neferatu did not reply, but nodded his head and smiled.
Driving along a quiet, uninhabited stretch of road, it took no longer than fifteen minutes before the kirk came into view as they approached Sandy Ness. Long abandoned, and now a shell devoid of any ornamentation, the old kirk maintained its grim reputation in local folklore for being associated with the Devil. A few tourists still liked to climb the stone stairway to inspect the enigmatic gouges, which people said resembled some diabolic hand or the claw of some gigantic bird. But at this time of year there were no visitors.
Neferatu opened the gate to the churchyard and stood aside for his companion to pass through. The dark winter clouds overhead, the grey stone walls and the cold added to the sombre atmosphere.
“Creepy, isn’t it?” she said. “When we were kids, we used to dare each other to climb the stairs and put our hands into the clawmarks. Up there.” She pointed to the stone stairway on the outside of the building.
Neferatu climbed up and inspected the six grooves in the stonework. He ran his long fingernail along each one in turn and then came back down.
The lady looked at her watch, the darkening sky and then at Neferatu. “It looks like rain,” she said. “Perhaps we’d better move on.”
“With your permission, I would like to look inside,” he said.
He went through an open doorway. The interior of the kirk was open to the sky, and the ground was covered with a mass of nettles. He leaned against the wall next to the doorway, so that he couldn’t be seen from outside, and rubbed his hands together to warm them.
When he did not reappear, his companion called out, “Hello?” There was no reply. She looked through the doorway but could see nobody. “Hello!” she called out again. No sound came from within. She looked up the sky. It was even darker now, and she felt a spot of rain. She called out once more and then walked through the doorway. She still could not see anyone.
Then he quickly came up behind her. She didn’t have time to scream. His hands went round her neck and squeezed. Her glasses fell off as he forced her down into the nettles. A gurgle came from her throat, and her face started to turn blue. For a short time she flailed her arms wildly, trying to grab his hands, and kicked her legs at him. Then her eyeballs started to bulge and gradually glazed over. For a few seconds more her limbs twitched and then she lay still.
Neferatu slowly released his grip and stood up. Her bag was still wrapped around her shoulder. He freed it and tipped out the contents. Finding her purse, he pocketed all the contents and then threw it to one side. He went back through the doorway and looked around. It was still completely deserted. Returning to the body, he took it by the hands and dragged it against a wall in a dense patch of nettles.
Without even a backward glance, he went on through the gateway, abandoning the car despite the light drizzle that had set in, and started walking at a fast pace in the direction of Sandy Ness.
The bar of the Fisherman’s Rest was crowded with men. They were lean and tough, men who fished the sea and worked the land. Many of them were in overalls.
Neferatu walked up to the bar. His hair was windblown, and his smart suit was crumpled and sodden. The landlord, a large, burly man, seeing that he was clearly an outsider, welcomed him cautiously.
“How can I help you?” he enquired.
“My car ran out o
f petrol just outside the village by the old kirk,” Neferatu said. “I just need to get some petrol and take it back there.”
“The garage is just a bit further up the road. They’ll soon sort you out.” He looked at Neferatu’s damp clothes. “Can I offer you anything while you’re here?” he said, pointing to the menu for the day written up on a blackboard behind the bar.
“Perhaps later,” said Neferatu. He glanced at the men standing around him at the bar. Many had beer glasses in their hands. “I’ll have what they are drinking,” he said.
“That’ll be a pint of our best bitter, then.”
Neferatu took a small bundle of notes from his pocket and, without looking at them, put two on the bar. The landlord took one and gave him his change. Neferatu left his beer on the bar, turned round and listened to the conversation. It was animated and voices were raised.
“Why should we waste our time looking for them? They’re outsiders anyway. Always live by their own rules.”
“Thieving sods. You can’t even leave a bike unlocked now.”
“And watch out for your women. Load of lechers, they are. I could easily see the way that ginger sod Jock Lewis was eyeing up my wife.”
“And the women aren’t any better. Sluts they are. Go with anybody.”
“We don’t need them here.”
“Notice the way they keep to themselves. Bugger anybody else.”
Neferatu suddenly raised his arms in the air. The conversation petered to a halt and the men looked at him, puzzled.
“In my country we used to deal with them properly,” he said.
“And where might you be from, then?” asked a short, dark-haired man in blue overalls.
“Egypt. I’m an archaeologist.”
“So what are you doing here?” the same man continued, eyeing Neferatu’s dishevelled appearance distrustfully.
“Just visiting. I want to look at the chambered cairn at Quoyness.”
The man looked around at the others and then faced Neferatu. “So, all right then, how exactly did you deal with them? The gingers?”