Redhead

by Ian Cook

  For a moment, Sandy was too shocked to move. Then, bewildered, he began to walk around, stepping carefully over bodies. Some faces seemed familiar, and yet so mutilated that it took him a while to identify them. They were all people he knew; local friends and neighbours, and others from nearby villages.

  Among them in the darkness, he suddenly recognised the face of his brother, Jock, who was stumbling in his direction. Sandy caught hold of him. Jock had no eyes. Only bleeding sockets. “Oh, my God, my God,” he kept repeating to himself.

  “Jock, it’s me – Sandy. What’s the hell’s been happening? What happened, Jock?”

  Jock ran his bloodied hand over Sandy’s face. “Sandy? Is it really you?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” Sandy said.

  Jock grabbed Sandy’s arm. “Where are Mary and Duncan? Have you seen them? Are they all right? I tried to stay with them, but the birds got my eyes. What’s it about, Sandy? What have we done? This is hell, isn’t it?”

  “Stay here,” said Sandy. “Sit down on this stone. I’ll go and look for them.”

  He found Jock’s wife and son, lying on the ground together, Mary half on top of Duncan. Sandy knelt down beside them. Ribbons of bleeding flesh hung down from their faces, but they were alive, breathing and moaning. “Mary – it’s Sandy,” he whispered. She stirred and stretched out a hand towards him. “Jock’s okay,” he said. “I’ll bring him over.”

  Sandy went back to Jock, took his arm and guided him over to his wife and son. Jock knelt down besides Mary and lovingly ran his hands over her.

  Sandy put his hand on Jock’s shoulder. “Who or what in the name of God did this?”

  Jock turned towards Sandy. “You won’t believe it. It was the birds. They just fell on us and tore us to pieces, like something out of a horror film. But someone, or something, must have set them up. We couldn’t get away, because we’d been driven up here like criminals and outlaws.

  And who drove us here? Unbelievable! Our own neighbours, people from the village. They suddenly turned on us – they were so violent! Don’t ask me why. We’ve done nothing to justify this. Nothing. They picked on anyone with red hair. Anybody with red hair was rounded up and dragged up here. Men, women, lads and lassies. They’d have got you, too, if they’d found you. It was like an organised war.”

  Sandy shook his head in disbelief. “Exactly which neighbours did this to you?”

  “Malcolm. Rob. Hamish. Our friends. Rob and I were actually out fishing together a couple of days ago. It was as if they didn’t recognise us. They turned on us – like they suddenly hated us. And the language. They swore and insulted us – ‘ginger bollocks’ – ‘fire crotch’ – ‘blood nuts’. They’ve never used that sort of language before.

  Some children disappeared first, and now this. But why? What have we done to them? One moment they’re normal – then they do this!”

  Jock put his hands to his face as blood-filled tears rolled down. He tried to wipe his face with his hand, but only succeeded in smearing it.

  Sandy looked around at the carnage and took his arm away from his brother’s shoulder. “Look, I’m going to have to get help. We need doctors.”

  “Not from here, Sandy. Not doctors from here. There’s something very foul going on here. You’ve got to get us away from Norstray.”

  “Okay, I’ll go to another island, perhaps Stronsay. I’ve got the boat on the beach.”

  “For Christ’s sake, be quick. They could come back.”

  Sandy squeezed Jock’s arm. “I’ll be quick, but I have to do something else first. Something very urgent. I’m so sorry, but there’s no time to explain. I’ll be as quick as I can.” He stepped carefully over the bodies, before sprinting back to the beach.

  Heaving the boat back into the water, he leapt into it just as the prow cleared the sand. Starting the engine, he swung the boat around and headed at full speed over the now calm sea towards the island of Stronsay.

  CHAPTER 72

  The atmosphere in Kirkwall police station was electric. Chief Constable Douglas MacKenzie was addressing about forty assembled staff. He took off his cap and passed his hand over his wiry grey hair.

  “It’s essential that we maintain some sort of order here. I don’t understand what’s happening any more than you do. But here are the facts. Fifty red-haired children have gone missing. We have no idea where they are. It seems that people with red hair are being picked on for some unknown reason. And the power’s down. We’ve had reports of looting already. I can’t emphasise it enough – we’re in a very serious situation here. And we have to stay calm. Things could easily get violent.”

  One of the officers, Iain Buchan, was standing at the back. “Let’s not kid ourselves. It’s utter chaos out there. I’ve just driven down from Settiscarth. Anyone with red hair has been savagely beaten up and hounded out of town. I didn’t even dare to stop to investigate. I kept my cap pulled down and my car doors locked. If anybody had seen me, I could have been a target, too. And my hair is not even that red – just a bit sandy. The trouble is, you don’t know if you’re going to be another target.”

  “Well, as far as we’re concerned, you’re just another bloody ginger,” a dark-haired sergeant said loudly.

  Buchan exchanged furtive glances with a few of his colleagues who happened to have hair of varying shades of red. They all looked uneasy.

  But it was too much for a hefty constable named Chuck Ramsay. “And who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” he blazed at the sergeant.

  “You, if you like, you bloody freak,” retorted the sergeant, turning towards him.

  The Chief Constable raised his hands in the air. “Please, please. Come on. Don’t start that here. We don’t want any of this here. We are the police. The professionals, remember. We’re above all that sort of thing.”

  Ramsay and the sergeant continued to glare at each other, each hardly containing his anger.

  Another officer from Stromness turned to the red-haired man who was standing beside him. “What about you, then? What does your wife call you? Ginger nuts, does she?” he said in a loud whisper. The reply was a blow to the nose that sent blood streaming down his face on to his white shirt.

  Constable Ramsay, taking instant advantage of the situation, marched straight over to the offending sergeant and kneed him hard in the groin. There was immediate mayhem. The Chief Constable called for calm, but his voice was drowned by catcalls and shouting. He hesitated for a few moments before quietly edging his way towards the exit.

  Four men simultaneously turned on Ramsay. He swung around, catching two of them with thumps to the head, before he himself was felled by a blow from a truncheon. The four aggressors started to kick him as he lay curled up on the floor, his arms raised in a vain attempt to protect himself.

  Iain Buchan made a dash for the door but was brought down by a rugby tackle well before he reached it.

  Another russet-haired officer attempted to slip unobtrusively out of the fire exit at the back of the room. He made it as far as the car park outside before the others caught up with him. They beat him to the ground and kicked him savagely and repeatedly, until he showed no more sign of life.

  CHAPTER 73

  There was not a single light to be seen on the island, as Sandy approached the ferry terminal on Stronsay. It was in complete darkness. About fifty yards from land, he cut the engine, pulled his hat down to his ears and drifted silently to the embarkation point for the ferry.

  As he warily made his way to the terminal building, the whole area seemed deserted. Yet when he peered into the entrance, he was startled to see a group of men running out of the darkness towards him. He tried to run for cover, but too late, and he was thrown to the ground by a blow to the head which knocked his hat off. As he tried to get up, a tough-looking man went to kick him.

  “Stop! He’s one of us,” he heard someone say.

  Sandy staggered to his feet and looked around. Four men, with hair ranging in colour from bright red to
pepper and salt, were eyeing him warily.

  “For Christ’s sake,” said Sandy, “I want some bloody help. Not to be beaten up. People are being murdered out there – people like us.”

  “You’ll not get any help here,” said the tough-looking man. “We have to get away. We were looking for a boat. Then we saw yours.”

  A man in his twenties, with long hair tied in a ponytail, spoke up. “They’re all out hunting for us, like animals. It’s been going on since midday. They’re rounding up anybody with red hair.”

  “I know,” said Sandy. “It’s happening all over the place. I’ve just escaped from Brodgar. They’ve collected up all the red-haired kids there. It’s beyond belief, I know, but I’m sure there’s some sort of huge sacrifice about to take place.

  It’s a total nightmare. It’s already started on Norstray. They’ve herded up all the people with red hair and driven them into the ruined kirk – and then set a load of man-eating birds on to them. It’s bloody carnage. We have to do something to help.”

  “I suggest we look after ourselves,” said a middle-aged man with greying red hair. “I tell you, if we stay here any longer, we’ll all be killed.”

  Sandy looked at him hard, before replying. “Listen to me. I’ve just left my brother on Norstray with his eyes literally pecked out. There are lads and lassies there, with their faces ripped open. There are women with flesh hanging from their arms. And there are people who are beyond any help.”

  He clenched his fists, scarcely able to contain himself. “Perhaps you’ll find this difficult to believe, but there are children out there at Brodgar, who I believe are going to be sacrificed at sunrise. Right now, they’re being made to dig their own grave.” He looked at each of them in turn, grim and determined. “We have to help.”

  There was a long pause before the man in a ponytail spoke up. “Okay then, so what are we supposed to do?”

  Sandy paused for a moment. “I don’t know if any of you have been having visions lately?” he said, eventually. The men looked at each other for an instant and nodded. “Then you might believe this,” said Sandy, and he explained what Rebecca had said about the Odin Stone.

  However, before anybody could respond, there was an angry shout nearby as a mob of islanders swept round the terminal and rushed towards them.

  “Quick,” barked Sandy. “Get into the boat.”

  The angry cries were closing in on them as he swung the wheel around. Clearing the port, Sandy shut down the engine to half-throttle and headed round the island, keeping well away from the darkened shoreline to avoid attracting attention.

  “And just where are we going?” asked the middle-aged man.

  “We’re going to put the Odin Stone back,” Sandy replied. “Anybody got a better idea?”

  He looked hard at them all in turn, but nobody demurred. “Good,” he said, and held out his hand, first of all to the middle-aged man. “My name’s Sandy Lewis…”

  CHAPTER 74

  At eight o’clock the previous morning, Syreeta had creaked open the door of her hotel room, still in her nightclothes, and grabbed the copy of the Metropolitan she had ordered to be delivered to her room. And there it was. Right on the front page. Her pole switch story gleaned from Greg and Jim had made it, complete with bold headline and prominent by-line. She’d hardly dared hope for this size of coverage, and she couldn’t help smiling with pleasure as she read her own words.

  Then, switching on the television news, she caught her breath in shock as the grim-faced presenter announced the news about the disappearance of red-haired children on Orkney.

  She phoned Rebecca. No answer from her hotel phone, and when she tried her mobile, just a strange buzzing sound. Within minutes, Syreeta established that Rebecca had checked out of the hotel at seven o’clock that morning. She tried Jim, but his mobile was on voicemail. Irritated, she tried Larry. No answer from his room phone, and his mobile, too, was switched off.

  Eventually she found out from the hotel receptionist that both Jim and Larry had checked out half an hour earlier. “No, I’m sorry they didn’t leave a message,” said the girl. “They seemed to be in a hurry.”

  The university couldn’t help. “I’m sorry, Professor Burton doesn’t appear to be in his office,” said a woman’s voice after a while.

  Throwing her mobile on to the bed, Syreeta sat there, trying to work out what to do next. She switched the news back on. The presenter was now talking about the swastika-like signs that had been daubed on the front doors in Orkney. Deciding that Rebecca and the others must be trying to get to Orkney, she phoned British Airways.

  “What do you mean, all flights have just been cancelled?” she asked in exasperation. “What breakdown in electronic communications? What caused it?”

  She listened for a while and then turned the sound on the television back up. The isolation of Orkney was now the main item.

  Syreeta swore to herself and switched on her laptop. Not knowing quite where to start, she searched ‘orkney solar’. It just came up with a string of references to solar panels. Then, halfway down the page, she read, ‘Maeshowe and the Winter Solstice’. She checked the date on the newspaper. It was December 20th. When she entered ‘orkney winter solstice’, ‘Maeshowe’ was top of the list.

  She instantly made the decision that somehow she had to get to Orkney, even if it meant driving to Scrabster. Within thirty minutes she was in her car heading north.

  The roads were almost empty, and when she arrived in the evening, the town was deathly quiet. The streets were in darkness with the dull flickering glow of lamps and candles from within the houses supplying the only light.

  She drove anxiously to the ferry terminal, stopped the car and slumped over the steering wheel, exhausted. Not a ferry in sight. This is what she had feared. The quay was completely deserted and a large notice on the door of the ferry company office announced: ‘All ferries cancelled until further notice’. Pulling herself together, she got out of the car and made her way to a pub adjacent to the quay.

  The pub was almost empty, but finding a fisherman willing to take her to Orkney was surprisingly easy. The publican had raised his eyebrows at the sum of money she had offered, but it was only a couple of minutes before a man in a thick jersey and a full beard tapped her on the shoulder.

  They made Mainland late in the evening. Even from a distance, she could see that Kirkwall was like a ghost town. Only the outline of the buildings stood out against the night sky.

  The fisherman drew the line at taking her into the actual port of Kirkwall, for fear of being picked up by the police. Instead, he dropped anchor in the Bay of Weyland and rowed her in his dinghy to the outskirts of town. He pointed out the road to the centre of Kirkwall and slipped back unobtrusively to his boat.

  The first thing Syreeta noticed, outside an administration building above the harbour, was the abandoned yellow car. The door had been left open, as if the driver had left in a great hurry. Nervously looking inside it, she saw that the key was still in the ignition. The car started instantly.

  It was peculiarly quiet as she drove into the town. There was the odd pedestrian, but on hearing her approach, each one slipped into the shadows, as if unwilling to be seen.

  Eventually, she found the police station and pulled up outside. It seemed the obvious place to make enquiries, even if it meant posing as a stranded tourist. It was when she went to close the car door that she caught sight of the crumpled body lying in the car park. She edged nervously towards it and then recoiled in horror when she saw its staring eyes and red hair.

  Her heart pounding, she looked around for help, but there was nobody to be seen. She got back into the car and quickly drove out of Kirkwall. Well clear of the town, she pulled up in a lay-by and searched the door pocket. Finding a map, she checked the route to Maeshowe.

  CHAPTER 75

  Sandy had fished the Orkney waters all his adult life, and even on a moonless night had no need to consult a chart to find his way to Mainland. He
motored past Stromness and steered up an inlet called The Bush to get as close as possible to the Stones of Stenness. Shutting down the engine, he drifted silently for a while, until he bumped up against the bank.

  He passed his tool box to the middle-aged man. “John – take this. We’re going to need it later.” He turned to the others. “MacDonald, Angus, Rob – help me moor the boat.”

  They walked quickly down the empty road for about two miles. Even at a distance, they could see the light of the flares at the Ring of Brodgar, and the sounds of human activity, shouts and children crying drifted over to them. Keeping to the shadows, they crept down the road until they reached the causeway, where they could just make out the four Standing Stones of Stenness.

  “And how do we know where the Odin Stone used to be?” whispered MacDonald.

  Rob, who was barely out of his teens, replied. “It was about one hundred and fifty yards north of the Stones. Towards that house over there – it’s called Odin House. We came here once on a school trip.”

  Sandy opened his tool box. “First, we take down the fences – I’ve got some cutters. Then, at that last stone over there, we spread out in a line about three feet apart and take one hundred and fifty good strides towards the house. That’s where we stop and look around for the hole. All right, let’s go.”

  Just as they counted to one hundred and forty nine, it was Rob who tripped, and stumbled in the hole where the Odin Stone used to stand. “I think I’ve just found it,” he said.

  “Right,” said Sandy, “let’s mark the position.” He took off his yellow oilskin and laid it over the hole. “We should be able to see that okay.”

  “Are we really going to try and put the Odin Stone back again?” asked John.

  “This could be the key to it all,” replied Sandy. “We don’t have many other options – unless anyone has any better ideas?”

  “No, apart from just getting out of Orkney,” said MacDonald, flicking his ponytail away from his collar.