Hurriedly, Parker picked up his own gun and they were off again, leaping over the dead man and wading on through the sand.
But minutes later they were confronted yet again and this time the odds were stacked firmly against them.
Four men.
They came charging out of nowhere into a large, grass-free clearing. Two to the left, two to the right. Two armed with shotguns, one with a lethal-looking scythe and the other a long kitchen knife.
As Parker let loose, the four islanders dived for cover, one of them raising himself quickly to return the fire before both Parker and Hodge had reached the cover of the nearest dune. But the first shot went astray and they were safely screened by the time a second and third shot came their way.
They darted to the left and then saw the fields ahead of them, rolling away towards the hill in the distance. Another shot exploded behind them but they kept running, determined now to break clear of the dunes and try to get out of range of those bloody shotguns.
It was then they saw him.
Maclean.
In fact they very nearly ran into him. He was alone, standing on the grass beyond the dunes. He became aware of them at the same time. His gaze was unsteady and from his stupefied expression it was obvious he hadn't been expecting them to appear.
They were just as surprised to see him and even more surprised at the rifle he was holding.
When he saw how they were looking at the rifle he raised it slightly and stepped forward to say something.
But at the same time Hodge lifted his own rifle threateningly.
Parker knew instinctively what Hodge was thinking – that Maclean had changed sides to save his own skin.
So what followed was inevitable.
Maclean moved like lightning, crouching and getting off a shot first. The bullet tore into Hodge's left eye and came out through a fist-sized hole at the back of his head. Then he fired a second time and the bullet rammed into Hodge’s chest, knocking him at least two feet into the air.
Parker looked from Hodge to Maclean and the anger rose in him. He heaved his body sideways and squeezed the trigger. Click. Oh, Christ! The ruddy thing's empty!
Behind him, the sound of voices. Excited, loud, hostile. Coming closer.
He lunged forward, lifted the gun by the barrel and swung it at Maclean, catching him on the side of the neck, sending him tripping backwards.
And then Parker was standing over him, looking down, hatred pouring from him, his mouth spewing obscenities.
The shotgun was poised inches above Maclean's forehead and because he was unable to comprehend the strange, almost pleading expression on Maclean's face, he didn't hold back. The butt-end crashed down and Maclean went limp.
Parker didn't stand around to see what damage he'd done. He didn't care, anyway.
He turned to look back, saw five men struggling to get to him through the dunes, and then he fled, out across the field and it wasn't until he was well out of range of their weapons that he realized he hadn't thought to pick up a gun that was loaded.
TWENTY THREE
Parker didn't bother knocking when he came to the little crofter's cottage. He simply pushed open the front door and stomped in. It was empty and he guessed the family had already been evacuated to the village for their own good. They'd left behind greasy plates, which were piled high in the kitchen sink, and on the table there was a half-eaten loaf of crusty bread and a sharp knife.
Four places had been set and he wondered fleetingly if any of the men who had so far been killed was the bread-winner of this particular household. Would the woman who had prepared the meal only hours before return home later as a widow?
He pushed the thought resolutely from his mind as he hurriedly searched the rest of the cottage. It didn't take him long. The rooms were small and there wasn't much in the way of furniture.
Back in the kitchen he found a grubby plastic shoulder bag in one of the cupboards. Into it he stuffed the bread and the knife and a packet of digestive biscuits from on top of the sideboard.
The larder was well stocked, mostly with tinned food, which he left, but a lump of cheese, and a dozen ripe tomatoes he took. There was also a bottle of lemonade and three juicy-looking apples. He took those as well and when the bag was bulging he went to the window and looked out.
He could see them in the distance, coming across the fields away from the dunes and he knew he'd have to hurry if he wanted to get away from there without being seen.
He used the back door this time and found himself in a small yard where a dozen or so chickens were charging around and a load of peats formed a pile six feet high. He climbed over a low wall and, crouching, looked about him.
He estimated the distance between himself and the foot of the next hill at about four hundred yards and he reckoned he could probably make it before they reached the cottage and were able to see beyond it.
But what good would it do him now to gain the high ground without the rifle? No, he'd have to go around the hill, try his luck on the other side of the island where the land wasn't so flat and therefore offered more cover.
More than anything he needed a place to hide out. Somewhere he could rest and think and have time to regain his strength. Later, maybe, when it was dark, he'd try to seek out a means whereby he could leave the island.
He chuckled suddenly, a low, braying sound. Who was he kidding? Certainly not himself. There was no way out now. Deep down he knew it but was afraid to admit it because the moment he accepted the inevitability of the situation, that would be the end of it. The longer he stayed out of their way and the further he ran, the longer he breathed and the more chance there was of a miracle.
He stood and moved off with his head down. Above him the sky was clear and blue, but dark, puffy clouds were moving in from the north, threatening rain. He prayed it would rain, not just a shower, but a heavy, prolonged downpour that would reduce visibility. For he needed all the help he could get now if he intended staying alive.
TWENTY FOUR
When Maclean came to, he was lying on top of a bed and an obese woman with a crinkled face was pawing his aching forehead with a damp cloth. Her breath stank and her large pendulous breasts threatened to crush his chest when she bent over him to inspect the wound at close quarters. He didn't know her name, but he knew her to be the island postwoman and that she doubled as the nurse and midwife.
Fortunately, it wasn't serious, she said. The swelling was the colour of a rotten apple and twice the size, but the skin had not split and there was no blood. It was painful, though, that she could see for herself from the expression on his face when he tried to move his head to look around the room. But he'd live, she assured him, which was more than she could say for those other poor devils.
He asked her what had happened to the man who'd done it and she said he'd got away by outrunning those who were chasing him. But it was known he had come around to this side of the hill and since it was naturally assumed he would head for the wood near the lochan that's where they were going to concentrate the search.
After plumping up his pillows and helping him to sit up straight, she said, “Tis a terrible thing that's going on. I can't see why you don't leave 'em for the police to catch. Already three good men have been killed. Dear God, how many more have got to die before you stupid menfolk come to realize that this is not the right way to go about it?”
He saw tears in her eyes then and one dropped on to her left cheek. She must have felt it because she wiped it away quickly with the back of her hand. Then, as if to save face, she turned away from him and waddled duck-like to the door.
“Bella Macleod is outside asking after yer health,” she said, looking back. “D'yer want me say that she can come on in?”
“Yes. I'd like to see her. And thanks.”
“Ach, it was nothing.”
Bella was relieved to see him sitting up. She rushed across to the bed and buried her head against his chest, weeping softly in slight convulsive shudders.
He ran his fingers gently through her hair, enjoying the softness of it.
She looked up at him, red-eyed and beautiful, and said, “It's a sure sign the Lord was with you, Andrew.”
He assumed she was referring to the fact that Parker's rifle had been empty when he'd pulled the trigger.
“Then you know what happened?” he said.
“Angus told me. They saw it all as they were running to get to you. He said you shot one of them and the other tried to shoot you but his gun was empty so he hit you instead.”
“That's about it.”
“Who was the one who got away?” she asked.
He lowered his voice so that if anyone was eaves-dropping outside the door they wouldn't hear him.
“His name’s Parker,” he said, and an image of the man starring down at him malignantly flashed in his mind.
“So why did they try to kill you?”
“It was a mistake of sorts,” he said. “They appeared out of nowhere and saw me with the rifle. They didn't give me a chance to explain why I had it and obviously assumed I intended using it on them.”
“You mean they thought you were trying to save yourself by going after them?”
He nodded.
“The fools,” she said.
He nodded again and shrugged. “Talk about a bloody cock up.”
He put his finger under her chin and lifted her head. “Look, Bella, I've got to get away from here before they catch Parker. He might tell them about me. About us.”
“But they’ll probably kill him before he talks.”
“Even so, the ferry will be here tomorrow and an investigation will be mounted. It won't take the police long to sus me out.” He stared into her face searchingly for a few seconds. “I want you to come with me, Bella. Tonight.”
She spoke without hesitation. “Of course. I said I would. Nothing has changed in that respect.”
“That’s my girl. Have you had any luck with a boat?”
“Not much, but I’ve found out that there’s an outboard motor in the tackle shed at the harbour. It can be fitted to any of the small craft down there.”
“I'll get it after dark then,” he said. “We’ll load as much of the treasure on board as we can. I’ll need another van, though. Can you find one?”
“I’ll try.”
Bella got up suddenly and went across to the window, looking down. Her voice was soft, a whisper. “From now on we'll always be running, won't we? Living in fear of being found out for the rest of our lives.”
The statement surprised him and he groped for the right words. “Not always, love. We'll go far away, use other names. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”
She turned to face him and the tears were back in her eyes. “I didn't think it would be like this. You said there would be no killing. You promised. And already three men have been murdered. Three men I've known all my life. And then there’s Anna.”
“I know how you feel and I'm sorry. What more can I say? It wasn't my doing. If all had gone to plan we'd be back in England by now.”
“But I feel partly to blame for their deaths.”
“The one person who is to blame is dead himself,” he cut in. “And killing him was the biggest act of charity I've ever done in my life.”
“But that doesn't change what's happened,” she said.
She broke down then in a paroxysm of tears and he forced himself up from the bed and went to her despite the pain that exploded in his head. He put his arms around her and squeezed her, hoping his own strength would pour into her, make her feel more secure and less vulnerable.
Voices outside drew his attention to the window and he turned to look out. What he saw caused him to loosen his grip on Bella. He stepped closer to the window for a better view and the scene on the street below brought a lump to his throat.
The bodies of the two dead islanders were being carried into a house opposite and alongside them were two hysterical women. One of them was trying to shake her husband back to life, screaming, crying, stumbling over herself to keep up with the two men bearing the body. The other woman was yelling at the sky, her face pleading, her hands clenched into tight fists.
Maclean shuddered when he realized that he was ultimately responsible for making them widows. This and the events of the past few hours cut deep into his conscience. He felt ashamed of himself. After all, these had once been his people, some were even distantly related to him by blood, and yet his carefully constructed plan had so far succeeded only in bringing misery and disaster into their lives.
At that moment there was a knock at the door and, without waiting for an answer, Angus Campbell came in wearing a lugubrious expression and looking very tired.
He showed no surprise at seeing Bella, for their relationship had always been an open one. He came in and closed the door behind him.
“It's good to see that you're well, Andrew,” he said, his voice low and ragged.
Maclean wondered what the big islander would do to him if he discovered the truth and the thought made his flesh crawl.
“Any news?” Maclean asked, as he pulled away from Bella and returned to the bed.
Angus removed his cloth cap and ran a hand through his hair. He came further into the room and settled in a wooden chair at the foot of the bed.
“Some of the lads are out at the wood now looking for the one who clobbered you” he said. “There's been no sign of the fourth man, yet. We've combed this side of the island thoroughly enough, so we can only assume he's on the other side. We'll get him sooner or later, though, don't you worry.”
“Then you're not going to wait for the police after what's happened?”
Angus raised his arms in exasperation. “Not you as well, laddie. That's all I've been hearing from the womenfolk. Leave it to the law, they say. And meanwhile those murdering thugs roam around out there wrecking and looting our homes. No matter that they might shoot more of us in the process. We just can't stand by and let them get away with it. We've got to stand up for ourselves.”
“What if you still haven't caught them by the time the ferry arrives tomorrow?” Maclean said.
Angus shrugged. “I don't think I'll have much say in the matter then. The women will make sure the authorities are brought into it despite the treasure. They'll want to get on with funeral arrangements and such. But it would be a bloody pity if the law was to take them. They'll no suffer enough is what I'm thinking. They deserve to die a coward's death.”
TWENTY FIVE
Parker couldn't see the wood from the derelict cottage in which he was holed up and therefore didn't know they were concentrating their efforts on it. And since he hadn't seen another human being in almost an hour, he was beginning to wonder if they'd packed it in for the day and gone home.
His hideaway was right out in the open on the moors and clearly visible in daylight to anyone who came within half a mile of it. It was the isolation of the place and the stark nakedness of the moorland around it which had drawn him to it. For it would be impossible for anyone to get close to him during the day without him seeing them. And in the event that they did come he could run in any of a dozen directions.
He was feeling cold now and lonely. He longed for the warmth and comfort of his tiny centrally heated flat in London. How long could he sustain his will to live he didn't know and hated to think. But gradually and inevitably the strength in both his mind and body was being sapped and soon, he feared, he would stop running.
He had been reflecting on what had happened. He and Hodge had given Maclean no chance at all to offer an explanation. Had leapt straight at the obvious conclusion. Mightn't they have been wrong? Done Maclean an unforgivable injustice? He thought back to the incident and recalled that Maclean had been about to say something just as Hodge had gone for him. Was he going to tell them that they were making a terrible mistake? That he was still on their side, fighting against insurmountable odds to find a way out for them?
No. It was impossible. Crap. Loaded rifl
e. Running with the mob. It all added up. And even if he hadn't actually intended shooting at them himself, he was doing precious bloody little to stop the others doing so.
But supposing he had been looking out for them. Supposing he'd been hoping they'd emerge from the dunes so he could give them the rifle… No, it couldn't be. He refused to accept it. The facts spoke for themselves, didn't they?
He slept for a couple of hours. He hadn't wanted to, but fatigue swamped him like a thick, black cloud as he sat on the floor with his back propped up against a wall. He dreamt of home, of the comforts he had never really appreciated.
When he woke, a strange pinkish glow permeated the air inside the cottage. Dusk. The sun striving to resist the onslaught of another night.
He wondered if he had seen the sun for the last time. If by morning he'd be dead. The oppressive gloom which coated the landscape outside enhanced his feeling of loneliness. It was as if the whole world had turned against him.
He got to his feet and looked through one of the window apertures. If he waited for a while before moving off it would be pitch dark. He could move about the island with impunity then, go to the very edge of the village without being seen. He had no preconceived plan of action. He'd just have to play it by ear, see what developed.
He waited for an hour, pacing the floor and rubbing his hands together to keep the blood circulating.
It was a clear night. The air still, the stars bright, and no clouds to speak of. If only he could find a boat. the sea would be his friend tonight. He was sure of it.
There was no door to the cottage, just an opening. He pulled up the hood of his anorak and went out into the night. There were no lights showing anywhere and he was thankful there was a full moon. It defined the landscape for him, making shadows from dykes and byres.
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