Some flakes melted into the hot red liquid that had pumped all over the remains of the tent, even putting out the small fire beneath his body. But when the liquid became thick, and cold and lumpy, then it started to cover over in the relentless torrent of white.
11
He slept badly, tossing and turning in what seemed a dream-filled semi-consciousness.
In the morning Dunlop was glad to get out of bed. Stiffly he crossed to his bedroom door and took his overcoat off the hook, putting it on over his pyjamas.
With it wrapped around him he trudged to the bathroom.
As he stood relieving himself, he tried the light switch. Nothing happened. That meant the power was still off. There would be no surgery today until it came on again.
Depressed, he made his way into his tiny kitchen and crossed to the solid fuel range. To his relief he could feel the warmth as he got near to it. A quick check revealed the dull red embers which he stirred with the poker. He added a few nuggets and then satisfied, shut the door, and crossed to the sink. He filled the kettle half full with water and placed it on the hot plate.
While he waited, sitting huddled on a stool, he pulled the curtain aside and looked out at the street. The view was daunting. Inverdee was half submerged in an arctic-looking landscape. He pulled a face and let the curtain drop back. His life seemed utterly pointless; barren and desolate as the view beyond the window. _
The silence was depressing, broken only by the wall clock giving out its steady, measured tick. And that somehow accentuated the isolation of the room, of himself. His heart ached—there was no other description. The poets were right, he mused. To hell with the physiologists.
The kettle began to shudder and steam.
He took his cup of tea back into the bedroom and thought about going back to bed, but in the end he slowly, disconsolately dressed. He’d just finished, and was wondering what he would do next, when there was a double thump on the front door knocker.
His immediate reaction was tremendous excitement. It must be Fiona. He sprang up and rushed for the door. Even before he reached it, little doubts had already started to enter his head.
When he flung it open the figure, side on, dressed in a long anorak with the hood up and a face scarf was momentarily unrecognizable.
“Morning Ian.”
There was no mistaking the voice. Disappointed, he stood aside.
“Come in.”
Dunlop quickly closed the door, cutting off the icy blast. “There’s tea in the pot! Or can I offer you something a little stronger?”
Inskip pulled off his face scarf.
“I’ll have both if I may. A shot of your cooking whisky in the hot tea would be welcome.”
Dunlop couldn’t help a fleeting smile, despite his depression.
“What’s come over you?”
Inskip moved to the stove,
“By God, it’s parky out there, that’s what.”
Dunlop poured a cup and handed it to Inskip, then went and got the bottle of whisky.
“Say when.”
“Hey, that’s fine.”
Inskip raised the bottle neck with his finger, cutting off the flow of whisky into the tea..
Dunlop set the bottle down, seemed to change his mind, found a glass, and poured himself a shot.'
“Cheers.”
Inskip sipped his hot drink, but Dunlop knocked his back in one go.
“Now then, what can I do for you?”
The Inspector set his cup down, found his handkerchief and blew his nose.
“Sorry, it’s the warmth in here compared to out there. I was wondering if you were doing anything today?
Dunlop nodded at the window. .
“What, with the power off and the streets deep in snow, I’d say dentistry was a non-starter. Why?”
Inskip put his handkerchief away and took up his cup again.
“We’re away just now to the Coastguard Station at Broughty Head; they’ve got a geiger counter. I was wondering if you’d like to come, seeing as how you’ve helped us so far.”
Dunlop gave him an old fashioned look.
“And besides, another pair of hands in the boat might be useful in this weather?” Inskip added with a sly grin; “Land-Rover actually. Doctor Harris wants us to drop off some insulin to the Hendry’s on the way.”
To Dunlop, the thought of being trapped inside his four walls all day was appalling. The chance to work at something physically was a Godsend.
“You’re on.”
Ten minutes later, suitably dressed for the occasion, Dunlop found himself beside Inskip who was at the wheel of the Land-Rover, with the ever-present Sergeant Robertson in the back, looking like an enormous Saint Bernard in a fur coat he had obtained on a visit to relatives in Nova Scotia.
They drove past the pharmacy on the way out of town. Dunlop tried to keep his eyes straight ahead, but found them drawn irresistibly to her window. There was a light on in the shop, but no sign of her.
They worked their way around the piles of snow that stood testament to parked cars, visible only by an occasional door handle, a wiped windscreen, or revealed paintwork where the local children had already gone in for a chill graffitti.
Soon they were in the foot-deep virgin snow that covered the road to Broughty. The Land-Rover engine whined into a higher octave and strained as the four-wheel drive pitted itself against the bow-wave of white that rose and fell in lumps, threatening to climb higher only to fall away.
Inskip dropped yet another of his five gears and gritted his teeth..
“Come on my gal, you can do it.”
But after three quarters of an hour there was a smell of burning clutch plate. They ground to a halt. Wordlessly, Robertson handed forward shovels.
Dunlop took his with an exaggerated gasp.
“My, isn’t it lucky I was here to give you a hand?”
It was a scene that was to be repeated most of the morning. In the end Robertson and Dunlop took to walking behind the vehicle, or riding standing on the back, jumping their weight up and down to help the spinning wheels. Sometimes they had to use sacks and sand on the steep parts.
They reached the Hendry’s croft and handed over the insulin. The struggle was worth it just to see the relief on Mrs Hendry’s face. They accepted a hot drink of broth and then pressed on. The Coastguard Station was soon in sight, a mile to the left on the headland.
“It’s easier from now on,” called Inskip. Robertson and Dunlop nodded in agreement to each other.
“Ay, ’tis that,” said the sergeant with just a touch of irony in his voice.
Slithering and sliding from side to side of the small track bordered with great banks of snow, they descended the shallow hill, arriving almost with a rush on to the forecourt.
Three men came out to meet them, dressed in duffle coats and wellingtons, only the crumpled peaked caps to show that they were men of the sea and not land.
Inskip shook hands with one of them and introduced Dunlop with a sweep of his arm.
“And this is Mr Dunlop who’s giving us a hand.”
Dunlop grinned as he shook the steely paw of James McGrath, a patient.
“We’ve met before.”
“That we have,” confirmed McGrath, his brown weatherbeaten face seeming to stand out in violent contrast to the white snow. “And unfortunately we’re going to have to meet again.”
He opened his mouth to display amalgam and gold, and a large black hole half way back in his dental arch.
“Came out in a piece of toffee the other day.”
One of his colleagues, an older man called Frazer, edged forward.
“Can ye not fix it straightaway, Mr Dunlop? We’ve got tome tools in the workshop? If he goes into town he’s away all day.”
“We’ll give you a hand to hold him down,” piped the younger one.
“Away with ye, Campbell,” McGrath thundered in mock severity. Still laughing and joking they entered the living quarters. Divested of their
gear they sat around the wooden table in the spotlessly clean but spartan main room. Mugs of piping hot coffee were set before them and into which McGarth, without asking, poured a good measure of whisky.
Dunlop picked his up gratefully.
“I’ve had more before lunch today than for a long time.”
The Coastguard fixed his own drink and then sat down with them.
“Now what can I do for you?”
Inskip explained about the murder. The Coastguard was staggered. Irrationally Dunlop remembered Fiona’s reaction. His gloom, sidetracked all morning, descended again like a heavy curtain.
“There is something Doctor Mackay would like to check out. That’s why we’re here. We want to borrow your geiger counter. I’ll get it back to you as soon as possible.”
McGrath shook his head. .
“There’s no hurry, but it’s funny...”
He only paused momentarily, but with a recently acquired instinct, Inskip and Dunlop found their eyes meeting, as though their minds were timed to the same signals of strangeness; the inflexion of a voice, the choice of a word, perhaps just puzzlement. McGrath could have been going to say, “Funny that’s the first time we’ve had to use it.” But Dunlop and Inskip knew already, their blood tingling, that it was going to be less simple than that.
“... I was checking the ancillary equipment last night, and when I got the geiger counter out, it suddenly started to crackle. Well, I played around with it, took it outside in the end, and damn me, it got really excited.”
Inskip moved forward on to his elbows, barely able to conceal his own excitement.
“Is it still registering?”
“Only lasted half an hour or so. Came from somewhere over there.” He pointed inland. “And moved from the east to the north and finally died away. The blizzard was blowing like hell just then so I couldn’t see very far.”
Dunlop bit his lip.
“You mean as though something, a source of radiation, travelled in that direction?”
McGrath eased his cap up and scratched his temple with a thick hand.
“Ay, I reckon I do. I began to wonder if it was anything to do with Doctor Symonds?”
Inskip visibly stiffened.
“Who’s he?”
“One of your bird people. He’s out on the moor now doing one of them counts. He certainly had a lot of equipment with him.”
“You mean he’s out in all that snow. Will he be all right?” McGrath looked slighted.
“The man’s been up here before in winter. He knows the ropes and he’s very careful. Besides, he’s got a radio.” .
Inskip seemed to relax.
“You’ve been in touch then?”
The Coastguard shook his head. “Not since he set up camp. The arrangement is only to call us in case of an emergency.”
“Well, I suppose that’s something,” Inskip mused, but added: “Do me a favour, call him up and check him out.” McGrath gave a resigned sigh.
“Okay. I’ll get Frazer to give him a buzz. Hang on.”
He left the room. Nobody spoke. McGrath was away a full five minutes, during which the tension rose to a point where Dunlop and Inskip stood up as one when he came back. One look at his face was enough.
“He doesn’t reply.”
Wordlessly, Inskip walked to the window and looked out, surveying the white plateau that curved away to the north, the dark clouds behind it making it look bleak, inhospitable, cruel.
A little flurry of blown snow settled on the window pane.
He seemed to come to a decision.
“Will you show us where he is?”
They moved forward in single file, McGrath leading, sinking knee deep into the powdery snow with every step.
Twenty minutes later Robertson took over at the front. Soon afterwards, the big sergeant dropped without warning up to his waist in the snow. The language was stimulating and helped to break the rather forbidding silence that had gone before.
They climbed steadily for the escarpment, which seemed to defy their efforts to get nearer. Dunlop took a turn at the front, finding as he toiled forward into the seemingly endless virgin white, that thoughts of Fiona kept forming in his mind. He was more than glad when they came up over the ridge and finally stood on the edge of the moor.
McGrath took out his binoculars.
“He’s camped about a quarter of a mile over there.”
As he pointed he raised the binoculars and sighted them in the same direction, bringing his other arm back to steady the glasses. They stood around, grateful for the break, puffing and blowing noses. Inskip and Dunlop both saw the Coastguard stiffen at the same time, but the Inspector, was at McGrath’s side first.
“What is it?”
The Coastguard continued to stare through the binoculars, moving them back and forth through a few degrees.
“There’s no real sign of his tent, only a bit of canvas, torn and flapping.”'
“Let me look.”
McGrath passed over the glasses to Inskip, who stared through them for nearly a minute. When he lowered them he. looked around grimly.
“I don’t like what I see. His camp appears wrecked.”
As they resumed their progress, their sense of urgency moved them faster through the shallower, windswept snow of the plateau. Dunlop came alongside Inskip. They didn’t need preliminaries.
“Could be storm damage.”
“Could be,” said Inskip unconvincingly.
As they drew nearer they began calling out, but the only sound in return was the now audible flapping of the torn canvas.
Closer still, vague snow-covered mounds became discernible. Without a word being spoken they all ceased shouting then, as if by instinct, as though the place was hallowed ground; a graveyard. .
In the dreadful silence that followed, the sound and sight of the flapping canvas was obscene, like some creature that inhabited the places of death: a vulture.
They reached it, Inskip shooting out a hand and stopping its movement.
“Dr Symonds?”
They waited in vain for a reply.
“Give me a hand here.”
Immediately Inskip spoke they were swarming around the canvas, scooping out the snow with their hands. The blackened, twisted frame of the tent soon stood out like a gutted rib-cage.
McGrath suddenly staggered back, hands covered in blood.
“Jesus.” .
The tape recorder and camera, coated in the same thick altered blood were before them, but there was no trace , of Dr Symonds.
“What the hell has happened to him?” .
McGrath seemed dazed, but the others were already surveying the uneven, lumpy snow.
“He must be around here somewhere,” muttered Inskip. “Spread out.”
In a frenzy they began moving the snow from the other mounds, using boots, hands, bits of broken metal.
Robertson gave a grunt.
“I’ve got him.”
Inskip and Dunlop gathered around, staring in silence at the shoulder that Robertson had uncovered.
The big policeman carried on working alone.
Despite their readiness for something awful, when the last lump of snow fell aside and revealed the head, they stood rooted to the ground in shock.
It was like a child’s drawing in chalks, a face done on dark blue paper, with big eyes of frozen red snow.
Sightlessly Symonds, jaws open and lips pulled back in a frozen animal scream of terror, gazed up at the sky from his white coffin.
McGrath let his breath out in a whistle.
“Christ! He’s had his eyes put out.”
12
It took them the rest of daylight just to get organised. The body was wrapped in some of the remaining tent canvas, and lashed to two poles made from the tent frame, forming a makeshift stretcher. They recovered all the bits and pieces they could find, including the tape recorder and flash camera.
It was dark when they set off back to the Coastguard Stati
on. Everybody was glad that Symonds’ body didn’t have to be touched. Dunlop shuddered at the thought of carrying the dead man over his shoulder, getting stiffer as rigor mortis set in. As it was, the mummy-like shape was already having a strange, uneasy effect on him. That damned unease again.
By the time they got back to Broughty Head, there was no question of returning to Inverdee that night. Instead they were put up for the night in a reserve bunk room.
Symonds’ remains, now properly laced in a canvas shroud, one of many stored for the victims of accidents at sea, lay in the centre of another room on a table. On a side table lay the pieces of his equipment.
Frazer, the cook, got to work on a meal straightaway, but Dunlop, Inskip, and Robertson were over the moon when McGrath offered them a hot shower.
“You needn’t look so surprised,” he chided. “We have all the mod. cons, here you know.”
The three of them plunged under the steaming jets, letting the hot water play over bodies aching with fatigue. Dunlop slumped against the wall and closed his eyes, feeling his muscles soften and relax.
The food was good, the cutlets and chips washed down with man-size mugs of strong tea. Despite their depression they ate with the hunger of men who had done a hard day’s physical work.
Afterwards they sat in the mess room, around the stove in the centre. McGrath charged his pipe, fiddling with the tobacco. When he’d finished he applied a lighted match horizontally across the bowl, sucking the air through and releasing great clouds of smoke from his mouth.
Satisfied he was well alight, he took the stem from his lips and waved out the remains of the match.
“I don’t understand who could have done that—or why. The man’s camp was wrecked—it was a madman’s work. And what’s more, it was obviously done during the blizzard. How could the other man have survived?”
Robertson lowered the model ship he had been looking at. “Perhaps he didn’t survive—maybe he’s out there now- frozen stiff.”
Inskip shook his head. “Somehow, I don’t think we are so lucky. Whatever it is seems to be impervious to the cold—as though he has his own central heating.”
The Nightmare Man: (Child of the Vodyanoi) Page 7