Scar Hill

by Alan Temperley

  Peter’s feet, in his wet socks and boots, had become blistered. He wanted to examine his thigh. It didn’t hurt although it ached a bit, but a dog bite had to be attended to.

  A car came along the road. He called the dogs into a thicket of birch trees. As the headlights swept past, he was horrified to see that Ben’s neck and chest were covered with blood. ‘Come here, boy. Ben.’ He crouched beside him and explored the cold wet hair with his fingertips, searching for the wound.

  He thought he found it and Ben gave a little yelp but didn’t seem too troubled by it. Peter hugged him and Ben looked round to lick his face. Right then there was nothing Peter could do about it.

  They walked on. The last dregs of sunset turned to night. As the sky darkened the moon grew brighter, reflecting on the windows of a cottage on the hillside above him, half hidden by trees. Were the owners merely out, Peter wondered, or was it a holiday cottage like so many in the area, used for a few weeks in the summer by people from the south? It was worth investigating. He needed a place to spend the night. Perhaps there would be a shed. Perhaps, if the owners were away, they had hidden a key.

  The drive, which was precipitous and bordered by rhododendrons, joined the road at a bend. A convex mirror stood opposite to show the oncoming traffic. Peter did not see the name, Owl Cottage, painted on a board overgrown by ivy. He crossed a cattle grid at the foot of the drive and started to climb. The way was steep and twisting. Cautiously he approached the front porch. Was there a security light? The darkness remained unbroken. He looked all round. There were no neighbours, the cottage stood alone, separated from the wilderness by gravel and a small front garden. A big oil tank stood among the trees. Beneath him lay the road and moonlit river. On the far side and a short distance up the strath, the floodlights were still switched on at the farm.

  Peter turned his attention to the cottage. It was a traditional stone Highland dwelling with two dormer windows and a little porch built on the front. The shelves in the porch had contained plants but were now bare and scattered with dead leaves. The downstairs curtains were drawn. The mat had blown aside. It suggested the owners were away from home. He tried the door. It was locked.

  The back door of the house was at the side. It also was locked. So was the small stone outbuilding with a mossy roof that stood opposite.

  Each side of the back door stood a row of plant pots and small urns filled with dead flowers. A few broken slates were propped alongside. They gave him an idea. He tipped back the pots and felt beneath. The wall was in moon shadow so he could see little. His fingers encountered grit and wintering slugs. He was beginning to despair when all at once there it was – a key. In a small plastic bag to prevent it rusting.

  It fitted the shed. At least he would have shelter for the night. But what shelter! A dirty stone floor among broken bikes, discarded furniture and other household debris. Why would anyone hide the key to a junk shed? Why not keep it in the kitchen? Unless a key to the house was hidden in the shed. In the pitch dark Peter explored ledges, rotting saddlebags, every hidey-hole he could find. No key was to be found.

  It was colder in the shed than outside. He began to shiver and retreated into the moonlight. The bite in his leg was hurting a bit. And Ben needed attention. He patted Ben’s chest and found the hair harsh and clotted. The blood was drying.

  Peter turned his attention to the house. The back door was old and had a big keyhole. It appeared to lead directly to the kitchen. He wondered about breaking a window to see if the key was inside the lock, but it was too far away to reach.

  He returned to the front. The porch door had a Yale lock. That could easily be opened from the inside. And if the door between the porch and the house were locked, he could spend the night in a rattan chair which stood in the moonlight. There was even a rug thrown over it.

  Peter had never broken into a house or caused wilful damage in his life. With thudding heart he drew his sleeve tight and jerked his elbow into the small pane of glass nearest the lock. The glass didn’t smash but the beading was rotten and gave way. Two panes fell inside and broke on the tiles with a shocking crash. The dogs were startled. Peter stared round, ready for flight. A minute passed. No doors banged, no lights came on, no angry voices disturbed the silence. He reached through and turned the lock. The door swung open. His boots crunched on the broken glass as he stepped in from the night.

  The inner door was flimsy, glass panels from top to bottom to allow light into the hallway. It had no lock. He pushed it open and went through.

  Peter was terrified. Until recently he had been an honest boy. Now he was breaking and entering.

  Directly before him was a staircase. The air was warm. He rested his hand on a ghostly radiator. The owners, or someone who kept an eye on the cottage, had left the central heating on at low to keep it dry.

  The downstairs rooms were in total darkness. He opened the curtains, allowing moonlight to flood through windows which faced across the strath. The rooms felt strange: strange smells, strange furniture. Like rooms in a black-and-white film. Like rooms in a troubled dream.

  The electricity was switched on, he could hear the soft hum of the central heating pump. But what about the water, Peter wondered. Where would he find antiseptic to clean the bite on his leg and the wound on Ben’s neck? And he was hungry. What food was there in the house?

  Before he went searching he checked upstairs. Two bedrooms with sloping ceilings and the beds made up – a woman’s dressing gown, a Paddington Bear. A small bathroom at the back. He pictured the steep, overgrown hillside above the house and risked the light: toothpaste, soap, towels, a cabinet which contained pills and insect repellent but no antiseptic. He returned to the hall.

  Even with the curtains closed he dared not try the lights in the front rooms. They would advertise his presence. The kitchen was at the back, beneath the bathroom. He led Ben and Meg inside, shut the door to the hall and felt for the light switch. The strip light flash – flash – flashed and came on dazzling bright. There were no curtains. He switched off and collected a bedside lamp with a frilly apricot shade from upstairs.

  The water was turned off but the stopcock was beside the door. He ran the tap into the sink, peat-brown water from some nearby stream, heavy with sediment. He left it running to clear. The cupboards were well stocked: cans of soup, tins of beef and mushy peas, unopened packets of biscuits, tea and coffee, dried milk, enough to make himself a decent meal. And as if that were not enough, a red switch by the oven operated the immersion heater. He turned it on. If no one came, he could have a bath and spend the night on the settee in the sitting room.

  He tore open a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits and bit into two, like a sandwich. The dogs were drooling. He gave a handful to each and filled the kettle. But before making a hot drink or doing anything else he had to tend to their wounds, his own and Ben’s. Meg seemed to be unhurt. He dropped his jeans to examine the bite.

  It was on the muscle at the front of his thigh, bruised and a bit swollen with ragged scratches. At the end there were two black puncture marks where the Doberman’s teeth had penetrated more deeply He wrung out the dishcloth and wiped away the dry blood. It looked better after that but dogs’ teeth had germs. If he didn’t clean it properly it might get infected. There was a big bottle of household Dettol in the cupboard under the sink. He slopped some into the washing-up bowl and added water, as hot as he could bear it. It didn’t really hurt and he scratched at the punctures with a fingernail to force in the milky disinfectant. There was no more he could do. It had begun to bleed again. He mopped it with a kitchen towel and pulled up his jeans.

  They were torn but had given him some protection. Ben’s neck was much worse. Half his chest was matted with blood. Ben was unconcerned, he had enjoyed the fight, but Peter made him sit while he searched for the wound. It was a nasty tear fully five centimetres long, deep and dark, right through the skin to whatever lay beneath. Peter looked round the kitchen. Ben’s injury was more important than
the owner’s towels. He mixed fresh disinfectant and soaked a hand towel, pressed it against the wound and did what he could to sponge away the blood. Ben hated it, hated the smell and tried to escape.

  ‘Come here!’ Peter pulled him back and smacked him lightly to show he meant it. ‘Now stay still.’

  At almost the same moment Meg jumped to her feet, staring towards the door. She gave a sharp bark.

  Peter froze. Then he heard it too, the sound of an engine. Leaving the bloody cloth and bowl of red water, he jumped to the light switch and pulled open the door. Headlights were coming up the drive.

  41

  Full Moon

  THERE WASN’T A key in the back door.

  ‘Ben! Meg! Come on!’

  Peter ran out through the hall. In the sudden darkness he crashed into the chair in the porch. It fell on top of him. The rug became tangled round his feet. He flung it aside and ran on, out into the moonlit night and round the end of the house. Icy steps ascended to the back garden. He trampled through wintry flower beds and crossed the lawn. A rotting fence divided the garden from the wilderness on the hillside. There seemed to be no gate. Peter kicked two, three, four times with the sole of his boot and the fence broke apart. He pushed through and was swallowed up by the shadows.

  The vehicle was a muddy Land Rover and the driver was Mr McKim. The muzzle of his guard dog, Max, had been badly gashed in the fight and needed stitches. His collie was bitten around the neck. He had driven the two dogs to the vet he used on the outskirts of Tarridale. On his return, as he made his rounds and locked the dogs up for the night, he had spotted a dim glow of light on the hillside opposite. It came from the back of Owl Cottage. The owners, he knew, were not expected back before Easter. Something was not right. He remembered the intruder and thought he should take a look.

  As he swung up the twisting drive all seemed normal, then from the corner of his eye he spotted a movement at the end of the house. A smallish figure and two dogs. The headlight was not on them and when he looked again they were gone.

  ‘Hey! You!’ He pulled up on the gravel and jumped out. ‘Come back ’ere!’

  There was no reply. He heard breaking wood and crashing footsteps in the undergrowth.

  ‘Don’t think you’re going to get away.’

  He stumbled on the slippery steps and crossed the lawn. The moon shadow beneath the trees was intense. The noise of flight continued.

  ‘Bloody bastard!’ He stood by the broken fence. ‘I’m going to call the police.’

  The sounds grew fainter. Panting from his exertions he returned to the house.

  The door stood wide. His shoes crunched on broken glass. Switching on lights as he went, Mr McKim searched the rooms. Nothing appeared to have been touched. He entered the kitchen. His horrified gaze fell on the bloodstained towel and basin of red water. A packet of biscuits stood on the unit. The light of the immersion glowed red. The intruder had left his woollen hat behind.

  But it was the blood that held his attention. He remembered the voice at the farm – a boy’s voice. Maybe it was that boy everyone was talking about. The son of that drunkard – what was his name? The boy who’d buried his father and run away. Who’d been looking after his sister’s little kid. He turned the bloodstained towel with his toe. Was Max responsible for this? It wouldn’t be the first person he’d attacked. What kind of injury was it, for God’s sake? The boy must be in a bad state. If the police found out he’d be in all sorts of trouble. The bloody dog might have to be destroyed – and he’d paid good money for Max. He did his job well. Too well on this occasion, it seemed. What was to be done? Mr McKim did not find the question difficult – do nothing. Turn off the lights and slip away fast, before anyone saw him. Leave the house as it stood. Tell nobody: not his wife, not his grown-up son, not his labourer. Most definitely not the police.

  Two changes he made: he switched off the immersion and shut the front door. And next minute Mr McKim, with headlights dipped, drove quietly away and returned to his farm.

  Owl Cottage stood empty in the moonlight.

  The hillside was treacherous: a broken stump jabbed Peter in the ribs, brambles coiled round his legs, ditches tricked his feet, twigs whipped him in the face. For half an hour he hurried on, above the road and parallel to it, putting as much distance between himself and the cottage as possible. Dry-stone dykes barred his progress. He climbed them and crossed rough pasture where sheep scampered off with whirling tails and inquisitive cattle came trotting to investigate.

  His legs were weary. He was weary all over. Peter longed for some place where he could lie down and sleep. It was not to be found on the frosty hillside. A tumble of stones beneath a wall provided a cold seat facing across the strath. He sank down and closed his eyes.

  The night breeze stirred his hair. Occasionally the weeds rustled. Owls hooted in the wood.

  As he fled, he had kept a constant lookout for police cars on the road below. There had been none. Looking back, he had seen the lights extinguished at the cottage and the Land Rover return to the farm. What did it mean? Did the man intend ringing the police from home? But an hour later no car with flashing blue lights had come speeding up the road. In fact, the only traffic had been two cars and a truck, none of which had stopped. The cottage remained in darkness.

  He shifted to get better shelter, drew up his knees and pulled his collar to his ears. If only, he thought, he had brought the rug from the cottage, it would have been so easy.

  Meg whined, she was trembling. He drew the dogs close.

  For another hour he sat looking across the strath. Beneath him lay the road and fields and the winding River Teal. The night was so clear that stars shone right to the crest of the hillside opposite.

  Briefly he must have dozed then woke with the cold. The staring moon had moved across the sky. The northern lights flickered like curtains and sent up their shifting searchlights. The folds of his jacket were white with frost.

  Some time around ten Peter realised that if he were to survive the night he must have shelter. Apprehensively he looked down the steep slope below him. Thorns and bushes grew chest-high. Slowly he straightened. He was so cold that his feet were clumsy and would not go where he wanted. The moonlight was deceptive. But grabbing branches, slipping and sliding, he made progress and in time found himself on the brink of a cliff above the road. It took a while to work around it but at last, with relief, he stepped out onto the level tarmac.

  He thrust his fists into his pockets. Walking warmed him up. For a while he found new energy and a new sense of purpose. Perhaps, he thought, he could even walk on to Tarridale. The feeling did not last and within a couple of miles he found himself seeking, with increasing desperation, some place that would offer him shelter and a degree of warmth.

  A house appeared on the left. There were lights behind the curtains. At the head of a short drive there was a garage. It was locked.

  The owners had put out the wheelie bin for the morning. Peter lifted the lid, wondering if by chance they had discarded some old clothes, anything to keep out the cold. Shadows hid the contents. He tilted it towards the moon. Nothing but debris and bags of kitchen rubbish. He let the lid fall.

  Beside the bin was a container for recycling newspapers. It was blue plastic, they were all blue plastic, though in the moonlight it was hard to tell one colour from another. It gave him an idea. Newspapers were warm. A layer of newspaper, Jim had told him many times, was as good as an extra jersey. Peter looked inside. The box was half full. He pulled some out but they were awkward to carry so he dumped them back and took the whole box.

  A branch road led into the hills, linking a few scattered cottages. Opposite, beneath overhanging trees, stood a bus shelter. It was an ugly modern structure of perspex and steel. Intrusive though it was in that Highland glen, it seemed to be the only refuge Peter was going to find.

  He went inside. A slatted bench ran along the inner wall. He dropped his box on the concrete and sat down heavily.

&nb
sp; But before he thought about himself, even though he was so weary, Peter had to care for the dogs. He had brought them to this place. They also needed protection against the cold night air. The moon aided him. With his Swiss Army knife he cut armfuls of dead bracken and scattered them under the bench. Then he spread a thick layer of newspaper on top and ruffled it up to make a bed. The dogs would rake it around to their liking. It was the best he could do.

  His own preparations took longer. It was awkward, wrapping newspaper round his legs and holding it in place while he pulled up his jeans; tucking it down his waist and up under his jersey; covering his arms and making a clumsy hood for his head. After a struggle it was done, not well but not badly for a first attempt. Then he stretched out on the bracken-covered bench above the dogs and tried to lie still, because every time he moved the newspaper rustled loudly and let in a draught of cold air. But it was warmer than he had expected, and after a restless hour Peter sank into the sleep his body was craving.

  He woke before five and though he lay with his eyes closed, it became apparent that he would sleep no more that night. The moon had swung round the sky and now shone full upon the bus shelter. Children waiting for the school bus had scratched messages and jagged pictures in the perspex. They shone white in the moonlight and he read them as he lay with his head on his arm. Some of the names he recognised.

  It was very peaceful. His breath clouded in the air.

  And as he lay there that frosty morning, Peter realised that his flight was at an end. Without food, money and a sleeping bag there was no way he could continue. When he ran away he had simply wanted to be alone for a while. He had not envisaged helicopters and sleeping rough in a bus shelter. It was time to go home and face the music.

  But how was this to be done? He did not like the thought of being reported after the events of yesterday and picked up by the police. Nor did he want to phone, as if in need of help, and have a car come to collect him. There was only one way: he would walk back to Scar Hill over the moors, the way he had come, and give himself up.