“Thought I heard something in the wood, an’ when I turned to look I saw someone movin’ through the trees. I yelled at him, an’ I must have startled him badly because he tripped over somethin’ and broke a bunch of branches before settin’ off runnin. He’d a bit of a head start, or I’d have caught him.” The head retreated as quickly as it had emerged, and she could hear the sound of his long limbs scuttling back up the tree.
Pamela looked around the space. Even in the limited light of the torch she could see that someone had most definitely been living in amongst the small band of trees. The brush was completely flattened, and there was more than one sign of recent occupation. A heavy shirt, sodden with October damp, the coals of a small camp stove and a scrap of cellophane wrapping from a cigarette package. A neatly rolled sleeping bag lay on its side on the ground. It looked as though it had been tossed down from the tree, which had a good-sized hollow several feet off the ground that would allow a grown man to sit fairly comfortably.
“I went up the tree,” Jamie said, “the view is quite astounding from there. Particularly when you use the binoculars I found stashed in the crux. I could practically make out the date stamp on your china. What do you see, lad?” Jamie called up.
“Light’s on now. Ye can see all four corners of the bedroom even without the eyeglasses,” there was a brief scuffle and a muttered curse as Lawrence presumably adjusted the ‘eyeglasses’. “With them—” there was a sudden silence from above.
“With them what?” Jamie prompted impatiently.
“I can see the stitchin’ on the pillowcases. I can see everything.” The boy’s voice was small now, and afraid. The emphasis he’d placed on everything leaving none of them in any doubt as to just how complete the surveillance had been.
A feeling of violation swept over her. So none of it had been her imagination. Right now feeling like a hysterical female would have been a great comfort opposed to the notion that someone had been peering through the windows for weeks.
“Lawrence tells me you’ve been jumpy as a foxed hare these last several weeks.” There was no mistaking the anger in Jamie’s voice.
“What?” She looked up to where a long leg was feeling about for a sturdy branch. At her sharply uttered question, though, it recoiled like a yo-yo back into the shelter of the tree.
She should have known better than to think she was hiding anything from the child, he’d lived most of his life looking over his shoulder and honing his primal instincts for survival to a fine and cutting edge. Those pale blue eyes saw a great deal.
“Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”
She crossed her arms over her chest in a defiant attempt to stop shaking. “It was just a feeling. I thought I was imagining it. I can’t run to you with every little problem that crops up. I’d no reason to think it was anything more than my imagination running rampant.”
He shook his head, mouth set in a grim line. “Pamela, I told you to come to me with anything, no matter how trivial. This is hardly trivial, though.”
She put her chin up, trying to summon a bravery she most certainly wasn’t feeling. She couldn’t shake the feeling that even now eyes were crawling all over her.
“I’ll be sure to tell you if it happens again. In the meantime I’ll keep the doors locked and curtains drawn.”
The fine golden brows arched in surprise. “Are you mad? You’re not staying here.”
“Then what,” she said, voice terse with fear, “do you suggest I do?”
“I suggest you pack up the boy, the dog, the sheep, yourself, and even that damned cat, and come home with me.”
“I can’t just leave the house empty,” she protested, “and we can’t all come huddle under your roof.”
Jamie gave her a very straight look that told her he’d had about enough of her nonsense for one day. “I’ll have someone out here to check the place everyday, and we’ll get the police to have a look at the things in the woods. But you and Lawrence cannot stay here any longer.”
“I don’t want to run, this is my home,” she said angrily. “For all we know whoever is in the woods means us no harm. It could be a gypsy or a tramp.”
“Neither scenario is comforting, and it seems unlikely to me that a gypsy or tramp roams the woods with binoculars in hand,” Jamie said grimly. “Be sensible Pamela, that’s your property, someone’s trespassing and has been for awhile. It seems doubtful to me that it’s for an innocent reason.”
“We’ve got Finbar,” she said, knowing it was a ludicrous statement even as she uttered it. As though to punctuate it, Finbar ambled over, tripping on his huge feet and ploughing, headfirst, into Jamie’s knees.
“Yes,” Jamie said, with no little sarcasm, “there is that.”
“I’m not afraid, we’ll lock ourselves down every night, and I have the pistol Casey left me. He made certain I know how to use it.”
“Could you just once make a decision based on common sense rather than your monumental stubbornness?”
“He’s right,” Lawrence said, dropping suddenly at her elbow, looking like an underfed wood elf with dried leaves and twigs in his hair. “We’d be best elsewhere for a few days at least.”
“Et tu, Brute?” she said acerbically.
“Yes, me too.”
She was surprised by this sudden volte-face, wondering when Lawrence had decided he no longer wanted Jamie strung up and skewered.
“I’ve seen ye lookin’ over yer shoulder when yer out of an’ evenin’ tending to the sheep,” Lawrence said. “I’ve felt it meself with the hairs up on the back of me neck. An’ there’s no reason to think he’ll not be back, once everyone else leaves an’ it’s just me an’ yerself.”
She turned toward Pat, grimly silent to this point, and saw that there would be no support there either. “It’s the only thing that makes sense Pamela, Casey’d not want ye here with someone lurkin’ through the woods, ye know anyone doin’ that doesn’t have good intentions. None of us can stay here twenty-four hours a day; at least under Jamie’s roof ye’ll be safe. Or ye can come stay with Sylvie an’ myself. It’s yer choice, but stayin’ here is not one of yer options.”
She sighed. “Alright, but only for a few days, whoever it is has probably been scared off. Come on, young man,” she nodded at Lawrence, “you can pack up the animals, while I get our clothes and things together.”
Pat stayed back with Jamie, eyes still moving from one item to the next.
“Who do ye think it is?” he asked when Pamela and Lawrence were well out of hearing, though they could still see their silhouettes as they approached the lights of the house.
“Were I a betting man,” Jamie said, bending to pick up the small shred of cellophane. “I’d put every farthing I possess on Robin Temple.”
“Aye,” Pat rejoined darkly, “so would I. What next then?”
There was a certain grim anticipation in Jamie’s voice when he responded, and Pat thought if he didn’t dislike Robin so much, he might have found it in him to feel a bit of pity for what the man had set loose upon himself.
“I think we need to have a chat with our bonny Robin.”
Chapter Forty-eight
If I Were a Blackbird
THE WARY PEACE LASTED ANOTHER FEW WEEKS and then was abruptly blown apart. Almost literally, as it turned out. Casey was out having a smoke by the wire with Declan, who was grumbling his usual litany of complaint about Roland’s attempts to whitewash his soul, when Matty, fair hair on end, came rushing out.
“Christ, what’s happened, Matty? Yer white to the lips,” Declan said, stubbing his cigarette out on the fencing that surrounded them.
“They’ve found the makins’ of a bomb in our quarters. Stash of sugar an’ some bleach under Shane’s bunk.”
Those two items were all that were needed, along with a bit of water, to rip a heavy-duty postbox in half. In large enough amounts it could do real damage on board the ship.
Casey swore softly under his breath. “What was the sill
y bastard thinkin’?”
Matty shook his head, “I don’t imagine thinkin’ played a great part in what he did.”
They went quiet then as the Sergeant strode out on deck, bony face suffused cherry with rage. Behind him came four soldiers, all blank-faced and sternly at attention. He began without preamble.
“It has come to my attention that someone among you is stockpiling explosives,” the words were aimed at them all, but the Sergeant’s pale eyes never left Shane’s face. Explosives seemed a rather grand term for the bit of sugar and bleach that had been found, but Casey knew it was as bad as if they’d all been caught with ten pounds of Semtex each under their bunks.
“This is a very serious offense. The lives of many good men are reliant upon my vigilance in such situations, and as such I cannot take this discovery lightly. It would be best for all concerned if the man responsible steps forward. Otherwise all will be punished with extreme prejudice.”
Casey didn’t even want to contemplate what this man might mean by those terms. The riding crop was being drawn through and through the Sergeant’s hand now, and despite himself Casey couldn’t take his eyes from it.
“Shall I tell you what I’ll do if none of you confesses?”
No answer from the small huddle of them.
“Well I’ll tell you,” he smiled luxuriantly, like a cream fed cat. “To begin with there will be no more family visits, no mail, no parcels to make your miserable lives bearable. Each of you will be questioned separately at length.” His tongue lingered over length, suggesting all manner of pain and misery. “I’m authorized to use all means at my disposal to keep the soldiers of Her Majesty’s army safe, and to ensure that safety at any cost. This ship is a world unto itself; the Geneva Conventions don’t apply here.”
None of them moved, though Shane was getting noticeably twitchy.
“Or perhaps we can keep the visits and make it—how shall I put this—very undesirable for your wives and sweethearts to come pay a call.” The pale eyes were hooded now, but Casey could feel the man’s gaze upon him.
Beside him he could feel Shane’s entire body straining to move forward and held just as hard in place by the fear that had him firm in its grip. There was something very ugly in the Sergeant’s face and even Shane wasn’t naïve enough to miss it.
Casey took a deep breath and stepped forward. “’Twas me,” he said firmly.
In his peripheral vision he saw Matty’s head snap around, and heard Declan swear under his breath.
The sergeant stopped mid-stride, the cat-like smile spreading across his face. “Was it then?”
Casey swallowed, knowing he’d just handed the man what he’d wanted from the first. “Aye, it was.”
The man slapped his palm smartly with the riding crop, an affectation that had caused the men no little amusement. Just at present, though, Casey didn’t find the sight of it the least bit funny.
“Well, Mr. Riordan, that makes you a very silly boy, and as such you’ll have to take the punishment of your actions.” He turned toward the young Scot. “Private Campbell, you’ll bring the prisoner to me in ten minutes. I refuse to have insubordination on this ship.” He walked off with his goose-stepping walk, though Casey fancied there was a joy in the step that he’d not seen before.
The men started buzzing about him right off, excepting Shane who remained silent, dark eyes trained on his feet.
“They can’t do this,” Declan said firmly, as though merely saying it would make it fact.
“There aren’t any rules out here, other than those of their makin’,” Casey said dryly, “it’s up to us how we manage to survive it.”
“Tisn’t yer punishment to take,” Roland said with a pointed look in Shane’s direction. The boy looked completely miserable now. The men would go hard on him, Casey knew, but perhaps not as hard as the Sergeant.
“It’s done, Roland, and that’s an end to it, understood?” Casey’s tone brooked no disagreement and Roland reluctantly nodded. “Now, if yez don’t mind, I’d have a minute alone with Matty.”
The men moved off with much muttering and dark looks in Shane’s direction.
“Don’t let them go too hard on the lad, will ye? I’m not takin’ his punishment in order to have them be worse on him than the soldiers would have been.”
Matty shook his head. “Are ye mad? That bastard’s had it in for you since the day we came on this be-damned ship. They’d have batted the boy round a bit, but that man’s really goin’ to put the boots to you. Don’t take Shane’s punishment for him; he needs the lesson of it.”
Casey shook his head, face impassive. “I’ve been in his shoes, Matty, an’ I remember clear what it felt like to be young an’ afraid in such a manner. It’ll not be a pleasant way to achieve yer manhood. Besides, ye know how the man looks at the boy—they’ll not damage me in that way.”
Matty gave him a hard look and then sighed. “Christ yer a stubborn bastard, I see there’s no swayin’ ye from this. Aren’t ye a wee bit frightened, though, man?”
Casey smiled ruefully, “Be a damned fool if I wasn’t, aye? But not so afraid as I am of what it might do to the boy. I’ll manage,” he conveyed a confidence with his words that he didn’t feel inside.
Matty gave him a speculative look, the stiffening breeze lifting strands of fair, thin hair from his pink scalp. “Yer friggin’ mad, ye know.”
“Aye,” Casey agreed, “so my wife says.”
He hadn’t lied, the thought of pain did not frighten him as it once had. Still there was a certain weakness in his knees that no amount of stern talk was going to shore up. He took a deep breath and braced his shoulders, after all he didn’t have to enjoy it, just get through it. The young Scots soldier was standing in the doorway and gave him a curt nod, though the man’s eyes were filled with a dread sympathy.
“I’ve been beat before, how much worse can it be?”
CASEY STOOD INSIDE THE SMALL ROOM the young Scot had brought him to, the question he’d posed Matty ringing in his head. He swallowed. It was much worse.
A heavy 4x4 post was bolted to the floor, a crossbeam shackled to its top. A leather neck brace was fitted to the post. They were going to flog him. The skin across his back rippled with dread.
Upon a small table to his left lay the whip—five-stranded it was tipped with small lead pellets. Such things had killed men before and were designed to strip a man down to his bones, and more importantly, to break his spirit.
The Sergeant entered just then, as polished and ironed as always. His pale eyes were a-gleam with a light that Casey had only seen twice before in his life. Neither had been happy occasions. This man enjoyed inflicting pain and planned to take a great deal of pleasure out of Casey in the next few minutes.
The Sergeant wore black gloves, which he tested the fit of before laying a loving stroke on the whip handle. It took everything Casey had not to visibly shudder. His insides had turned to liquid as it was.
“Twenty strokes seems fair enough for the possession of explosives. What say you, Mr. Riordan?”
Casey said nothing. He might have to hand over his pride and his dignity for the next little while, but he’d be damned if the man was getting his words. Twenty strokes though—twenty strokes might well kill him.
He removed his own shirt; he would not have them touch him until it was unavoidable.
They tied him with rope, arms spread-eagled to their limits, stretching the skin of his back taut. The leather collar was fastened about his neck, to prevent it from being snapped during the flogging. The splintered wood dug into his forehead. Good, it would help to keep him from fainting. He took as deep a breath as his restraints would allow.
It was much worse than he expected. The first blow would have dropped him to his knees had he not been so securely bound to the post. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to take deep breaths between the strokes. For a moment his wife’s face came to mind, but he shoved the vision away. He would not have her here.
His skin didn’t break at once, scarred as it was from past abuses. The pain was instant though, his cells flooding with the panicked memory of knives and acid. He needed to focus his mind elsewhere, needed to bring it to a fine point where the pain could not break him.
He began to sing.
‘I’ll tell you a story of a row in the town,
When the green flag went up and the Crown rag came down,
‘Twas the neatest and sweetest thing you ever saw,
And they played the best games in Erin Go Bragh.’
“What the hell is he doing?” the enraged Sergeant demanded.
“I believe he’s singing sir,” the young Scotsman said.
The whip came down with renewed ferocity. Five. Six. Seven.
‘One of our comrades was down at Ring’s end,
For the honor of Ireland to hold and defend...’
Casey lost the last two lines of the chorus on the ninth and tenth stroke, then picked the song back up on the third verse.
‘Now here’s to Tom Pearce and our comrades who died
Tom Clark, McDunna, McDurmott, McBride...’
“Stop singing, you stubborn bastard!” the Sergeant shrieked. Casey braced himself, knowing the next blow would be the worst.
The tip of the outside pellet came around and tore the skin across the bottom of his ribs, gouging its ounce of flesh out as the whip was snatched back. Passing out would be a mercy at this point. He was singing through gritted teeth now, the words barely more than a forced mumble. The words were a black mist in his head that he fought to hold onto.
On the twelfth stroke he briefly lost consciousness until a soldier with frightened eyes hunkered down and looked up into his face.
“Throw water on his face if he’s fainted,” the sergeant barked out.
“Stop singing,” the soldier hissed urgently, “for Christ’s sake stop singing! You’re goading him.”
“Fuck off,” Casey said with as much force as he could manage. Then with a great gathering of will continued his singing.
Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series Book 2) Page 54