The Dark Isle

by Clare Carson

  Furniture scraping floorboards. Cupboards banging. He was turning the croft upside down. The moment to run, while his attention was elsewhere. She sprang away from the wall, pelted across the grass, found the bank, slid, pounded the path, jumped a low wall, nettles stinging as she crossed the sheep fold, headed through the bothy’s gaping door, dropped. Breathless. Through a gap in the far end of the tumbledown stones she could see a torch beam, a figure leaving Pierce’s croft, heading downhill. The squareness of his head a giveaway. Reznik, no question. She lay flat. The soft tread advancing, closer, closer. Pause. Footfall fading. He had walked past, taken the left fork inland. She counted thirty, levered herself on her elbows, watched the torch beam following the track to the field where she had left the bike. She dropped. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Would he be able to work out that the bike didn’t belong to somebody who lived in the bay? She’d left the helmet by the front wheel. And the rucksack. He would know she was on his trail. He would hunt her down. She would be butchered.

  She sunk below the lintel, back on the ground, head resting on the rough stone, arthritic fingers of dead rosebay willow herb pointing at her from above. He would search the hamlet. She needed a better hiding place. She didn’t have to think hard, the safe place was in her mind. She just had to reach it. He wouldn’t find her there, not in the dark. He would search the stoved-in crofts but he wouldn’t think anybody would hide on the beach. She wormed along the ground to the doorframe, eyed the far wall of the fold. Beyond, the slope of a grassy dune and beyond that, the boulders and sand of the beach. If she made it that far without being seen, she would be out of view, out of earshot. Out of gunshot. She inhaled, sprinted, clambered over the dilapidated wall, foot sinking in the soft sand on the other side. She beat a diagonal path across the marram grass towards the icy sheen of the sea. The burn broke her path – much broader and faster than when she had last seen it in the summer of the drought. She waded, the water flooding her monkey boots. She glanced behind; no sign of any pursuer. The cliff loomed dark. She slithered down the boulders to the shore. Was the tide ebbing or flowing? The sand gleamed wet beyond the pebbles; the ocean was retreating. She kept away from the sea’s edge; she didn’t want to leave a trail, stumbled across the slippery rocks, reached the base of the cliff, edged past the sandstone outcrop, found the mouth of her cave. Safety. She retreated away from the lip, fumbled for her torch in the engulfing darkness and headed to the dry sand at the far end. The torch beam caught a ledge at the very back. She climbed and perched, spine against jagged rock, chin on her knees, rotting kelp and sweet dead flesh of seabirds in her nose. The swish of distant waves gently lapping calmed her.

  The cave mouth framed her view. A ribbon of sea-sorted rocks; large boulders diminishing to pebbles then grains of sand. Beyond the shore the Pentland Firth shimmered, bright with diamonds of starlight. The sandstone outcrop obstructed sight of the hamlet. She wouldn’t be able to see if Reznik was approaching across the bay unless she returned to the entrance of her hideaway. But he wouldn’t find her here, even if he reached the beach. This was her safehouse. She hugged her legs. Shivered. Damp and tired. Scared. She should never have let herself be drawn into this mess. Pierce must have got wind of Reznik and managed to slip away. And now she was here, trapped in Rackwick with the ruthless butcher.

  She wondered whether she should check the beach. She’d been here twenty minutes. No, she’d wait a little longer before she did that. She extinguished her torch and eyed the cave mouth. The band of sand was narrower than it had been ten minutes earlier, the white froth inching closer. The tide was coming in, not going out. Jesus. That gave her less time than she had thought before the entrance was cut off by the sea. She switched the torch on again, cast the light behind her head, caught barnacle rings and kelp in crevices above the flat ledge on which she was precariously balanced. She’d got it wrong, this wasn’t a safe place. The high tide would reach her chin, drag her out to sea. She checked the cave mouth again. The sand had disappeared. The water had reached the pebbles. What was she playing at? She had to leave now, find another hiding place before she drowned.

  She eased off the ledge, edged her way down the slope to the barrier of sandstone between the cave and bay. Waves scraped pebbles. A curlew called. She inched closer to the lip, scrabbled the wall, the rock digging into her hand as she hauled herself up and squinted over the barrier. A beam of light swung across the boulders. Reznik was searching the beach beyond the barrier of sandstone rocks that she hoped would provide her with protection. She released her hand from the rock, dropped backwards, landed badly, the pain shooting up her spine. She limped to the rear of the cave, clambered back on the ledge, hand bleeding, back aching, foamy water nibbling the cave lip, waves stronger than before. She didn’t want to drown. But on the other hand, if she left the cave, Reznik would see her and god only knew what he would do to her.

  She huddled, gripping her knees, arms shaking, watching the waves invading. Twenty minutes and she would have no choice; the sea would block her exit. Her eyes welled, the water glistened through the film of tears, and as she watched, the ocean’s glint changed from white to green, sparkling with an unearthly luminescence. She blinked, the greenish glow remained. What was it? Strange creatures of the deep rising to the surface in the moonlight, perhaps. The sheen was enchanting. Magical. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to drift away with the light embracing her, comforted by the creatures of the deep. She wasn’t thinking clearly. Fear death by water, Liz had said. Jim had warned her too, fist raised, face red with anger. Don’t take the sea for granted. Find a safe place in your mind, he had said, but don’t go in the cave. Jim. He had lost it, that afternoon when they were standing by Betty Corrigall’s grave. She had been scared of him then, when she was ten and felt powerless in the face of her father’s temper; she could see now as she watched the shimmering water that he was more worried than angry. Unable to explain the dangers he perceived, the web of deceptions and silences which had entangled him. Trapped, him and her. Waiting for the end. It’s a terrible death, Becky reminded her; asphyxiation, carbon dioxide kills your mind. She was right, anything had to be better than certain death by drowning. She was being stupid. She had to take her chances. Reznik wouldn’t shoot her on sight; he wanted information. She could talk her way out of it. She glanced at the advancing tide. At least if he shot her, it would be quick.

  She slid down from the ledge, ran the length of the cave, halted at the entrance, momentarily bewitched by the green waves. Time to leave. She scrambled up the sandstone barricade, grazing hands and knees, reached the top, surveyed the bay. Reznik was standing ten feet from the rocks with his back to her, gazing at the sky. She looked up too and saw the flames dancing above the ridge of hills. She gaped. Not bio-luminescence after all but the Northern Lights, emerald rays throwing reflections on the water. The touch of grace, Jim had said and she felt it too, the ethereal light filling her with wonder; almost enough to calm her fear. Everybody had to die sometime, and reach the light. Reznik sensed her presence and swivelled. She ducked. Too late.

  ‘Sam.’

  He knew her name. How had he found out who she was? Had he spoken to Harry? She didn’t reply, hung on below the level of the ridge, hiding behind her sandstone barrier, trying not to dwell on the possibility of Harry’s betrayal.

  ‘Sam. We need to talk.’

  She didn’t budge.

  ‘Come and look at the Northern Lights. The work of God.’

  She tried to interpret what he was saying, analyse his tone of voice. His awe in the presence of natural wonders reminded her of Jim. Some things transcended ideological divides, individuals’ beliefs. She had learned to deal with Jim so she could cope with Reznik. Perhaps his reputation was overblown. The Butcher. The cat killer. He’d given her a chance when he had questioned her in Execution Wharf. She glanced back at the sea swirling, engulfing the cave floor. She had no choice anyway. She poked her head above the parapet. He waved at her, gestured at the glow in the sky. Bot
h his hands, she noted, empty. Perhaps he wasn’t bluffing, perhaps he did just want to talk.

  ‘Have you ever seen anything like this before?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was faint. ‘No.’ She repeated herself more confidently. ‘I haven’t.’

  She eyed him carefully; impossible to tell whether he was carrying a gun under his jacket.

  ‘Come down. I won’t harm you.’

  She clambered on top of the outcrop, sidled along, aware of her vulnerability, exposed on this ridge. He strode towards her as she jumped and landed on the sand. He smiled, revealed his uneven teeth, needle sharp. She took a step back. He grabbed her arm.

  ‘Well, my friend, let’s walk by the water.’

  ‘I’d rather stay here.’

  ‘You are like your father, a little stubborn.’

  ‘You don’t know my father.’

  ‘No? He’s a coffee drinker, I believe. A man after my own heart.’

  Reznik was right, her father was a coffee drinker. No gnat’s piss tea for him. But what did that have to do with anything? How did he know anyway? Reznik was blindsiding her with his cryptic references to Jim. Trying to trip her. Or was he confirming that it was Jim who blew Pierce’s cover all those years ago? He hadn’t merely made a slip, dropped Pierce’s details to the wrong person, he had deliberately sabotaged the Firm’s operation, betrayed Pierce directly to Reznik. A traitor. Her legs buckled. Getagrip, getagrip.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re going on about.’

  She yanked her arm, trying to escape his grasp. He released her, and almost instantaneously his hand went for his jacket. He pulled a pistol and held it to her head.

  ‘I think you know more than you pretend.’ The cold metal of the barrel burned her scalp. ‘You’ll do what I say now.’

  She shuddered uncontrollably. She didn’t want to waste her life for this. A feud between an arms dealer and an old spook. She heard a click. The safety catch. The tears clouded her eyes, blurred the emerald spangled ocean. But what could she tell Reznik anyway? He’d already located Pierce’s hideaway. She had no other information to give him.

  ‘This way.’

  He nudged her towards the water. He’d shoot her for the hell of it. She stumbled; hard to walk in the darkness with a pistol aimed at her skull. They reached the edge, luminescent waves breaking around their feet.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘You know why I’m here.’ He jabbed the barrel. ‘I’m looking for Pierce.’

  ‘Pierce?’ She was expecting Reznik to call him Davenport; that was the identity by which he had known him in ’76, after all. He must have discovered his real name in the intervening years; it probably wasn’t that difficult to unearth.

  Reznik continued. ‘Pierce the hero. That’s his reputation. Yes?’

  She didn’t feel inclined to comment.

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  He sounded more desperate than angry.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He spat at the sea. ‘I told you why I need to find him – I want to see what information he holds on me and clear my name, and I thought you could help me.’

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘Don’t you? I think you and I may be on the same side,’ he said.

  She scowled.

  ‘Yes. We build these walls, these boundaries – East and West, life and death – but they can’t stop people crossing.’

  The Northern Lights danced on the edge of her sight. She said nothing.

  ‘You know,’ Reznik went on, ‘the strangest thing about Pierce is that I always believed we were both on the same side as well and I think, in some ways, I once loved him.’

  She was perturbed; he sounded as if he meant it. ‘Loved?’

  ‘Yes, it’s odd, isn’t it? But why not? Not in a sexual way. No, not at all. In a deeper way than that; I saw him as my soul mate, the only person in this world who understood me.’

  ‘Blood brothers,’ she suggested.

  ‘Exactly. That is Pierce’s gift, don’t you think? People fall for him, his upper-class English charm. And why should I be any more immune than any of his doting girlfriends? Hmm?’

  ‘I... I don’t know.’

  She was confused by this conversation, no idea where it sprang from or where it was leading.

  ‘And when you love somebody, betrayal is harder to take. Institutions, you expect betrayal from them. Only a fool would be surprised when a regime – East or West – betrays its spies. When the tide turns. When the gutless politicians want to wipe their bloody hands. Yes. But men and women you have built a relationship with – a friendship? No. Then the betrayal is bitter. You don’t forget it.’

  ‘But how did Pierce betray you?’ She didn’t understand; she thought Jim had betrayed Pierce.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? Pierce wanted me dead. Pierce was the one who betrayed me to the...’

  She heard the crack and was blasted sideways in the same moment. She was in the sea, gulping salt, gasping. She twisted, inhaled brine. Crack again. On her back in the water. Reznik spinning and spinning and falling, bone and flesh confetti raining on the water. Splashing. Silence. His face next to hers, except half of it was missing, needle teeth bared like the dead pike she had seen with Anna, water lapping crimson, lights dancing green on the remnants of his skin. One eye, staring upwards. Lashless. Unblinking. A sharp pain jabbed her side. Had she been shot too? A breaker crashed over her head, filled her ears and eyes and mouth with water. She spluttered, lurched to her hands and knees, wriggled backwards, coughing, waiting for... for what? The sting of a bullet. The end.

  Nothing happened. It must have been Pierce who shot Reznik. He had been there all along, hiding somewhere. He had spotted Reznik, stalked him around the hamlet, waited for the right moment to attack. Pierce had saved her life. She lay on the beach, winded, glad to be alive, the whiff of cordite hanging in the air, emerald rays sparking. She twisted her head, slowly, painfully, searched through the darkness, spotted the figure standing on the rocks behind her, revolver pointing in her direction. It wasn’t Pierce.

  CHAPTER 29

  Orkney, 31 October 1989

  ‘LUCKY.’ HARRY WIPED his revolver on a cotton handkerchief, checked the safety catch, wrapped and stashed it in the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

  ‘Lucky?’ She glanced at Reznik’s corpse, buffeted by the waves.

  ‘Not him. You. Lucky I found you in time and my aim isn’t too rusty.’ He nodded, a gesture of self-approval.

  She stepped back from the ocean, shook and flapped her arms, attempting to dry her drenched and salt-encrusted coat.

  ‘Not a bad shot, if I say so myself.’

  She should be feeling relieved, but the shock of the encounter with Harry’s firepower had been way too much for rational reactions.

  ‘You killed him.’ She didn’t bother to hide the tone of accusation.

  ‘You think I should have politely asked him to stop pointing a pistol at your head, do you?’

  The waves rasped Reznik’s corpse over the pebbles, scoured the jagged edges of his skull. If Harry had waited before blasting Reznik’s brains, she could have discovered more about Reznik and Pierce. The betrayal. Jim. Her life had been saved, but her chances of resolving the fears that plagued her were sinking in the Pentland Firth.

  ‘What are you going to do with the body?’

  ‘Leave it.’

  ‘What, here?’

  ‘The tide will claim him anyway.’

  ‘Won’t the police find him?’

  ‘They’ll think it’s suicide.’

  ‘With three shots in his head?’

  ‘Stop worrying about details, will you?’ He sounded exasperated. ‘Give the skuas a couple of hours, then nobody will be able to count the holes. And he’s got a pistol in his hand.’

  Harry gestured at Reznik’s fist, gripping the gun he had been pointing at her head. She was lucky, she could see now, Reznik hadn’t squeezed the trigger in his death
convulsions, otherwise she would be lying in the water next to him. She glanced at Harry and felt a belated surge of gratitude. He had saved her life.

  ‘You are a good shot, Harry.’

  He beamed.

  ‘But there won’t be any bullets missing from his pistol.’

  He tutted, waded into the brine, stooped, oblivious to the breakers, fiddled with Reznik’s hand, inserted his own fingers around his, aimed the pistol at the sea and pulled the trigger. The gun flashed and cracked as Harry discharged the bullets, the addictive perfume of gunpowder peppering the air.

  ‘There. Nobody will be asking too many questions about him anyway. Not if they’ve got any sense.’

  He searched Reznik’s pockets, gave the corpse a prod with a plank of driftwood and launched him beyond the breaking point of the waves. He waded back.

  ‘What about his car?’ she asked.

  ‘He doesn’t have a car. He arrived by boat. Look.’

  He pointed to the far side of the bay, the Noust – the landing spot once regularly used by fishermen, the rusting winch the only reminder of their laborious life. She could just discern the outline of a small dinghy. That explained the distant thrum of an engine as she approached the bay earlier that evening – outboard motor. A vast, lumbering figure was pushing the boat over the shingle to the water.

  ‘Oh shit. That looks like his enforcer, Wolf.’