He fell to his knees and prayed again as the pickaxe handle he’d brought with him collided with the base of his skull. It was only part of what was inflicted on him, but thankfully he knew nothing after the first blow.
Nelson sat quietly staring at the television with the volume up loud. He didn’t hear a sound, and after about twenty minutes Clark came into the room wearing only underpants.
What struck Danny when he saw Clark was that his face was spattered with blood, and he managed to work out that Clark had removed a boiler suit or protective clothing before he came back into the room to get him. He passed out cold, which meant that when he was carried through to the box room he wasn’t able to see his father’s mortal remains. Danny did come round but only for a very short time before the blows to his head and body dropped him into a dark pool of oblivion.
Human beings possess a remarkable capacity to survive the most horrific of injuries, though there are times when mind and body get it wrong and it would be far better to die, and while the boys had been thorough with Danny, they would soon discover they hadn’t quite achieved their goal.
Nelson stayed in the flat and watched the football highlights as if nothing of interest had taken place that night. He’d known men both in the military and the paramilitaries back home who reached a high state of sexual excitement when there was a killing. But Billy felt almost nothing and sometimes had to act out a form of anger to look what he thought was normal. He felt dead inside. The only things that troubled him were his dreams, when his thoughts turned to the bombing he’d witnessed at Frizzell’s fish shop as a boy, or the carnage in Helmand province. That really did disturb him, and he felt his chest tighten whenever he thought about what had been done to his own people.
As Nelson watched a repeat of Wayne Rooney scoring a classic goal for Manchester United, the rest of his team were driving the Flemings out into the country to their final resting place. They’d already scouted the area to make sure they could pull off the road without attracting attention, and the spot they’d chosen was close to the Borders and perfect for the job. Casual walkers were unlikely to stray off road and find it by chance.
They lifted Joe out first and in half an hour he was in the ground with space beside him for Danny. They swallowed a beer then got Danny out of the car. And that’s when he chose to moan and startled his pall-bearers so much they dropped him.
He groaned again.
Fisher saw the funny side of it and laughed nervously. ‘Can you fuckin’ believe it? The bastard’s still breathing after what we did to him. Come on – let’s put him to bed.’
They heaved Danny up again and threw him in the hole. He was nearer death than life, but he opened his eyes, and the last thing he saw was two of his tormentors urinating into his grave. Clark picked up the spade and threw a load of soil onto his face, and Danny felt some of it fall into his nostrils as he suffocated to death and joined his father.
Around midnight Banjo took a call from Nelson, who never mentioned anything about the Flemings – and Banjo wasn’t stupid enough to ask. Nelson told him to order what gear he needed every Monday and it would be supplied to him by the Wednesday.
Later on he took another call from Danny’s partner asking if he knew where Danny and old Joe were, so Banjo said that he’d seen Joe and Danny but didn’t know where they’d gone after that. They were gone; in one short, violent act the Flemings had been gutted by their own stupidity, and the criminal hierarchy in Edinburgh changed until the next contender arrived on the scene.
Banjo was asleep and knackered when the phone dragged him awake again later. He looked at the clock and saw it was 2.30 a.m. It took him a moment to work out that it was still night-time.
‘Fuck me, who’s this now?’ he said as he picked up the phone, ready to blast the arse of whoever it was. Unfortunately it was Nelson again. He did his best to sound pleased but failed miserably. Not that Nelson gave a fuck.
‘The boys have been busy and need a bit of rest and relaxation, if you know what I mean. I’ve got drink in, but they’re young men and need a bit more than a drink tonight. It’s been busy what with one thing and another.’
Banjo sensed where this was going, closed his eyes and said no – but only to himself.
‘It’s a bit late for them to go wandering round the town at this time of night looking for females, so why don’t you send Maggie over here pronto. Her nose is a fuckin’ sight, but beggars can’t be choosers. Make sure she has a good wash first.’
Banjo couldn’t make the words to reply.
‘Banjo, did you hear me, or do we have to come round there?’
‘I’ll get her, Billy. No problem.’
He put the phone down and walked through into the darkness of their bedroom and woke the woman he loved.
9
When Macallan opened her eyes it was well after dawn, and the first thing she saw was a clear blue sky. Okay, Grace, she thought, let’s do this – let’s get going.
She smiled at the order, got ready quickly and after a light breakfast set off in the car along the single-track road to Blairmore. There were few other cars in the parking area as she pulled on her walking boots and headed off over the moorland for Sandwood Bay. All the bumf claimed it was one of the best beaches in Europe, and the bonus was that it was over four miles of walking to get there so the only visitors were the determined ones.
The track took her across fairly unspectacular moorland, but the sun shone, and the light glittered in a way she’d never seen before. There were lochs everywhere, and the reflected sunshine formed on thousands of tiny wavelets that almost dazzled her. Despite the cool December air, the sweat trickled down her back, but eventually her breathing eased, and her skin began to glow with the exertion.
She met a couple wearing his and her adventure gear who appeared to have enough equipment to conquer Mount Everest. Macallan had already decided that the beach probably wouldn’t live up to its billing, but they assured her that it would be worth the effort. She didn’t really believe them. The legends said that the bay was haunted, that the waters round Cape Wrath were littered with the bones of ancient ships and sailors, and she could feel the intense isolation of the place.
She looked to her right to Sandwood Loch and the ruins of an old house. Macallan had read her guidebooks and liked the story that the ghost of a long-dead mariner would come to the house on stormy nights and tap on the window.
When she walked over the last rise, she wasn’t prepared for the sight of Sandwood Bay, which opened up before her like a cinema screen. There was nothing in front of her but the horizon, stretching up to the cold northern waters, and a mile and half of almost pink sand. Even though it was near calm, heavy rollers roared towards the beach, leaving a hissing trail as they crashed and melted into the sand. It was as if the sea was taking a deep breath as the depleted waves ran back to the deep, crackling over the endless small hard stones.
Macallan sat on a flat rock, poured some hot coffee from her flask and let the sights and sounds wash over her. She wanted to spend a few minutes there before she walked downhill onto the beach to take it all in, because she would never have this feeling of wonder about the view again. It was marvellous – a daylight dream – the power of the northern waters and the remoteness of a place that deserved to be seen and appreciated.
At the southern end of the bay she saw the huge sea stack Am Buachaille – the Herdsman – fully deserving of its Gaelic name. It seemed to stand guard over the bay, powerful and forbidding.
After a time, Macallan headed down to the beach, running the last few yards down the smooth side of one of the grass-topped dunes. She took her shoes off and felt the clean sand smother her feet and work her leg muscles.
Feeling the warmth in the sun, but only just, she stripped off to her shorts and decided to try the water. She sprinted the last few yards and fell into the foaming spume.
Jesus Christ! She would have shouted it but the cold had literally taken her breath away. Belat
edly she realised that the waters were a long way from the Med, which was the last place she’d dipped her toes in the sea. It might be sunny, but this was Scotland, and it was winter. She felt as if someone had shoved her in a freeze dryer.
As the upper half of her body came clear of the water, she gasped and wondered for a moment whether her lungs were too cold to ever draw in another breath. It was a struggle, but she waded as fast as her legs could manage back to the beach, still gasping with the shock of the cold water.
Grabbing her rucksack, she pulled out the small hand towel she’d brought and rubbed heat back into her skin. Soon she felt the prickling rush of blood and a wonderful feeling of heat spread through her, as if she was glowing inside. Macallan laughed at her own naivety in forgetting that the waters there could stop the heart – she’d imagined crawling gracefully through the waves with the dolphins diving round her and a romantic picture to remember, and she was thankful that no one witnessed her unladylike exit from the waves.
After walking back to the sand dunes, Macallan lay down away from the cool breeze and let her mind drift away till she slept. It was over an hour before the sound of gulls calling above gradually brought her back up from a dream. She spent the day on the beach and by habit periodically checked her phone, but there was still no signal. No one could reach her.
The fresh air and exercise helped Macallan get yet another good night’s sleep, and she was beginning to feel more her old self again when she awoke the next day. After a late breakfast spent perusing one of her guidebooks, she packed an overnight bag and set off, in no hurry at all, along the single-track A road that led to the north coast via the beautiful Kyle of Durness. She stopped every now and then to enjoy the views, glad she wasn’t being controlled by any kind of timetable.
It was almost dark when she arrived in Tongue, where she stopped for a drink in a small hotel. The locals were chatty, and to avoid unwelcome discussion of her real job she told them she was a civil servant on a walking holiday. A room was available so she booked in, had a quick shower and went back down to the bar, where she was invited to join in playing pool. Later on, when the live music started, she knew she’d made the right decision to stay. The music was wild and the drinkers joined in dancing, including Macallan, who soaked up the night.
Two hundred and forty miles south of the hotel in Tongue, Billy Nelson tried to sleep. He sweated; he turned; he drifted in and out of dreams. His nights were often haunted by images of the past – the young boy feeling the heatwave from the bomb blast on the Shankill, turning his face to the source of the explosion and watching frightened people running towards him, crying for help. The strange calm after the blast interrupted by moaning and the sounds of building confusion and anger. He was only a boy – what could he do?
He woke, drank a glass of water and lay down again on the damp sheets, only to drift halfway towards sleep again. This time he was walking along a rock-strewn road in Afghanistan; there was only Billy and his best mate, a poor working-class boy like him who’d joined the Army to see the world. Billy couldn’t understand why they were on their own, and he was frightened. Somehow he realised he was in a dream and tried to find a way back to the conscious world, because something he couldn’t see was trying to hurt him.
He heard his friend call his name and looked round to see a small IED take his leg clean off from the knee. He’d just walked where his friend had walked and survived.
He tried to pick his injured friend up, but he was too heavy and insurgents were closing in to kill them both. He sucked in a lungful of air and it woke him as if he’d been punched in the chest.
Billy was soaked. He pulled his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his cigarettes. His nights were following a familiar script where sleep was a struggle; he was beginning to hate the dark, with these visits from his demons; all the uncertainty about what he was and what he was doing. He wondered whether one single person actually cared about him. Why would they? He was a killer – a sadistic bastard struggling to find something to give him satisfaction or excitement or just purpose. He felt dead with women, and it was only in the brief moments he saw terror in another person’s eyes that he felt something that might have been pleasure. That was all that was left to him: power had become his drug, and like most drugs the shame gnawed at his thoughts.
The clock showed 3.30 a.m. and he remembered someone saying the only people working at this time of night were policemen and prostitutes. He walked through to the kitchen, made some black tea and dumped four laden spoonfuls of sugar into the swirling brew. He’d learned to take it sweet in the Army and wished he was back there – back with the men who’d been his family; who felt like him and understood. He thought again about the blood rage that had made him pulp the Afghan boy half to death. That bastard had cost him his career. ‘Fuck him. Hope the cunt never walks again,’ he whispered into the darkness.
He’d seen it in Iraq and Afghanistan – the look in their eyes; the hate when all they were trying to do was get rid of those mad bastard insurgents. He hated them, having seen so many of his mates wounded and killed. Some of the injuries were the stuff of horror films and rarely reported in the press. It made him angry, and he felt his chest tighten thinking about the politicians who’d ordered them into war zones without a plan. The dead were reported and the closed coffins were driven past respectful crowds throwing flowers. The television didn’t show the faces blown off, the screaming wrecks trying to stuff their guts back into their bodies.
‘I’ll pay these fuckers back,’ he murmured. ‘They’ll never forget Billy Nelson.’
He lay back down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, praying for untroubled sleep. The gnawing pain that he guessed must be stress started up again in his stomach. It was happening more and more now.
10
Only eight miles from Nelson’s bedroom, Maggie Smith walked along the cobbled streets of The Shore by the Water of Leith. She wasn’t working, and she definitely didn’t need the company of some frustrated punter whose wife didn’t understand him. She was still sore when she walked and cursed those bastards from Belfast for the way they’d treated her, using her like an animal and then kicking her out onto the street. Nelson was a puzzle though – he’d just watched with that stupid grin as they’d hurt her over and over again. Whatever drug they’d taken that night had made them burn with energy.
‘I wonder if he’s a bender?’ She nodded at her own whispered question. ‘That must be it, the bastard.’ She was sure of one thing though – they were a sick bunch, and she’d seen her share of sickos in her time.
What had really hurt was seeing the look in Banjo’s eyes when she got home. He was helpless – useless – and he knew it. She never spoke a word to him – what was there to say? She’d slept on the settee since then. That was the night she’d lost her fear of dying. She’d finally discovered that there were far worse things in life than death.
She touched the fresh bump above her eye where Fisher had whacked her for good measure, as if she’d needed any more after the mess they’d made of her nose.
‘Bastards, bastards, bastards,’ she sobbed quietly.
A police car pulled up, and the old beat man rolled down the window. He was alright; she’d known him for years, and he’d once saved her skin from a half-mad drunk who’d tried to rob her after she’d left a generous punter.
‘You okay there? Want a lift home before you freeze to death?’
‘I’m okay, Charlie, just need a walk, that’s all. The punters are all wrapped up next to their good ladies so I’ll be away shortly.’
‘Take care then, Maggie.’ He rolled the window back up and went off to find a warm cup of something.
She walked on and noticed that she was down to her last cigarette. Might as well have that, she thought, a wry smile crossing her face – smoking wasn’t going to kill her anyway.
She dragged on the cigarette and walked on into the semi-dark lane that was Timber Bush, the site of the old timber ma
rket when Leith was a great port, welcoming ships from all over Europe. At the corner where the lane turns sharp left towards Tower Street, she walked into a small private car park, then squatted down against the wooden fence, leaned back and decided to get it done while the fag was still burning.
She was sick, tired and weary, and she cursed Nelson and most of the other men she’d known. Not Banjo – he’d done his best, but he was as big a failure as she was. No way was her future going to end up with her sitting on a bench with him, drinking Special Brew at 9 a.m. like the winos she used to watch, talking to each other without listening, graduates from smack to cheap cider and oblivion.
She wasn’t afraid any more; she just wanted to be on her way and leave the life she’d lost interest in. She wished she had time to say goodbye to her friend Pauline Johansson, but this was her time – it couldn’t wait.
She sat down and was thankful that the ground was dry. Can’t end up with a wet arse tonight, she thought. Had too many of them in my time.
She managed to smile at her own joke, but it held a certain truth. She’d brought Banjo’s gear as well as her own; left him knocked out in his favourite seat, the telly blaring away as always to no one in particular.
She rolled up her sleeve and cooked up the hit as she sucked greedily on the cigarette. A mongrel dog trotted up to her, staring at her for a while before it seemed to decide it wasn’t welcome and moved away into the darkness again.
She pushed the needle into her arm as someone in the area, who obviously had their windows wide open, put on The Proclaimers full blast.
‘Jesus, what a thoughtless bastard,’ she whispered, thinking it kind of summed up the world she lived in. All those thoughtless bastards who’d come her way.
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