The Elemental (Blair Dubh Trilogy #1)

by Heather Atkinson

  A strong gust of wind caused her to stagger forward a few steps and she continued on her way, as though the elements were urging her on. The church loomed over her, domain of the sainted Father Alexander Logan, his old Parish House just beyond it. Thank God he’d been dead for two years. It was one reason she’d decided to come back now, because it was safe.

  The massive oak still dominated the far corner of the churchyard, the sway of its ancient branches scattering manic shadows across the ground. Freya kept her eyes off that dark corner beneath the tree where she’d seen the horror that had destroyed her life and one of the reasons she’d turned to drink.

  Fortunately Craig knew exactly where Rose’s grave was so he could lead her straight there, wandering through the maze of stones, Freya clutching the flowers to her chest to protect them from the elements. Rain was in the air, she felt cold and damp and she could taste the salt upon her lips.

  The graveyard was immaculately kept, not a blade of grass out of place. In Blair Dubh the dead were revered.

  Father Logan’s grave was hard to miss. It was more like a mausoleum, a towering stone monstrosity surrounded by cherubs and angels, the words proclaiming what a good, virtuous man he was. Loving son and father to the whole village, the inscription read.

  “This is grotesque,” she said. “He doesn’t deserve this honour.”

  “My dad protested against it, but he was the only one. No one listened, he was quite sick by then.”

  “I’m sorry but I’m about to desecrate holy ground,” she said to Craig before drawing deep on the back of her throat and spitting on Logan’s monument. She glared at the ground beneath which he lay. “You were a murdering bastard and I swear one day everyone will know it.” She spat on the ground once more for good measure then looked challengingly at Craig. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  When he too spat on the grave she stared at him with her mouth open.

  “My dad wasn’t the only one who believed you.”

  She nodded in acknowledgement, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “I wish I had a sledgehammer,” she said, frowning at the stone.

  A gust of wind howled through the churchyard and Freya had the disconcerting feeling it was roaring in protest against this desecration. She glanced about uneasily, feeling eyes watching them but they were the only ones mad enough to be up here in this weather. Behind the church was the great gothic mass of Logan’s Parish House, the blank windows staring back at them and she could imagine Logan standing behind one of them watching with the hatred in his eyes she’d seen the night he killed her mum.

  It was a relief when Craig gently led her on to her parent’s graves. They’d been buried side by side and she sat cross-legged on the damp grass and placed one bunch of snowdrops on each grave. Craig retreated a few steps to give her a little privacy, watching as she gazed at the stones with tears in her eyes.

  John Michael Macalister had died in nineteen eighty nine at the age of thirty three and Rose Kate Macalister nine years later aged forty. The majority of people in the village died of old age, the younger section of the community tending to move away. Apart from Freya’s parents there were only three other gravestones marking young deaths. They belonged to the women who’d had their lives stolen by the same man who killed her mother. Freya was certain the villagers had let her be taken away because she’d accused their adored religious leader and pillar of the community, Father Alexander Logan, of being a multiple murderer. No one had believed her and their sympathy had quickly turned to indignation when she’d refused to cease her accusations. With her gone they’d been able forget the whole nasty business and get on with their neat little lives. It still made her furious.

  “I miss you,” she rasped, reaching out to touch her mother’s headstone. Freya had never known her father, he’d died when she was only two in a boating accident but she’d been close to her mum, a beautiful vibrant woman with the same long blond hair and big green eyes as herself. She’d had the sweetest temperament too and Freya couldn’t recall her once raising her voice to her. Childhood had been full of fun and laughter, her mother’s comforting presence always there. Craig had spent a lot of time at their cottage. Her mum would sit them both at the kitchen table and serve them milk and her delicious homemade tablet. Then she’d ruffle Craig’s dark hair because it made him blush. The memory was so bright and clear in her mind that Freya could almost hear her laughter, smell her perfume, feel the wood of the table beneath her fingertips.

  Initially she thought it was the wind that was screaming, until she realised the sound was coming from herself, nor was it the rain wetting her cheeks but her own tears. Why did Logan have to take that lovely gentle woman and do that to her? She glanced over her shoulder into the dark neglected corner of the churchyard, the one no one dare go near for a silly superstitious fear, the same spot she’d seen a big bat-like figure digging a grave for someone who wasn’t dead and she started to shake.

  A pair of strong arms encircled her, shielding her from the elements and she collapsed into them.

  “Let’s get you out of this wind, you’re freezing,” said Craig.

  He kept her close as they negotiated their way back down the hill to the village. Twice Freya slipped and almost went down, her knees weak, but Craig kept her upright.

  “No, I want to go to my cottage,” she said when he started to steer her in the direction of his mother’s cottage.

  “Alright, whatever you want.”

  Freya opened the front door and decided to invite Craig in, he deserved a coffee after how he’d helped her. After removing their outdoor clothing he followed her through to the kitchen.

  “Coffee?”

  Before he could reply his mobile phone rang and he pulled it out of his jeans pocket. “Sorry I’ve got to take this, it’s work.”

  “Okay.”

  He wandered into the sitting room to talk and she prayed he didn’t get called away, she was enjoying having him around again. It was amazing really because usually she was terrified of police.

  When he came back in looking apologetic her heart sank.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to go into work early, someone’s called in sick. On the bright side I’ll get to finish earlier so I won’t be on the nightshift.”

  “I remember how you like your sleep,” she smiled.

  “I still do. Will you be alright?”

  “Fine. To be honest I’m exhausted, I’ll probably have a nap anyway.”

  “I’m jealous,” he grinned.

  “Thanks for today Craig, I’m not sure how I would have got through it without you.”

  “That’s what friends are for. This must be so hard for you.”

  “I never thought it would be otherwise.”

  “I want you to know that my dad tried but there was no evidence against Logan, except…”

  “My statement, yeah I know,” she sighed, massaging the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache building. “So he got away with it and - unlike his victims - he died of natural causes.”

  “I’m sorry Freya. If it had happened today forensics would have been more advanced, there might have been something to link him to it.”

  “What if’s are pointless Craig. It happened and I have to deal with it.”

  “Only you’re not dealing with it, are you?”

  Rather than reply she just looked at the ground, too ashamed to tell him how bad her life was.

  “If you need me I’m only a few doors down. You can call anytime.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sorry but I’ve really got to go. Is it okay if I pop in after my shift to check on you?”

  “I’d like that.”

  He was pleased and cursed the fact he had to go to work. The prospect of being curled up in this cosy cottage with Freya was an appealing one. “Right, I’ll see you later then.”

  “Bye,” she said, wishing he’d stay.

  CHAPTER 3

  Freya jumped awake drenched in sweat and fighting for breath. S
he’d dreamt she was trapped in a deep hole in the ground, a figure in black frantically throwing earth in on top of her, robes billowing out around it and eyes like fire. She’d call out to Craig for help but the dirt landed in her mouth, choking her. Something hard and cold had grasped her hand and when she’d looked to her right she’d seen a skeleton lying beside her, jaw open in a silent scream, long golden hair sprouting from its head.

  Slowly she sat up, reaching out for the glass of water on her bedside cabinet with a shaking hand. It was almost pitch black outside and, glancing at her clock, she was surprised to realise it was nine o’clock in the morning.

  The storm had arrived.

  Panic seized her and she threw on her clothes and frantically started packing. Now the moment had come she found she was unable to stay with no way out. She couldn’t do this without an escape route.

  After stuffing everything into her backpack she hauled it downstairs, pulled on her coat and boots then hesitated. If she left now then nothing would have changed, she hadn’t even begun to confront the past. Visiting her parent’s graves had eased some of the guilt about not visiting before, but the fear was still there, as well as the need to drink to obliterate everything.

  She sank onto the sofa and called Davey, her AA counsellor. He was the one who’d convinced her to come here, so hopefully he could convince her to stay. Just the sound of his calm deep bass voice reassured her. She could picture him with his big beard and beefy arms covered in prison tattoos. A typical middle aged, slightly overweight hairy biker, but Freya had a thing for tattoos and found him as sexy as hell. She couldn’t help it, just the sight of ink on a strong male body drove her crazy but that was something she’d been careful to keep to herself.

  A five minute conversation with Davey was enough to persuade her to stay. If she left now there was a good chance she’d never come back and the rest of her life would be plagued by demons.

  “Thanks Davey,” she said before hanging up, wishing he was here for moral support but she had to do this alone.

  Leaving her backpack lying on the sitting room floor she stepped outside and shivered. The sky was dark with storm clouds, the wind howling through the centre of the village, the formation of the buildings and surrounding hills creating a wind tunnel. The seawater hit the manmade barrier that protected the houses, launching the spray into the air which hit the ground, forming large puddles. Soon those puddles would be a lake engulfing the road and they would be trapped.

  Freya looked at the pub and sighed, kicking at a pebble with a booted foot. She felt edgy, twitchy, as though she could snap at any moment and every time she’d snapped in the past it had ended in violence. When she felt trapped she lashed out. It was a purely defensive reaction, she never meant to hurt anyone but unfortunately over the years she’d got quite good at fighting, she’d certainly had enough practice. When they were stuck together like this everyone in the village got antsy and arguments broke out. Not a good environment for someone quick to hit out. But Davey had said this was a test for her in more ways than one, including her aggression. He believed in her but she didn’t share his faith. The idea of letting him down was a painful one.

  Next on her list to visit was her mother’s house. She pulled up the hood of her jacket and kicked the pebble along with her, focusing all her attention on it, trying not to think about what was to come. Her childhood home had been a happy one, but it was the last place she’d seen her mother alive. The devil himself had come for her that night and taken her from her home, leaving Freya all alone.

  She leaned against the freshly painted garden gate. The front door was still the same, pretty and painted red with a bell, but her mother’s nets had gone, replaced by smart beige curtains hanging elegantly in the latticed windows. The last good memory she had was here, playing in the garden in the summer, running around with Craig on the grass. The front door opened and her mother had emerged, beautiful and smiling with lemonade for them both.

  Freya pulled her hood around her tighter as the wind picked up, blowing leaves into the pristine garden. She glanced towards the road leading out of the village and anxiously chewed her lip. It would still be possible to get out, although she’d get very wet in the process.

  Freya closed her eyes and conjured the image of her mum again, smiling and happy and the urge to flee went away. Maybe she should focus on the good to try and get through this? Her life had been so shitty it was easy to forget that it hadn’t always been awful. She evoked more happy memories, scenes from her childhood, mainly involving her mum and Craig and she smiled.

  A flash of colour to her right drew her attention from the house and she went rigid when she saw a figure approaching dressed in a fluorescent jacket, the type worn by the police. Fear engulfed her as she was taken right back into that tunnel in Glasgow under the railway arches, PC Docherty running at her, the ensuing pain…

  Freya turned and ran where instinct guided her, towards the castle, the haven of her childhood. Glancing over her shoulder she saw the figure pursuing her. Despite his ungainly uniform he was gaining on her quickly. It was at that moment the heavens finally decided to open and icy rain soaked her thick clothes, slowing her down. She stumbled as the ground became slippery underfoot, losing valuable seconds and chancing another glance over her shoulder she saw the figure was even closer. The village ebbed away until she was back in that stinking tunnel, feeling as though she was trapped underground, her worst nightmare. Docherty was going to catch her.

  There was a blur of colour and she was pushed face down to the ground but she kicked out, catching the man in the chest and knocking him backwards. She was quick to get back to her feet and continued on towards the castle.

  “Stop, Police,” she heard the figure yell but she ignored him and carried on, sprinting so hard her lungs burned with the effort. As she got closer she started to slow. After years of abusing her body she was in poor shape. Her legs went weak and her head spun. She’d almost made it to the fence when she was slammed into it, hands wrenched behind her back, only this time she didn’t have the strength to fight back and she slumped to her knees with exhaustion. It was a relief when her hood was pulled back and the cold rain hit her face, cooling her burning skin.

  “Freya,” exclaimed a voice.

  She found herself looking up into Craig’s face. The rational part of her brain told her, of course it’s Craig, Docherty’s locked up, but he was in his fluorescent jacket and Freya couldn’t get past it. When she screamed he was so surprised he released her, watching as she scrambled over the fence and under the cover of the bakehouse, curling up in a corner and starting to rock, tears running down her face. Craig was stunned and unsure what to do. His instinct was to keep low, not to tower over her and after jumping the fence he slowly shuffled into the bakehouse. She cried out and tried to scramble further away, but her back was against the wall.

  “Freya it’s me, Craig.”

  She didn’t appear to recognise him, scared white face streaked with black make-up. He removed his jacket and cast it aside, so he was just in the all-black uniform.

  “Freya, look at me.”

  This time when she looked, recognition filled her terrified green eyes. “Craig?”

  “Yes Sweetheart, it’s me. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was you at the garden gate. I got a call about a prowler. It was the hood, I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  She shook herself and looked around, as though confused about where she was. “I thought you were him.”

  “Who?”

  She couldn’t even bring herself to say his name. “No one.” Freya buried her face in her hands and started to softly weep, the fear draining from her, leaving her cold, tired and feeling stupid. What must he think of her?

  “It’s okay,” he said, daring to move closer. “You’re safe.”

  “I’m sorry,” she rasped. “You’re soaked through.”

  “It’s not the first time, living in this village.” He moved even closer and reached ou
t to touch her hand.

  She stared at his hand uncertainly before grasping it, grateful for how warm it felt and she started to cry harder. Craig sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

  “Was it the jacket?” he said gently.

  She nodded into his shoulder.

  “Are you okay with me now?”

  “Yes,” she whimpered.

  “Who hurt you Freya?”

  She was on the verge of confessing it all when his radio crackled into life, startling her, sending her back into that tunnel once more.

  “False alarm,” he said into it before switching it off.

  Freya shot to her feet, intending to flee back to the safety of her cottage, but her legs went out from under her and he caught her.

  “Let’s get you home,” he said.

  “Glasgow?”

  “No, I mean your holiday let.”

  “I want to go home, I hate it here.”

  “I’m sorry but you’re stuck here for a few days. The road’s flooding.”

  “Great,” she said miserably.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.”

  Craig kept one arm around her waist as they left the shelter of the castle, both shivering uncontrollably, especially Craig, who’d had to leave his coat behind.

  They slipped and slid down the hill together, the force of the rain loosening the earth and creating a quagmire. When they finally reached the bottom a tall spindly figure wrapped in a quilted coat emerged from the curtain of rain.

  “I see you’ve got the prowler. I hope you lock them up and throw away the key,” said the figure in a posh English accent, hooked nose sticking out from the hood of his coat, drops of water dripping off the end.

  “It wasn’t a prowler Toby, it was a misunderstanding,” said Craig through chattering teeth.

  “What do you mean?” he said, frowning at Freya suspiciously.

  “This is Freya Macalister and she grew up in your house. She was only taking a look.”

  “She’d no right, it’s my property…”