Electric Light (Blair Dubh Trilogy #3)

by Heather Atkinson

  “That was before I found out you’re a mass murderer,” growled Craig.

  Graeme swallowed hard, realising he was entirely serious. “There’s no need. Just lower the weapon and I can leave and you can get everyone the help they need, I know you’ve got injured people in the pub. Think of them. The longer this drags on the more likely they are to die.”

  “Don’t even fucking think it,” Freya yelled at Graeme when he started to advance on her.

  “If I were you I’d stay really still,” said Craig, the essence of cool and calm as he cradled the weapon expertly in his hands.

  “You’re not going to shoot me,” said Graeme confidently. He’d always thought he was indifferent to life, apart from his vital mission, but now he realised he didn’t want to die.

  “You sound pretty confident,” said Craig, cocking the weapon.

  “Freya, come on, be sensible,” said Graeme, convinced he could appeal to their better sides. “You’ve got me trapped. You can lower the guns now.”

  “Not a chance,” she said, voice as steady as her husband’s.

  Graeme frowned from one to the other. The panic and fear was gone, they were so calm it was unnerving. They were feeding off each other, neither of them would have been so in control if the other hadn’t been present.

  “Don’t you see, you have to let me continue my work, it’s vital,” begged Graeme, filled with alarm when he realised this could be it for his mission.

  “You’re not going to kill anyone else,” said Craig, “You’re done. Hands up where I can see them,” he barked when Graeme’s left hand attempted to slide into one of the cavernous pockets of his jacket. “What have you got in there?”

  When Graeme didn’t reply and his hand continued to inexorably slide into that pocket Craig kicked him in the stomach, knocking him flat on his back.

  As Graeme looked up at Freya and Craig from the ground he released a gasp. They looked…different. Craig’s face was hard and half in shadow, his teeth looking small and sharp in his mouth while Freya’s green eyes burned with fire and her black hair, tousled by the breeze blowing through the broken windows, made her look medusa-like.

  “I was half-right,” said Graeme. “It’s both of you, look at what Blair Dubh’s done to you. Look at yourselves. Fiends, devils.”

  They stared down at him impassively, eyes cold. Freya and Craig looked at each other then back at Graeme, who squealed when they took careful aim at him.

  “Don’t give into it. It’s telling you to kill me,” he wailed, scrabbling backwards, like an upturned beetle. “Don’t let it win.” He gasped and his head snapped left then right as an eerie whisper ran around the room. “It’s here, the evil is in here with us.” His eyes settled on the altar, convinced he could see someone standing there, watching. When he looked back at Freya and Craig he saw they’d moved closer, the gun barrels huge and gaping, like mouths waiting to devour him. Their expressions were once again vacant, ice cold and they didn’t speak. “No,” wailed Graeme, holding out his hands, as though he could hold back the bullets he was sure were going to be fired at him. But instead he received a boot to the face, Craig’s boot that knocked a couple of his front teeth out. Then they were both kicking at him as he lay prone on the floor, attempting to curl himself up into a ball. All he could see from between his hands were a flash of blazing green eyes and a row of small, sharp teeth.

  “No,” mumbled Graeme through his injuries, blood on his lips as they continued to pummel him with their feet. From somewhere to his left Graeme could have sworn he heard a dark, deep laugh reverberate around the room, a laugh that hadn’t emanated from his attackers.

  Freya heard the laugh, it brought her back to her senses and she was appalled to realise what she and Craig were doing. It was a huge effort for her to shake off the strange oppression that had draped itself over her

  “No, stop,” she said, seizing hold of her husband’s arm.

  Craig rounded on her, face set into a snarl, teeth gnashing, causing her to recoil.

  She released him and took a step back. For the first time in their life together she thought he might hurt her. “Craig?” she said gently.

  “See what it’s done to him Freya,” said Graeme. “He’s been exposed to the evil of this village too many times, as have you. It’s changed you.”

  She ignored him as she continued to stare into the face of the stranger who looked so much like her husband. “Step away from him Craig. He’s done.”

  But he turned from her and pointed the rifle at Graeme again.

  “Craig, stop.”

  He ignored her, his finger slowly starting to squeeze the trigger.

  “No,” she said, grabbing his arm.

  The gun went off, the bullet slamming into the ground just inches from Graeme’s head, who released a cry of surprise.

  “What are you doing?” Craig bellowed at her.

  “You were going to kill him.”

  “Too right I was. He’s killed so many - Gordon, Howard, Toby, Hughes, Iza and her husband. They’re all gone.”

  “They’re dead?” she said, wide-eyed. “All those people?”

  “Yes and more, murdered by that bastard,” he said, gesturing at Graeme with the rifle. “I saw him do it, I have their blood on my clothes, I held their hands as they died so why should he live?”

  “You’re not a killer Craig,” she said, but even as she said it she knew he was. He would have killed Docherty if Bill hadn’t dragged him off, he’d been determined to drown him. He had the same look in his eyes that he had back then and it scared her. “Put the gun down.”

  “No,” he glowered.

  Freya didn’t know what to do. Craig was firmly under the spell of something and she didn’t want to approach him.

  “You see Freya, I was right,” said Graeme. “He’s part of it too, you all are. You should have let me finish the job here.”

  “Craig, stop it,” said Freya, grabbing hold of his arm again when he pointed the rifle at Graeme’s head.

  “Get off me,” he growled, shrugging her off.

  She was knocked backwards and fell.

  “Jesus, Freya, I’m so sorry,” he said, hurrying to her side.

  “It’s not your fault,” she grimaced, sitting up, rubbing her bruised lower back.

  “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I do. It’s this place,” she said as he helped her to her feet. She looked over his shoulder and her eyes widened. “Craig get down,” she yelled, simultaneously pushing him out of the way and raising the pistol. The roar of gunfire made her ears ring. Her first shot hit Graeme in the left calf and his leg crumpled. As he fell he dropped the second pistol he’d secreted in one of those huge pockets. She stood over him, the gun pointed at his face.

  “Craig, are you okay? Craig?” she repeated when he didn’t reply.

  She turned and saw him lying in the aisle in a pool of blood, not moving.

  “No, Craig,” she screamed.

  He groaned and rolled onto his side, a hand pressed to his stomach, the amount of blood soaking his shirt alarming.

  “You fucking bastard, what have you done?” she yelled at Graeme.

  “Finally I shot him properly. He needs medical help. Now,” said Graeme coolly, smiling with satisfaction. “A bullet to the gut is nasty, who knows what damage it’s done to his internal organs. Every second you delay brings him closer to death.

  “Shut it.”

  “You’re not going to kill me Freya.”

  “I’m my father’s daughter, remember? You said I could do it.”

  Graeme swallowed hard. “I was wrong.”

  “Let’s put that to the test,” she said, eyes blazing bright green again. The whispers started up all around her and, although she couldn’t tell what they were saying, she was sure they were egging her on, urging her to kill him. She couldn’t think clearly because these whispers interfered with her thought processes, encouraging her to do something she would normally never c
onsider.

  “You said you could never kill because of the pain you’d inflict on a family,” said Graeme, realising he was the one talking for his life now.

  “You have no family,” she said, her voice ice, finger tightening on the trigger.

  “Put the gun down, put the gun down,” screamed voices, startling her. What remained of the armed response team raced down the aisle towards them, guns at the ready and trained on her, not on Graeme. How was that fair?

  “Hold your fire,” Thorne called to his one surviving colleague. He stepped forward, his own gun pointing at the ground, even though he didn’t relinquish his hold on it. “Put the weapon down Freya. Let us take care of him now.”

  “He shot Craig and he killed my friends.”

  “I know sweetheart, he killed mine too so I understand how you feel, but he’ll go to prison for what he’s done. Don’t do this.”

  “He has to die, he’s evil.”

  “You’re right, he is, I’m not arguing with you there. But if you kill him you’ll get into trouble and Craig’s going to need you, it’s going to take him time to get better.”

  Freya was desperate to go to her husband. His moans of pain assured her he still had some fight left. Now all she had to do was end this. “You don’t understand, I have to finish this or it’ll keep happening.”

  “If you shoot him you’ll go to prison,” Thorne called to her. “This isn’t self defence. He’s done Freya. Let us take care of him now.”

  Freya didn’t move, the gun still trained on Graeme. The whispers grew in crescendo, fogging her thoughts. Even Thorne and his colleague could hear them, their eyes darting nervously about the room.

  She took a deep breath and raised the gun with renewed resolve.

  “Freya, stop,” Thorne yelled, both he and his colleague raising their weapons.

  She bit her lip, finger tightening on the trigger…

  CHAPTER 26

  “I can hear someone moving around outside,” said Todd.

  Steve, who’d been camped by Gary’s side, hurried to the front door and pressed his ear to it to listen. “There’s voices, more than one.”

  “No, don’t,” cried a horrified Bill when Steve hastily unlocked the door and flung it open.

  “Are we glad to see you,” Steve said to the team of armed police, detectives and paramedics. “Don’t worry, the cavalry’s here,” he called over his shoulder. “Have you got Graeme?”

  “Aye we do,” said Armstrong, stepping inside. “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed when he saw the pile of bodies in the corner. “How many?”

  “Five Sir. Four killed by the sniper, one died of a heart attack.”

  “Get the paramedics in here now,” he called. “Not them,” he added when the four paramedics rushed to the pile of bodies. “Start with the ones who are still breathing.”

  “You’ll be alright now Gary,” said Steve as two paramedics began tending to him.

  He gave him a feeble smile. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

  “No I’m not because you’re going to be best man at my wedding.”

  Gary managed to extend his smile. “Did you hear that?” he told one of the paramedics. “I’ve never been a best man before. Strippers,” he murmured.

  “Out of my way, I have to get out of here,” cried Deborah, leaping up and shoving aside the police officers who were entering the building. “Fresh air, oh my God, thank you,” they heard her cry. Todd gave the room a sheepish look as he slunk outside after her.

  “My son and daughter-in-law, Craig and Freya Donaldson,” said Nora, hobbling up to Armstrong. “Where are they?”

  “They’re already on their way to hospital. Freya’s okay, apart from a few bruises and an injured knee, but I’m afraid Craig was shot in the stomach.”

  “Is he alright?” she said, grateful when Lizzy came up beside her and took her hand.

  “He needs surgery. I’ll get one of my officers to take you over there.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, dazed.

  “Is Graeme alive?” demanded Bill as a paramedic worked on his leg.

  “He is.”

  “Why didn’t you just shoot the bastard instead?”

  “He did get shot. By Mrs Donaldson.”

  “Freya?” said Nora. “How?”

  “She managed to get the gun off him. I believe it’s only because she’s a bad shot that he’s still alive. Your daughter-in-law’s a remarkable woman.”

  “I know,” said Nora proudly, horribly ashamed of the bad thoughts she’d harboured against her.

  The residents stumbled out of the pub one by one, confused, hesitant, afraid this was all some sort of trick and the bullets were going to start flying again. The sun was just starting to come up, the sky rosy, air fresh, The storm had blown itself out, leaving the land revitalised.

  They weren’t allowed to their cottages to retrieve anything, instead they were escorted to waiting patrol cars and ambulances to be checked out and have their statements taken. Nora sat in the back of one of the ambulances wrapped in a blanket while her ankle was rebandaged, realising how much she hated this village. Tents were being hastily erected further up the road, obscuring her view of the bodies lying in the middle of it.

  If she ignored all the emergency services personnel and vehicles it was pretty much unchanged. The cottages, which had stood for hundreds of years, were just as they were, the water seethed against the sea wall, the castle and the church still dominated the landscape. But somehow everything was different. Now she could see the darkness that Freya had talked about so much, how the once pretty village was ominous and menacing. Her gaze travelled up to the graveyard and she thought how many of the dead had been put there by psychopaths who had come into their midst. Their ranks had certainly been swelled tonight and Nora’s hands started to shake when she realised how close she’d come to joining them. Tears filled her eyes. Her son still might yet.

  “All done,” said the paramedic kindly. “Take a seat and we’ll run you into the hospital for a check-up.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “You’ve been through an ordeal, you might be suffering from delayed shock.”

  “I’m fine,” she said impatiently. “There’s much worse off than me you need to be seeing to. DCI Armstrong said one of his officers would run me into hospital.”

  “That’s alright then but make sure you get checked over, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  “I will,” she said as he assisted her down from the ambulance, but she had no intention of doing so. All she wanted was to get to hospital and find out how her son was.

  “Here’s your crutches,” said the paramedic, handing them to her.

  But she ignored him as she watched a body - she had no idea who - being carried out of the pub, hidden in a black body bag. Everyone in the street went silent as they watched it being transported towards the waiting black mortuary van.

  “It’s just horrible,” she murmured, knowing one of her friends was in that bag.

  A female constable approached her, a pretty blond thing with a nice smile. “Mrs Donaldson?” she said.

  Nora just nodded, her eyes riveted to the pub door as a second body was carted out.

  “I’m PC Springer, I’ve to take you to hospital to see your son.”

  Now she had her attention. “How is he?”

  “All I know is that he’s been taken into surgery.”

  “Then hurry, please,” she said, throwing off the blanket.

  “This way,” said Springer kindly, leading her to a police car. Just before she got inside Lizzy came hurrying up to her, also wrapped in a blanket.

  “I hope he’s okay,” she said, hugging her. “Keep us informed. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I will,” said Nora, already extricating herself from her.

  Springer helped her into the back of the car. “Ready to go?” she said from the front.

  “Yes please. Get me out of this cu
rsed village.”

  As the car made a u-turn Nora looked back at Lizzy and Jimmy, who were standing outside the pub watching her go. They looked so sad and tired it broke Nora’s heart. Life would never be the same again, for any of them.

  She turned her attention from them and eagerly watched as they headed down the road leading out of the village. Silent tears streamed from her eyes at the relief. Only recently she’d thought she’d never leave this village again.

  As they hit the main road Nora was astonished by the number of cars and onlookers.

  “It’s a circus,” she commented.

  “It’s drawn people from far and wide,” said Springer.

  “Blair Dubh always does. Every time we have a calamity the vultures descend hoping for some juicy gossip. They’re going to love this,” she said bitterly, glaring at all the cameras and mobile phones that were raised, snapping photos of the car as it left.

  Springer kindly put on the lights and siren so they got there quickly. Crosshouse Hospital just outside Kilmarnock was the nearest A&E department to Blair Dubh. Nora stepped out of the car and hurried inside, going as fast as she could on her crutches, the lights making her squint, Springer following.

  Nora was too agitated to speak so Springer enquired at reception where they should go and they were directed to the surgical suites. She gritted her teeth against the pain in her ankle as she moved through the corridors feeling as though she was in a dream, staring at the people passing her by like they were aliens. Any elation she might have harboured about being among the living again was dampened by fear for her son. All she knew was that he’d been shot in the stomach and she had no idea how serious his condition was.

  Nora rounded a corner and found Freya slumped in a wheelchair beside a row of gaudy bright orange plastic chairs. Her left knee was heavily bandaged and stuck rigidly out before her. She was wrapped in a white hospital gown and robe. The entire left side of her face was bruised and swollen, her eye almost shut. But it was the expression on her face that was more shocking than the damage. She was a woman defeated, entirely without hope and Nora’s stomach plummeted, terrified she was too late.

  “Freya, how is he?” she said, rushing up to her and throwing her arms around her. When Freya didn’t hug her back Nora just put it down to shock.