The Dark Water

by Helen Moorhouse

  Will looked from Gabriel to Martha.

  “So what if the message that we’re seeing here isn’t complete?” he asked. “What if we can’t make out the whole thing because he couldn’t manage it? What if it’s not a repeated instruction, but actually a number of attempts to say the one thing?”

  Will held the pad up so that Martha and Gabriel could both see it clearly. They stared at it, and at him, bemused. It was Will’s turn to give a sigh of impatience and tap the page with his forefinger.

  “What if the message isn’t actually telling you to ‘do it’, Gabriel? These lines and squiggles here – my theory is that these aren’t decorative – they’re an unsuccessful attempt at writing other words.” Will paused and looked at them again. “Let’s open our minds for a moment to the possibility that instead of telling you to do something, he’s telling us that he didn’t ‘do it’ . . . just as Angeline said . . .”

  CHAPTER 20

  1963

  Jack Ball closed his left eye against the trail of smoke that snaked up from his cheroot. Monarch of all I survey, he thought to himself as he took it all in. His land as far as the eye could see – all his, well, in his name anyway – the lake glistening in the distance. A surge of power ran through him as he paused for a moment, taking the cigar out of his mouth and placing it in the crystal ashtray that was balanced on the windowsill. Who cared if it toppled off and broke? He’d just get himself another one. Another ten. And get himself the factory it was made in, if he was that way inclined. He reserved his caution for the camera sitting alongside the ashtray on the sill. Now that couldn’t be replaced.

  He was a tank of a man, broad and tall, with a boxer’s physique. A heavyweight. He sniffed deeply and bent over, placing his hammer-like fists on the windowsill and leaning on them, to fully take inthe scene before him.

  It was a glorious summer’s day, the breeze warm, the sky cloudless. A butterfly flitted past the open window. Jack Ball didn’t see it, however. Didn’t see the sparkle of the sun on the water, or the freshly mown lawn that led down to it, or the gorse on the distant hills or the roses blooming yellow, coral and red in the carefully tended beds beneath him.

  Jack Ball saw none of these things because he was watching something else that interested him far more. With intent he gazed at a particular corner of the scene, staring at every movement, trying to catch every word that was thrown. Because among the apple trees that grew just below his bedroom window, Martin Pine was playing Cowboys and Indians, which irritated Jack Ball mildly. He was almost a man. Why was he being so stupid as to play kids’ games?

  Martin Pine was of little use to him these days, however. Jack plucked the stub of the cigar out of the ashtray with one thick hand and rolled it between thumb and forefinger contemplatively before bending down to look through the viewfinder of the camera. It wasn’t Martin Pine that was of any interest at all to Jack Ball, in fact, on that summer’s day. It was his playmate, his companion, that captured his attention. The Indian in the game, ‘wah-wahing’ with one hand over his mouth and the other holding an axe, a chicken feather tied around his forehead with a scarf, face daubed with what looked like lipstick.

  Jack Ball took a deep drag of his cigar. He knew he could just go on down there for a photograph, ask him to smile for the dickie-bird and all that palaver. But that defeated the purpose. Took all the fun out of it, out of capturing the moment. “I can see you, but you can’t see me,” he whispered as he clicked twice, then straightened and stared. Stared at Laurence McKenzie dodging deftly between the trees, lost in the game, laughing aloud with joy as he played. Time for a stroll in the sunshine, he thought.

  The bell that Tiger wore around his neck jingled as he made his way down the stairs, heralding Jack’s lazy descent behind him. The day was warming up to be a scorcher, the cool halls and passages of the castle providing only a temporary respite from the heat outside. The fine weathermade him feel languorous and lazy in his movements. He was never too fast on his feet if he didn’t have to be. Mind you, in his line of work, sometimes he had to move at the speed of lightning. And he could if he needed to, but these days, as he neared his forties, he felt that he had earned himself the right to slow down a little. Enjoy the finer things in life – after all, he’d earned them. Like this place. His little Scottish bolthole. Who’d have ever thought he’d go to Scotland, eh? To his own castle. Putting Speccy in charge of this place was turning out to be a right little money-spinner. If Ricky Gordon could only see him now. Only you couldn’t see much from the bottom of the Thames, could you?

  Jack smiled lazily to himself and took his time as he made his way down into the empty hallway of Dubhglas Castle.

  Jack opened the interior door, Tiger slipping out before him into the porch, the cat’sgrey tail giving a final swish as it disappeared through the open heavy outer doors. He should really get her lead, Jack thought to himself, but feeling the sun warm his thick forearms as he stepped out from the shadow of the castle he decided he couldn’t be bothered. Tiger never went too far from Daddy, he knew. And if he decided to take a bit of a flit then there were plenty of servants here to go after her for him. Another perk of this Scottish-castle business, he thought to himself. Back home, he never dared let Tiger out of his sight in case she slipped out and didn’t come back. Jack clenched his fists at the thought. Woe betide the soul who’d dare hurt his beauty, he thought. Tiger could stand up for herself, of course. But it wouldn’t do to take the risk.

  It didn’t concern him that he couldn’t see the cat now – he could still hear the little bell she wore on her red collar somewhere nearby. He wanted a diamond-studded one for her, he decided. There was nothing too good for Tiger.

  The sun felt warm on his skin, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his collar open. He strolled, with slow, measured steps, swinging one foot in front of the other, around the side of the castle, taking deep breaths of the fresh Highland air. He felt proud of himself. He rounded the corner that took him out around to the back of the castle, through a small grove of apple trees and stopped for a moment, surveying the scene before him close up.

  Tiger trotted through the freshly mown grass, tail held high, eager to investigate the game that the two boys were still playing, further down the lawn. Martin was pretending to fire a gun at Laurence, who defied the invisible bullets and continued to whoop and dance in circles. They were oblivious to their observer, absorbed completely in the action. Again a shudder of irritation ran through Jack as he watched Martin participate so actively in this. If he’d been seen playing kids’ games when he was eighteen then someone would have taken a belt to him, and rightly so. What next, tea parties?

  His irritation grew as he watched Laurence bend to rub a hand down Tiger’s back and saw Martin pull his hand away.

  “Don’t go near that bloody cat – it’ll give you a disease,” he heard him hiss and Laurence stepped back quickly, but not quickly enough as Tiger took a swipe at his outstretched hand.

  Jack heard Laurence exclaim in pain.

  “Show it here,” he heard Martin say and saw him take the proffered limb, examining it closely, waiting for thin trails of blood to show, but they didn’t. He was still unaware of Jack watching him, his face black.

  How dare he, thought Jack. Lad deserves a kicking for speaking about Tiger like that. Again, subconsciously, he balled his fists and took a single step in Martin’s directionbefore calming himself. He’d make him pay later. Revenge was a dish best served cold, after all.

  He watched the boys at play for a few moments more. So innocent, he thought to himself, watching Laurence’s complete absorption into the scene that they had set for themselves. Jack stepped a little way back into the shadow of the apple trees, eager not to be seen just yet.

  “You no kill Um Big Chief!” shouted Laurence, aiming an imaginary bow and arrow at Martin.

  “You ain’t nothin’ but a thievin’ Injun varmint,” the older boy replied and again fired his invisible gun with its undiminishing supply o
f bullets.

  Jack watched from the cover of the shadows as the game made its way back toward the trees where he stood.

  He watched intently as Martin tried to dodge Laurence – a wiry, athletic boy if ever Jack had seen one – and failed, tripping up in the process and leaving himself wide open for the capture which duly followed. Laurence was smaller but strong, and he had the advantage of standing on two feet whereas Martin was sprawled on the ground, helpless with laughter in between his mock groans of pain. Giggling, Laurence hauled him to his feet.

  “I take your scalp to my tribe now, white man!” he barked in a gruff voice and hauled him as best he could toward one of the apple trees.

  Martin resisted, pulled away, but was weakened with laughter and Laurence set his jaw in adetermined line and began again to pull the taller boy to his place of imprisonment. Martin giggled and pulled against his captor, using his superior strength to eventually free himself from Laurence’s grip. Unbalanced, Laurence staggered backwards.

  Expecting to land on his back, Laurence was shocked when he felt something soft break the fall. Jack’s bulk helped him to keep some balance and he turned quickly as he righted himself, vaguely registering the look of fear that crossed Martin’s face as he did so, the smile gone suddenly, his attempts to run away thwarted. On seeing who had blocked his fall, Laurence too felt a ripple ofshock go through him, and he took a step back from the great hulk of a man who was shaded by the trees and looking at him so intently.

  Laurence knew of Uncle Jack, and he had been here once or twice before when Laurence had stayed and he seemed to be always around this summer. The place felt different when he was here, somehow. Laurence didn’t think he’d ever been this close to him. The smell of cigar smoke that came from his clothes momentarily overwhelmed the scents of summer – the mingled perfumes of the cut grass, the roses, the cleanliness of the air. Laurence’s nose wrinkled slightly and he stepped backwards again. A moment’s pause fell between the three, broken by Jack.

  “Don’t let ’im escape, lad,” came a voice that was gruff but attempting to be playful. Jack nodded toward Martin. “’Ere, let me give you an ’and.” And with that Jack joined in the game, lumbering after Martin with a roar while encouraging Laurence to join him, encouragement that made Laurence stare at first but within moments re-enter the spirit of the play wholeheartedly with that innocent thrill a child feels when an adult joins in as an equal.

  Within moments, Uncle Jack had managed to seize Martin. So entranced with the imaginary Wild West was Laurence that he didn’t notice that Martin’s cry of pain was genuine as Jack grabbed him by the hair to stop him in his tracks, yanking back his head, and then letting go as quickly, shifting the grip to his collar. Laurence caught up with them and, grabbing Martin’s arm, he could do little but skip alongside the big man as he pushed their prisoner back to the apple trees to pin him against the bark. To complete the capture, Laurence fumbled with a rope that he had taken from Mr Turnbull’s shed and fixed to his belt.

  In the lull of the action, only Martin saw the look that Jack gave him and felt the fear of retribution, although he couldn’t think what for. In turn, Jack took the moment to fully look at the boy whose neck he could break with a single snap. He was finished with him, he realised. It had been all right when the fellah was a lad. A bit of fun, bit of distraction. But now – now he was going to be eighteen in a couple of weeks and that made him a man. And if Martin was a man, then that would make Jack a poof and that was one thing he wasn’t. How dare this kid make Jack Ball, of all people, look like a nancy boy?

  Martin winced as Jack’s face filled with colour suddenly, growing red, then purple, all the time his dark eyes staring down at him. Jack looked away again suddenly and saw Laurence still fiddling with the rope which had caught itself on the buckle of his belt.

  “’Ere. Give that ’ere, lad,” he said, pulling the rope from Laurence’s hands a little too roughly.

  The child stared up at him, the rope taken from him and with it the joy of tying Martin up and beginning his dance around him, like a proper Indian that he’d seen at the pictures.

  Jack moved quickly with the rope. “This is ’ow you tie up your enemy,” he grunted as he wrapped it tightly and deftly around Martin’s body and the tree behind him, passing it from hand to hand with a speed that belied his bulk, pulling it tighter after each circuit, ignoring Martin when he cried out in pain.

  The knot that held him in place, pinning his arms to his sides, was firm, leaving Martin only able to twist his head from side to side and kick his legs out, completely helpless as he felt the hemp dig deeper into his skin the more he moved.

  “Good and tight,” Jack continued, his face growing redder by the minute, deep in concentration on the task at hand. Martin’s eyes filled with fear as they always did when they saw that familiar level of concentration and power.

  Helplessly bound, he glanced at Laurence who looked on, confused. his game taken from him.

  And now the axe.

  Small as it was, it was a real one, taken without permission from Mr Turnbull’s toolbox earlier that morning, along with the rope, for the purposes of the game. Martin’s face turned back to Uncle Jack who was bright purple now, sweat glistening across his brow, his face distorted with the effort. Martin watched, as did Laurence, as without warning the giant of a man raised the axe in the air high above his head – as high as the first floor, thought Laurence as he stared, fear and disbelief creeping into his bones, eyes wide as Jack turned to look directly at him. Laurence winced as he studied the face properly – the pockmarks on the brow – and that scar – the one that ran jagged up his cheek, that made him look like he was smiling. Except he wasn’t.

  “Do you wanna scalp ’im, Big Chief?” boomed Uncle Jack and Laurence began to tremble, raisinga small hand as he shook his head to indicate no, that he didn’t want to scalp him after all. But to no avail. Jack continued to stare down at the small boy, pulling his arm back further to give more impetus to the blow that the boys were sure he was about to let fall.

  “No, Uncle Jack . . .” Martin said . . . distant, irrelevant.

  Jack stared at Laurence, at the small, perfect, rounded face before him, eyes wide with fear, breathlessly beautiful.

  Very meekly, Laurence shook his head and repeated what Martin had said, whispering the words. “No, Uncle Jack.”

  The moment froze in time – the small child, terrified – the skinny teenager still now, too filled with fear to even struggle against the ropes in this game that had gone so horribly wrong – and the man, angry and dominant, the axe poised high, high in the air, ready to fall.

  And it did.

  There was a ‘swoosh’ sound as it sliced clean through the air, guided by the immense power of thearm which drove it. And then a terrible, dead thud as it embedded itself in its target with such huge force. The air filled with a child’s scream followed by a low groan from the intended victim. And then, ridiculously, the jingle of a tiny bell as a grey cat wound its way around its master’s legs.

  The axe handle juddered for a moment as Jack let go of it. It would take a strong man to pull it out of the tree, just above Martin’s head where it was now firmly stuck. There was a silence. A silence of relief, of suspended reality.

  “You said you didn’t want to scalp ’im,” said Jack in a low voice. “So I didn’t scalp ’im.”

  And Martin Pine watched in terror as the older man suddenly placed an arm around the boy’s shoulders and pointed to the house. When he spoke, it was as if everything was normal, as if what he had just done had been as natural as picking daisies, or strolling around the gardens.

  “I don’t know about you, Big Chief, but a morning of not scalping my enemy gives me a terrible’unger,” grinned Jack. “’Ow about you? ’Ad any breakfast? I don’t ’alf fancy some o’ that lovely ’ome-made jam on me toast. Ooh, and a kipper or two, whaddya say?”

  As he spoke, he began to move toward the house, pulling the child clo
se to him, Tiger slaloming between his legs as he walked.

  Martin still couldn’t move, pinned to the tree not just by the rope but by fear, by the idea that if he stayed completely still then everything would be fine. His usual reflex.

  “What about Martin?” he heard Laurence say.

  “Oh, don’t worry about the Sheriff,” Jack replied, his voice growing distant as they drew near the house. “I’ll send one of my men to release ’im in a while. Won’t do ’im any ’arm to stew a little. Make ’im think twice before hunting down Um Big Chief again, eh?” And he giggled.

  Had Martin been able to get his hands to his ears, he would have pressed them there to block that out. That cold, mirthless giggle. He knew it only too well. Along with the feeling of fear that pervaded his very being around Uncle Jack.

  Martin rolled his eyes slowly upward, toward where the axe was wedged in the tree. Not even an inch from his head, he reckoned. He had felt it on impact, had been sure it was the end of him, sure that Uncle Jack was going to scalp him for real.How had he avoided hitting him, wondered Martin, his thoughts straying back to the moment of impact. It wasn’t something he was going to forget in a hurry. And he didn’t. It stayed with him throughout the whole rest of his life, the fact that while swinging that axe with all of his human power, Jack Ball had never once looked at Martin Pine. In fact, hadn’t once taken his eyes off the terrified face of Laurence McKenzie.

  CHAPTER 21

  November 22nd

  Sue, laden down with folders and newspapers, burst in the front door as soon as Martha opened it, still in her dressing gown. “Here, take these!” she urged, jumping from leg to leg and pushing the stash into Martha’s hands. “I gotta pee! And put the kettle on – I’m dying for some breakfast. Well, a ciggie and a cuppa.” She hobbled toward the stairs, clearly having driven much of the distance from London to Edinburgh through the night without a stop and feeling the ill effects.