Rage

by Janet Elizabeth Henderson

  They all stared at the man.

  “I’ve never seen a dead body before,” Mairi said. “They look so lifeless.”

  “Idiot.” Agnes smacked Mairi on the back of the head.

  “What was that for?” Mairi rubbed her head.

  “For being an idiot,” Agnes said. “Now focus. Do we leave him here? Cover him and come back later to bury him? Bury him now? Or move him somewhere else while we think things over?”

  “I think we need to move him. It would be too hard to bury him here, and we couldn’t guarantee the tide wouldn’t unearth him later.” Isobel felt weary. She was sick of the stress in her life. Sick of dealing with other people’s messes. Sick of struggling every single day just to survive. “Whatever we do, we need to do it fast, before the kids wake up. Either way, I want him off the beach. Jack sometimes comes down here with his friends after school, and I wouldn’t want them to find the body.”

  “You could put him in the freezer in your garage,” Donna said. “It still works, doesn’t it?”

  “Aye, but it’s old, full of rust and smelly,” Isobel said.

  “I don’t think he’ll care,” Donna said.

  “What do we do with him once he’s in the freezer? We can’t leave him there forever.” Isobel gnawed at her bottom lip and wondered how her life had come to this point.

  She was a single mother of two, with two failed relationships behind her, a mountain of debt she hadn’t personally accumulated, a minimum-wage job in the village shop and an ever-growing list of crimes under her belt. It was not how she’d imagined life would be at the grand old age of thirty-two.

  “We need advice. We need someone who knows what to do with a dead body,” Agnes said. “We need an expert.”

  “I’m not calling the police,” Isobel said adamantly. She was the only stability her kids had. She couldn’t even think of risking it.

  “I wasn’t thinking of the police,” Agnes said. “I was thinking of an outlaw.”

  “Yes!” Mairi clapped her hands and grinned. “Great idea, Aggie.”

  “No.” Isobel shook her head. “No. Just no.”

  Donna placed her hand on Isobel’s arm. “Don’t dismiss this idea just because you fancy the man. He used to be in the army. He’s bound to have seen dead bodies during conflict. He must have an idea what to do with them.”

  “I-I don’t f-fancy him,” Isobel protested, but nobody was listening. No, she just dreamed about him every blooming night. What was it with her and bad boys? Hadn’t she learned her lesson by now? Why couldn’t she find a nice six-stone weakling of an accountant to fall in love with?

  “It’s well known he’s dangerous,” Agnes said. “Old man McKay used to tell everyone that his grandson was deadly. He was in the Special Forces. He knows about dead bodies.”

  “Plus,” Mairi said, “there’s a security company watching him—covertly.” She whispered the last word as though it had special powers. “That must mean he’s on the other side of the law now, which means he won’t report us to the cops.”

  “I didn’t know he was being watched.” Donna’s eyes went wide. “Maybe talking to him isn’t such a good idea.”

  “I spoke to the woman who was setting up cameras,” Isobel said. Of course she was going to grill a stranger who was setting up CCTV in the street, in the dark. “She showed me her ID and said he wasn’t dangerous to the town. He isn’t a criminal. She said he’s only dangerous to bad guys.” And then the blue-haired woman had laughed. It wasn’t reassuring. Neither was the fact she was wearing a Wonder Woman T-shirt and a pair of pink, glittery Doc Marten boots. “She gave me her business card, in case I was ever worried about anything.”

  “Maybe we should call the security company instead?” Mairi said. “We can ask them what to do.”

  Agnes groaned. “I can just imagine that conversation— ‘Hello, we have the body of a stranger in our freezer and we’re looking for suggestions on what to do with it.’ Aye, that would go well.”

  “It was only an idea.” Mairi frowned at Agnes.

  “Whatever,” Agnes said. “I think our best bet is the outlaw. You said he’s huge and there are weapons lying around in his house. He’s obviously used to dangerous situations. I bet he’d know what to do with the body. You need to ask him for help.”

  “No.”

  Isobel had been delivering groceries to Callum McKay’s house for almost four months, and she’d only seen the man three times. All three times, he’d scared the life out of her. Rage covered him like a shroud. But there was also something about him that made her heart ache. Maybe it was the utter desolation in his eyes, or the fact that the only people she’d seen near him had been from a security company that was hiding in the dark. She’d never met someone so completely alone. And so brutally raw. He was the embodiment of her own personal weakness—the tortured bad boy, with muscles like Thor. She didn’t have to be massively self-aware to realise that he was the last person she should approach for help. No, for the sake of her sanity, it was best to keep far, far away from the man.

  “Honey,” Agnes said, “we don’t have a lot of options here. Either you get help from someone who knows what to do with a body, or you keep the guy frozen in your old chest freezer for the foreseeable future.”

  “Aye,” Donna said. “And what if this is just the beginning? What if the boat people dump more bodies? We need a plan. We need advice.”

  “Or we need to start our own crematorium business,” Mairi said.

  “Think of your kids,” Agnes said. “This is getting worse every month. We’re in way over our heads. We need help. If this guy can help, then great. If not, we’ll try something else.”

  Isobel’s heart sank. Agnes was right. They were out of options. Staying away from Callum McKay had become a luxury she couldn’t afford. And it wasn’t as if she wanted to start a relationship with him. No, she just wanted advice on what to do with the dead stranger who’d been dumped on her beach.

  “You can do it,” Donna said softly. “We have your back.”

  Isobel blinked back tears, as love for her sisters overwhelmed her. She didn’t know how she’d survive without them. She needed to talk to Callum for their sakes. This situation with the mysterious boat was well past the point of being dangerous, and they were getting in deeper every month. No, they weren’t—she was. And she was dragging her sisters down with her.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to him.”

  “You’ll be okay, honey,” Agnes said.

  “Just keep your hands off him,” Mairi said. “Maybe you could call him instead of talking to him face to face.”

  That caused Agnes to smack her again. “She isn’t going to jump the man, idiot.”

  There was a pause as all three sisters gave her speculative looks. Isobel threw up her hands in disgust. “So I have a type. So what? It’s not like I’m going to throw myself at him and offer to sleep with him in return for his help.”

  There was a shuffling of feet as her sisters cast sideward glances at each other.

  “Thanks a lot,” Isobel said. “Good to know you have so much faith in me.”

  “You tend to get physical without thinking it through,” Donna said gently.

  “I only did that once,” Isobel protested. And ended up pregnant and alone at seventeen because of it.

  Her sisters stared at her.

  “Fine. Twice.” And she had the ex-husband from hell to show for that little slip in self-control.

  “If it’s any consolation,” Mairi said, “I’ve totally learned from your mistakes.”

  “No. It’s no consolation. Now do you three think you could stop analysing my past mistakes long enough to help me get this body off the beach?” She looked at the sliver of light on the horizon. “Sun’s coming. We need to get him to the garage and into the freezer before the kids wake up.”

  “This is going to be gross,” Mairi said. “I’ll need to burn my clothes after this.”

  “I might vomit again,” Donna said.r />
  “Get a grip,” Agnes snapped, “and take an arm or a leg each.”

  With each of them clutching a limb, the four sisters carried the dead man up the hill to Isobel’s house. Donna and Agnes were only sick twice.

  CHAPTER 3

  CALLUM MCKAY HAD FOUND HOPE in an unlikely saviour—eighty-nine-year-old Betty McLeod. The cuboid-shaped woman, with her signature hairnet, but no hair, and tartan tent dresses, was the scourge of the Highlands. She had the personality of a rabid hyena and the moral compass of a campaigning politician. But for some reason, in spite of her failings, or maybe because of them, Lake Benson had practically adopted her. He called her his pet Hobbit; she called him son. As far as Callum knew, Lake had been the only person on the planet Betty wasn’t out to mess with—until him.

  Callum wasn’t sure what he’d done to acquire her interest in his life, but it seemed there was no getting rid of her. And heaven knew he’d tried. She’d come with Lake on one of the days he’d visited to check up on Callum, when he’d first moved into his grandfather’s old house in Scotland. She’d barrelled through the door, cackling like a witch when he told her to go to hell. Then she’d taken a look around, and said, “Son, it looks like I’m already there. This place is a pigsty. Make me a cup of tea. Lake’s got the cake. Then tell me why you’re trying to kill yourself and what I can do to help.” From the evil glint in her eye, Callum was pretty sure she meant help to end his life and not help to stop him.

  For some reason, Callum had made the tea. He now had weekly phone calls from Betty, where she told him he was being an arse and discussed euthanasia methods with him. As far as therapy went, it was probably enough to get them both committed.

  “Why the hell didn’t you answer the phone earlier?” Betty said by way of hello when Callum picked it up this time.

  “I was busy.” For once, he hadn’t been busy staring at his gun and wondering if this was the day he was going to put the barrel in his mouth and pull the trigger.

  “Doing what?” Her aged croak of a voice was like sandpaper on his eardrums.

  “None of your bloody business.”

  She laughed, and Callum shook his head.

  “Did it involve some self-pleasure?” she said. “If it did, film it next time and send it to me. I need to make the most of the years I have left.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Pansy arse.”

  “What do you want?”

  Callum caught sight of movement through the kitchen window. Someone was coming down his drive. A very familiar someone. His heart began to beat faster at the sight of Isobel Sinclair. She’d been delivering his groceries for months now, but he’d rarely seen her. It had been a deliberate move on his part, forced by self-preservation. Everything about Isobel called to him, making him want to drag the curvy woman into his lair and spend a few hours forgetting his life with her body. And that was something he couldn’t let happen. He’d learned the hard way that he was better off alone.

  “I’m phoning to see if you’re dead,” Betty said, dragging his attention back to her. “Still with us, I see.”

  “Why do you sound disappointed?”

  “We’ve already established that I think you’re a big pansy arse for even thinking about offing yourself. I’ve been through a helluva lot more in my lifetime than you have, and I’m still standing. You need to suck it up and get on with the life you’ve been given.”

  Aye, so she’d told him. On numerous occasions. Callum wondered yet again why he bothered to pick up the phone when she called. “What have you endured that’s worse than having both your legs blown off?” He should have kept his mouth shut. It was an amateur mistake. One he’d only made because he was distracted by the woman walking towards his house.

  “You don’t know loss and agony until you’ve had a hysterectomy, son. Don’t even get me started on what a double mastectomy feels like.”

  “No,” Callum said. “Let’s not get you started.”

  He was still dazed from the visit when she’d offered to flash her boobless chest at him, in order to show him it was still possible to live a good life with missing body parts. Or as she had said, “So you’ll see that you can still be sexy when there’s stuff missing. Being boobless hasn’t slowed me down any. Ask the vicar.” Then she’d given him a toothless grin—because she’d lost her teeth in Lake’s car. It had taken the two men working together to get her under control. Callum was still traumatised just thinking about it.

  “I need to go,” Callum said, his eyes on Isobel as she let herself through his gate. There were no groceries in her hands. This wasn’t a delivery. Immediately, every instinct he had went on alert and he noted every detail about her.

  She was paler than usual, and her dark hair, tied in a twist, was nowhere as neat as she normally kept it. She looked around furtively, as though afraid someone was watching.

  Or she was afraid of him.

  “Are you going to shoot yourself? Is that why you need to go?” Betty asked.

  “Not today, Satan, not today.”

  “Good. Then can you finish that bowl you’re making and send it to me, so I can give it to Kirsty? I need something to bribe her with.”

  That was enough to pull his attention away from Isobel. Just. How the hell did Betty know he was woodturning? His eyes scanned the room and he cursed under his breath. There was a tiny camera fixed in the corner of the room near the ceiling. Bloody Elle, she’d bugged him. Of course she had. He’d bet there were cameras all over the damn property, watching every damn move he made. The staff of Benson Security had no concept of personal boundaries.

  “I’m going to kill them,” Callum muttered. Right after he found every bloody surveillance toy on his property.

  “Can you do it after you’ve finished the bowl?”

  “I can’t believe you lot have been watching me. What have you been doing? Sitting around, eating popcorn and monitoring the sad sack in Arness?”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. There’s no camera in the bathroom. I argued for one, but everybody kept saying that was an abuse of your privacy. They wouldn’t let me watch the night-time feed, either.” Betty’s voice turned wicked. “Is it true you sleep in the nude?”

  Callum shuddered. He couldn’t even think of anything to say to that. As soon as the call ended, he was going to remove every damn camera and shove them up…

  “Kirsty would like it,” Betty said, pulling his attention away from his plans. “She likes all that arty-farty crap. And she’s banned me from the security office, so I need to bribe my way back in. Can you send it to me this weekend? Before you kill yourself?”

  Callum didn’t have the energy to follow Betty’s logic. Isobel was at his door, and his house was full of cameras, so that his ex-colleagues could spy on him. He sure as hell didn’t have the time to ask Betty what she’d done that was bad enough to get her banned from Benson Security’s Invertary office—she practically lived in her armchair in the corner of the reception area.

  “I’m hanging up now,” Callum said as Isobel rang his doorbell.

  “Don’t die before you finish the bowl,” Betty shouted, “and put a bow on it. Make it fancy before you send it. Kirsty’s in a foul mood, and a bow would definitely help.”

  With a shake of his head, Callum ended the call. He had more on his mind than Betty’s pathetic attempt to pay off Lake Benson’s wife. It wasn’t going to work, anyway. Kirsty had grown up in Invertary. A deep distrust of Betty had been bred into her from birth.

  Callum stared at the door as Isobel rang the bell again. If he opened it, he’d be opening himself up to whatever problem she obviously had. He didn’t do that anymore. He didn’t get involved with other people’s problems. And he sure as hell wasn’t someone who could help her.

  Through the frosted glass, he saw her shift in place before she rapped the door with her knuckles. Callum broke out in a cold sweat. Part of him itched to pull open the door and offer his help. The rest of
him knew that what little help he could offer wouldn’t be of much use.

  Isobel knocked the door again, and this time, it was a much more timid tap, as though she was losing her confidence. Callum’s heart pounded. She would soon get fed up and go, taking her problems along with her. That was what he wanted. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. Aye, he definitely wanted her to take her problems elsewhere.

  Through the window, he watched her step back, look at the door and chew at her bottom lip. She wrung her hands in front of her. All colour had gone from her face. Her usually pink cheeks were pale. Slowly, her eyes closed, and she nodded and turned, heading back down the path.

  And just like that, something inside Callum, something he’d thought long dead, snapped into action.

  “Damn it to hell!”

  He shot a one-fingered salute at the camera and then lunged for the door.

  Isobel turned away from the old house, torn between feeling relief and disappointment that the Arness Outlaw wasn’t home. It was probably for the best. She’d been going over what to say all the way to his house, which was a fair walk along the bluff from her place, and she still hadn’t come up with a way to casually mention the dead man in her freezer.

  “What do you want?”

  The sudden, terse words made Isobel squeak and trip over her own feet. She righted herself fast, and spun to find Callum McKay standing in his open doorway. And just like that, her mind emptied of all rational thought.

  “Well?” The word rumbled out of him in a menacing growl.

  Isobel looked up. And up. She almost had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. At just over five foot, Isobel was used to looking up at people. What she wasn’t used to, was feeling so incredibly vulnerable while she did it.

  With his arms folded over his tight grey T-shirt, making his already oversized shoulders bulge, Callum looked like everything the villagers whispered about him—outlaw, bad boy, marauder, stealer of virtue…