by R. D. Nixon
As Jamie turned miserably back, the sun made a brief re-appearance despite the continuing drizzle, and although it was a sticky warmth he welcomed it and renewed his scrutiny of his surroundings, searching for a way down that he might have missed.
A gleam caught his eye as he scanned the lower valley, and as his vision adjusted, he recognised the twisted metal shape of a smashed motorbike. Jolted by the discovery, Jamie’s gaze went to the top of the hill, mentally following the bike as it must have plunged off the side – it was a hell of a fall. He wondered how long it had been there, and if there was anything he could grab off it to use as a weapon in case he was captured again. There was no sign of the rider, which was a relief, but they might have dropped a phone, or food, or anything. Maybe even left a bag behind.
His determination rekindled, Jamie began to pick his way down the least terrifying part of the slope. His feet slipped on the damp grass, and there were tiny stones embedded in the rough path, but he welcomed the softness of the occasional mud patch against his stinging skin. His mind plundered the bike as he went, trying to remember which bits might come off. Maybe he could manage to get the chain off, if it had one – that would make a good defence if someone came after him.
Not against a gun, though... His blood chilled at the memory of the shot he’d heard, and he stumbled, falling with a heavy thump as his feet struggled for purchase on the muddy path; someone back there was dead, probably the American. Actually dead-dead, not like in a film or a game, or even a book.
Sitting, alone and trembling, on the path, Jamie took a moment to try and get the notion fixed in his mind; someone who had been living and breathing had actually gone. Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear or feel, didn’t care that it was raining, would never walk or talk again. The hands that had gripped his own, back in the hotel, would never hold anything else... And all that could all happen to him, too. Or his mother.
Jamie started to cry, softly at first as fear settled into his bones, and then harder as he heard his own lonely voice swallowed up in the roar of the waterfall; it would be just as easy for the rest of him to disappear. Knuckling tears from his eyes, he started down the side of the valley again, terrified of slipping and falling into that wild cascade. He had to work his way closer to the waterfall as the meagre path dictated, and the spray drifted across the side of his face and made the ground under his dirty feet even more dangerous.
He breathed hard as he went, concentrating on the ground directly ahead, his hands behind him acting as brakes when he slid. He resisted the temptation to look ahead and see how far he had to go, but was vaguely aware that the spray on his face was lessening; he must have curved away from it again.
At last the moment came when he realised that the ground was levelling out. His questing foot came up short and he risked a glance ahead. He had reached the valley floor – thank God, he was no longer in danger, and he’d made it away from the cottage... Now his tears came again, but they were tears of relief and he didn’t try to stop them. At his his right, the waterfall crashed down into a wide pool, and as his gaze scanned the ground ahead he stopped breathing.
Some distance away from the bent and twisted motorcycle, a man lay horribly still. Jamie felt his knees unlock and almost pitch him to the sodden ground. He had to take a half-step forward to fix his balance, and then he remained in that position, just staring. It was the Scotsman, the one who had given his mother such a hard time... He’d been so sure the man was invincible, too.
He took another step, knowing he shouldn’t look any more closely; it was one thing to acknowledge the murder of someone up at the cottage, where he couldn’t see him, but quite another to come face to face with that same, terrifying emptiness in a man he’d known, however briefly. But Jamie was cold, the man had a jacket on and, well, he had boots on. And he might have a phone, which could be the one thing that saved Jamie’s own life. One thing was certain: death was stalking these mountains and Jamie had no idea who would be next to feel its icy touch.
Chapter Seventeen
Charis sat in the still-motionless car. Beside her, Maddy was white-faced and tight-lipped, both hands gripping the steering wheel so hard that her already pale skin seemed transparent, shrunk onto the bones with none to spare for movement. She hadn’t done more than switch the engine on and fasten her belt, and they had been sitting here in agonised silence since they’d disposed of Daniel’s car. Despite the urgency, Charis couldn’t push her on.
She looked back out of the window. Jamie. Focus on Jamie, the only thing left that mattered. She wondered how far it was to the Wallaces’ estate, but as she opened her mouth to ask, Maddy suddenly pushed the clutch in. Charis felt her heart speed up in anticipation, but Maddy simply reversed until she found a wider place in the road, then tucked the car against the hedge and switched off the engine.
The silence was heavy between them now, the only sound was the faint clinking of the keys as they hung from the ignition and brushed against Maddy’s leg; there were no adequate words, so it seemed easier not to say anything. For something to do, Charis grabbed the first thing she could find in the side door, an old envelope, and shoved it in the atlas to mark the place. Then, as the silence stretched, she carefully put the atlas away in the door pocket, and sat with clenched fists. Waiting. Had Maddy simply given up?
Say something, do something...
Finally Maddy moved. ‘We’re leaving the car here,’ she said, unclipping her seat belt.
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t know if there’ll be anywhere out of sight up on the estate. Left here, this could be any car, going anywhere. Won’t look too much out of place.’
‘But how far do we have to walk? We need to hurry, and we’ve wasted—’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Maddy got out and slammed the door. ‘It’s up to you, but if you want to announce to whoever’s holding your son that you’ve come to rescue him, then you take the fucking car.’
Charis watched in dismay as tears began to pour, unchecked, down Maddy’s face. Maddy stared at her a moment longer, then turned and walked up the road a short way, before turning left and vanishing from view. Charis followed, feeling her own emotions frighteningly near the surface, but she had to control them for Jamie’s sake; she wasn’t as strong as Maddy – if she thought she’d lost Jamie too, she’d be unable to take a single step.
The place where Maddy had disappeared turned out to be a surprisingly wide concealed entrance, leading to a rough lane. It was steep and hard going, and Charis was exhausted, but she kept her thoughts on Jamie and soon caught up with Maddy’s longer stride.
Eventually the road levelled out a little, and Charis found enough breath to talk. ‘This is the beginning of the estate? Isn’t there a sign or something?’
‘Yes. And no.’
‘Then how is anyone supposed to know—’
‘The only people who know are the only ones who care. This estate is just ruins; nobody’s lived here for twenty-five years. Now shut up and save your breath.’
‘You blame me, don’t you?’ Charis said, trying to keep the wavering out of her voice.
‘For what, for Paul’s death?’
‘For all of it. Yes, for...for that.’
Maddy didn’t reply, and Charis too fell silent, lost in her own dark thoughts and leaving Maddy to hers.
The mist was low by the time they crested the next hill. Maddy kept to the right-hand side of the narrow road, and advised Charis to do the same. ‘The valley drops away in places,’ she warned. ‘If you keep right, you’ll always have the mountain at your side instead of the drop.’
Charis blew a drop of rain off the end of her nose and wiped her hair away from her eyes. She had been staring at the ground, feeling each footstep like a blade up through the bottoms of her feet; only the thought that each step was bringing her closer to Jamie kept her going.
Maddy’s words struck a solid blow to her resolve, however, knowing that somewhere out there, on the
other side of this track, was the place where Mackenzie had ridden to his death. She couldn’t let Jamie down by falling too. She shivered and bowed her head again, watching her feet rise and fall, rise and fall, in a steady, mindless rhythm.
‘Actually I don’t,’ Maddy said suddenly, and Charis stopped.
‘Don’t what?’
‘I don’t blame you. Not entirely.’ Maddy turned to her, but although they were no more than twenty feet apart the mist made it hard to see clearly.
Charis resumed walking. ‘I do.’
‘I know. But it was always going to come down to either Paul or Don Bradley. You and your boy just got caught in the middle.’
They crested another hill, and the road tipped away sharply to their right; Maddy had pulled ahead again now, and Charis was halfway across the road in the mist before she realised she was walking straight towards the swerving drop-off into God only knew what below. She gave a cry and lurched back to her right, the shout echoing dully back at her off the hillside, mingling with another sound: water. Mackenzie had heard the waterfall on the phone, a big one, loud enough for Stein to have had to pass it off as the sound of a shower... They had to be close.
She wondered what she would have fallen into, had she carried on walking straight without looking up. There were snow markers on the bend and a few small, white-painted boulders to act as a crude barrier, but anyone could walk right through them and be stumbling into empty air before they’d even realised what had happened.
She bent over, breathing deeply to control her heartbeat, and an image flashed into her head: a bike, spinning off the road, seemingly motionless in mid-air until she saw the background blurring behind it. Before the bike could impact, she snapped her eyes open and stood up, the pain smashing into her again no matter how much she tried to deny the knowledge that he was gone.
With renewed resolve Charis started to run. She caught up with Maddy, and only then did she slow to a walk again, but this time she matched the taller woman stride for stride, and the pain in her feet faded – so did the pain in her heart, leaving only a hard, bright anger that fuelled every step.
Jamie reached across the dead body towards the discarded crash helmet. It would be another layer of protection if he had to go climbing waterfalls again, at least—
A hand shot out and gripped his forearm, and Jamie uttered a breathless shriek. A voice rasped, barely audibly, ‘That’s my property, aye?’
Jamie stared through the fast-falling drizzle as Mackenzie released him; his mouth worked soundlessly, and he thought his heart might burst out of his chest. Mackenzie’s face had gone blank and paled further, and his reaching hand dropped instead to his shoulder.
‘Shit,’ he breathed, then smiled, but it didn’t seem to sit right on his face, though he sounded a little stronger. ‘Sorry, but this hurts like a bastard. Are you okay?’
‘I’m... Yes,’ Jamie managed.
‘Your feet look like they might need some attention.’ Mackenzie’s mouth tightened in momentary anger, and he shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry—’
‘Why?’ Jamie shouted in sudden panic. ‘What have you done?’ He clenched his bare toes, fully prepared to kick Mackenzie right where it would hurt the most, but the Scotsman’s eyes fixed urgently on him.
‘I’ve not done anything, that’s the problem. I was trying to get to you, to the cottage, but... Jamie, listen. Was someone killed up there?’
It took a moment for Jamie to comprehend that if Mackenzie had been lying here for some time, he couldn’t have been involved in the death of whoever it was who’d died. ‘Some people came. The American let me go, so I ran away.’
‘My phone’s in my jeans,’ Mackenzie mumbled. ‘Try it, the emergency number might work.’
Jamie carefully drew the phone out of Mackenzie’s wet pocket, but it wouldn’t connect to any network at all. ‘Says “no coverage”.’
‘Doesn’t it say, “emergency calls only”?’
Jamie shook his head. ‘Nothing else.’
‘Shit.’
‘The people that came to the cottage were Scottish,’ Jamie said, putting the phone down. ‘I thought it was you.’
Judging by his grim expression, it seemed Mackenzie knew exactly who it had been. ‘Did they kill Stein, the American, do you think?’
‘I don’t know for sure, but I think so. He didn’t have a gun, anyway.’
‘Are you sure?’
Jamie nodded. ‘He had to use a key to make me come with him. Said he’d put it through my eye.’ He shivered at the memory. ‘He was your friend, wasn’t he? But he said you were…’ That big Scottish guy you’ve seen hanging around with me? He’s got a pretty mean streak.
‘I’m what?’ Mackenzie asked, but Jamie didn’t think he really cared any more; he had gone a greenish grey. Jamie could see how close he was to either throwing up or fainting, and tried to be pleased about it, but he couldn’t. ‘He told me you’d hurt Mum if I tried to get away,’ he said, suddenly bold. ‘He said you were itching for an excuse.’
‘What?’ Mackenzie’s head came up and he fixed Jamie with a stare that was as incredulous as it was horrified. ‘He said what?’
‘Well, he told me you had a mean streak and you thought she was trouble...’ Jamie let the comment tail away, taken aback by the look on Mackenzie’s face.
‘Trouble? I’ll say she’s trouble, but... God, Jamie, no.’ He reached out to touch Jamie’s arm, and his voice gentled again. ‘Your mum and I understand each other a bit more now, lad, we’re friends.’
‘You wouldn’t do anything to hurt her?’
Something flashed deep in Mackenzie’s eyes, behind the pain. Something just a little bit scary.
‘I would rather die than hurt your mother,’ he said, his voice so low that Jamie had to strain to hear him over the distant rumble of the waterfall, ‘But before I did, I’d kill anyone who so much as threatened her. Or you. Do you believe me?’
‘But Mr Stein said—’
‘I said do you believe me?’ Mackenzie’s voice was hard, but the grip on Jamie’s arm was faltering.
‘Yes,’ Jamie said, feeling tears start to burn again. He moved to wipe them away, embarrassed, but Mackenzie shook his arm gently.
‘Let them go – you’ll feel better. And I’ll not think the worst of you, not after, after what...’
As Jamie watched, Mackenzie’s eyes fluttered closed and his head slipped to the side. For a panicked moment he thought Mackenzie really was dead this time, then he saw the pulse beating just above the knotted leather he wore around his neck. As the rain fell harder, he moved closer, sheltering against the Scotsman’s side. After a while he wrapped an arm across Mackenzie’s waist, and as he felt the creak of the wet leather jacket against his cheek and the rise and fall of Mackenzie’s breathing, he finally let go, and sobbed until he fell into an exhausted sleep.
Chapter Eighteen
Mackenzie stirred once or twice, shivering violently, before fading back into a semi-delirium, where he re-lived the moments when he’d come back into a world that had already discarded him and moved on.
There had been a strange, fuzzy darkness. Something at once firm and soft, pressing hard against his mouth and closed about his head, shutting him off from the clean air he knew must be there somewhere. A roaring sound in his head, blocking coherent thought. He moved, just one hand twitching into life, somewhere a million miles from the rest of him. He felt coolness, damp, something loose-scratchy under the semi-numb pads of his fingertips... He strived for bigger movement and felt his wrist respond as he moved it briefly from side to side, examining blindly. Grass, brushing the gloveless hand, leaving wet trails snaking across his wrist, cold against his skin. He tried to move the other hand but couldn’t feel it.
Gradually, as sensations became sharper, Mackenzie realised the hand he could move was stretched out above him, that he was lying face down, and that the heavy darkness was not receding. He felt his breath coming back at him, not lifting away
but huffing warmly back over his own lips, making them tingle. He tried to turn his head, and groaned as pain speared through him from the base of his skull to halfway down his back. He didn’t try to move again for a moment, but instead turned his mind inward, trying to untangle the confusion.
The car. The bike, still vibrating from the brief, deadly contact. He had no memory of the fall, or of the landing, but he knew he was lucky to be alive, however long that might last. He didn’t want to move again, but the need for fresh air was becoming more and more urgent, and the roaring sound was not abating at all.
Wincing in anticipation, he brought his functioning hand back towards his head – he met a solid obstruction and had no sensation from his face beyond the increasingly harsh breathing and the damp condensation of his own breath on his skin. He was aware that he was moaning softly as he patted around, desperation mingling with frustration, and it wasn’t until he gritted his teeth and moved his head again that he realised what was keeping him from the cool air: his helmet, twisted so that the open visor lay somewhere around the back of his head, the fuzzy interior mashed against his face, absorbing his breath for a second before throwing it damply back at him.
He lay still for a second, silently thanking every force in nature that had made him neglect to fasten the strap before riding out again; if he’d tightened it he would probably be lying here with his head twisted at the same angle as his helmet. And he certainly wouldn’t be alive to enjoy it.
He hesitated, momentarily unsure. Was he certain he was lying face down anyway? Yes, he had to be; he was starting to feel wet grass soaking through his jeans, and his knees were coming back to full sensation in response to the chill. As he became more aware of his body, he realised why he couldn’t feel his left hand; it was pinned under him. He could feel the faint pressure against his stomach, through his jacket, although the arm to which it was attached remained dead.