XII
Alice
The weapon had been a police truncheon, of a shorter and older design than the newer form with handles. How it had come into the hands of their attacker from across the Atlantic can only be speculated upon, but it had been smashed without warning onto Adam’s forehead and there was no stopping his fall from the footpath, into the ferns below where his limp body vanished from sight.
Appearing to be an innocent walker about to pass them by, the attacker had been clad in gear that covered much of his face – in a manner not unusual to individuals trekking through snow – which served as an overlooked disguise and allowed him to approach without causing any alarm or suspicion. Back in London, Becky might have suspected every stranger of hiding such a face, but the temptation to relax in a country she thought untainted by her past had been all too enticing, particularly with the faith and trust she held in her colleague.
Such comforts were her undoing however, for her tormenter had somehow found her even in the remote regions of the Scottish Highlands. In the right circumstances a person can let their guard down on years of paranoia and as a result Becky had achieved the unthinkable, walking unconcerned into Stevens’ grip.
Shock and alarm caused her to let out a short cry when the blow was struck, while simultaneously and without even seeing Stevens’ face she realised who the attacker was and that the nightmare long feared was upon her at last. Too late her limbs reacted and turned in a vain attempt at flight, even as her blood froze and muscles went numb in having the futility of her position clarified by his close proximity; after a casual and unhindered approach he had both hands upon her, one taking a handful of her hair and the other the scruff of her jacket.
A moment long dreaded arrived with the bitter reality of the hunted at last understanding that the will of the pursuer will prevail. A blend of trauma and misery that heightened her senses towards a fear of the unknown; fear of an ending the mortal consciousness is untrained to accept as its natural progression. Of death and the beyond.
Fight and readiness she had promised herself in that moment, back when her pursuer had last been in close proximity on the other side of her apartment door. A large kitchen knife she’d held at the time, exchanged for a smaller more transportable alternative but buried deeply in her pack and away from reach. The friend who she wondered might be her salvation had been dispatched in one fell swoop and so Becky must have feared her ultimate resistance would prove as feeble as some of the attempts at skiing they had seen. Struggling against all those odds she tripped but, just avoiding a fall to her knees, momentarily felt a kind of strength that, in competition for balance, could be used in pursuit of that fight she had promised herself. Sharply she flung her arm backwards, elbowing her assailant in the face; the ferocity of the attempt surprised them both, but was unsuccessful in releasing her from his grasp and from fingers that had longed for years to claw after her skin. Soon enough the struggle was no contest and Becky felt her legs taken from under her. The next sensation she felt was the cold, wet snow soaking through one side of her clothing which she realised was the ground. Blinking to focus, she also found that snow was in her eyes and obscuring her vision, but the next sensation was even less desirable, the hot breath of Stevens on the back of her neck.
‘Thought you were a clever girl didn’t you,’ he goaded. ‘I said I’d get you in the end no matter what it took.’
His life’s work before him, Stevens raised the truncheon once more to strike. We can speculate that his intention was certainly not to kill her there and then, most probably to stun sufficiently and drag her somewhere less open for whatever sick and lustful practices occupy such a person’s imagination. Thankfully, for now at least, we will not have to find out what those realities are, for the weapon was halted mid-blow – it did not strike Becky, but someone who had already felt its weight.
Stevens did not suppose that his first task, to get rid of the male, had been nothing other than a complete success. A firm blow struck before any defence could be raised and another useless friend had fallen out of sight and mind, but the branch of a tree had actually saved Adam from a more extensive fall and, although his head throbbed, he was far from unconscious and was quickly able to shake his senses into gear.
Adam was not schooled in fighting arts, but adept enough when cornered to defend himself and cause hurt if given the opportunity. The empowerment of being able to swing his fists without threat of immobility had seen him become a match for foes of greater stature before and, although he was not aware of it, there were many who considered him fierce.
This is what transpired.
Making Becky’s safety his first task, Adam climbed as swift as his dizzy head would allow. He’d two pickaxes on his person, but they were buried deep in his pack and he judged the situation too urgent to turn to anything other than his own fists. Emerging in time to see the attacker gloating over Becky, truncheon raised to strike once again, he was quick enough to dive between them despite the further damage it might inflict, but he took the hit at a lesser impact and unbalanced Stevens with a charging shoulder.
A tussle then ensued, both of them awkwardly poised and grappling for supremacy; the American still had a slight advantage but with every millisecond that went by Adam felt that he was coming more and more to his senses. A non-concussive blow to the head leaves the victim uncertain as to whether they are bordered on sentience or will be immobile for a long time; but Adam knew that his limbs and muscles were becoming more coordinated, even as Stevens managed to swing a few glancing blows. Prioritising the hand with the truncheon, his attempts were successful in keeping the weapon out of action, taking non-superficial hits until achieving a stronger footing to withdraw from the tussle and take a swing of his own.
Connecting his middle knuckle with Stevens’ nose-bone buoyed him into feeling the conflict had been turned on its head, with further assurance coming from an accompanying spatter of blood. It was then he embraced the freedom of letting his arms go, aiming punches thick and fast; losing count of them as he overwhelmed his opponent with pace and determination. To the centre of Stevens’ face his knuckles flew with persistent success; a weight above him in the boxing ring his opponent might have been, but he lacked the gift of light movement to dodge or anticipate. Soon blood flowed freely from his nose and lips but crucially the dastard, in his delirium, lost track of how far he had backed away until he stepped onto ground that was not there and himself fell into the ferns below.
It would have seemed unwise to lessen the viciousness of his counter-attack, but the result was that Adam inadvertently let Stevens out of his grasp. The fall was surely not fatal, but he lost sight of him and, unable to spot a ledge from which he could sensibly jump down, he had to backtrack several paces for a decent footing in order to either resume the confrontation or else undertake a pursuit. Murder was on his mind – their one mutual intent – but unfortunately the time needed to negotiate a route robbed him of the advantage. Locating their attacker in an injured state where he could be finished off was the ideal scenario, but Stevens had suffered no worse hurt in the fall than he and Adam momentarily sighted him fleeing into the undergrowth before disappearing from view in an uncertain direction. Stevens had decided to concede the confrontation, that was clear, but the promise to rid Becky of his malice was not yet kept.
A chance pursuit might still have got underway, except Becky’s pleas for him not to follow demanded his attention long enough for him to agree, disappointedly, that such a course of action would likely prove futile if not dangerous for dividing them. Nevertheless, Adam was intent on gaining a better viewpoint to at least see if the direction of the fiend could be ascertained, but on negotiating the drop he was presented with a new revelation.
Becky soon joined him and, staring into the distance, could see for herself what had seized his attention. A view of Aviemore presented itself – their day’s destination no less – but it was not as they expected. Curiously, the forest paths were not the only pla
ce drama had occurred that day. The village itself was alive with some kind of chaos that first drew their gaze with the flickering lights of police cars, ambulances and fire engines, then subsequently with the movement of many people that was clear even from a mile away, all accompanied by thick black smoke rising into the atmosphere.
Instinctively they held back from selfish thoughts of their ordeal and stopped to consider this picture, which hardly seemed incidental considering they now knew a major criminal was in the vicinity. The revelation of this ambiguous development ceased their attention until they remembered there might be hurts to attend to. Both then spared a few moments to check if the other was seriously hurt or traumatised, with both demanding that the other thought no more on the matter. Blood ran from Adam’s forehead but he insisted there was nothing to dwell on and their discussion turned to what might be causing the commotion in the village; there seemed an awful amount of sirens buzzing around for one house fire and they were unable to dismiss the crime scene as a coincidence unrelated to the felon they knew to be present. Gathering some information on whatever incident had occurred seemed a more sensible course of action than any chase of Stevens, with the possibility they might be able to assist the authorities with a pursuit of the villain – indeed, by drawing forces they might succeed in assisting each other and so a legal and thoroughly commendable apprehension of that violent individual might prove achievable after all.
Adam was slightly disappointed in this twist to their encounter, still under the blindness of the red mist as he was, but there were many arguments for trusting in time and patience. A pursuit of Stevens would be aided by the snow and with police and park wardens involved it seemed unlikely that an organised hunt, by those who knew the area, would fail to prove their decision sound in hindsight.
‘They can’t doubt your story now Becky, we have evidence,’ Adam reassured her, pointing to his forehead from where the blood flow had begun to stain his jacket, but they’d had a frustrating hour reaching the town which, as with many landmarks in the Highlands, looked to be closer than it actually was.
Legs that had seemed to stand up well to two days of hills and valleys found it difficult to quicken the pace, while the shortcuts they chose over the fields, rather than following the curving footpath, proved slow going. In the end they arrived in Aviemore with a defeated air about them, as the evening light was falling and most of the sirens they had seen from a distance dispersed. There was still a heavy police presence however, so they remained optimistic that some attempt to track down Stevens might be made that night.
Presented with a closer view of the scene, they saw that one of the cottages had caught fire. Blackened walls and rooftop spoke of the horror that some family must have been put through, though perhaps the building itself might be saved. However, the police presence was far too heavy for one domestic accident and both of them suspected arson of some kind, though for what reason they couldn’t fathom, even from such a violent mind as their attacker.
It was not much of a surprise to discover that the person who appeared to be the figure of authority at the scene was none other than Affleck White. Despite the solitary life the warden led, he seemed to have the respect not only of the community but also of the police who were present. This made matters easier for them and he was quick to beckon them over once catching sight of their approach; busy he might have been, but treating everyone present as having value was part of the reason why he was such a respected figure.
‘Here’s our two adventurers,’ he greeted them, ‘have you seen a little kiddie on yer travels?’
‘Why has something bad happened?’ Adam asked.
‘A woman’s been attacked and her child’s gone missing. What’s happened to you?’ Affleck replied, noticing the wound on Adam’s forehead.
It seemed uncertain at that point who had the most important story to tell. Both Adam and Becky wanted to know more of the child and her parent, fearing the presence of Stevens in the valley, but similarly Affleck sensed there was something important in their tale and had them tell him and two policemen what had occurred up on the mountain.
The revelation that there was a certified psychopath about was not treated with any disdain by the police this time and Becky was relieved to find they took her own story at face value, aided in part by the fresh scar that Adam bore. All present agreed that the reprimand of the man known as Stevens was advisable for the well-being of all, even if they were far from proving his role in the burned cottage or why, if indeed he was the culprit, he had chosen such a course of action.
The fire had proven to be a narrowly missed tragedy, but it was not yet clear that all parties were safe and so the panic of Aviemore ensured their own story was treated with all attentiveness. Two mysteries remained that were causing the townsfolk some anxiety; the first was the cause of the fire that had been described as engulfing the house with some speed and ferocity, but the second and most urgent was the case of a missing girl.
A fire crew had responded quickly to the report of flames engulfing the house of mother Annette MacGregor and her six-year-old Alice. Although the flames were put out before causing long-term and irreparable damage, initially there had been much concern that the child might have perished in the flames. The mother had been found in the back garden, lying on the ground unharmed but clearly in a state of shock so intense that for a while they couldn’t get any words out of her.
Once made possible by overcoming the smoke and heat, the fire crew had made their way into the front bedroom of the house that had taken the worst of the flames. Though prepared as best they might to find the charred remains of a young child, in the event this had not been the case. Hope was renewed for Alice’s well-being, but the child was missing and the police were now faced with the puzzle of what had happened.
Supposing the fire had caused her to flee, searches had immediately been made about Aviemore but no sign or news was found and inevitably the fear of an abduction began to grow even if there was little evidence – burning a house not being a typical trait of those who plot to steal off with children.
The mother’s account, once she had been sentient enough to relate it in full just before being driven to hospital, offered no further clue. Mrs MacGregor had been made a widow when her husband was killed by a mine in Afghanistan and had lived with young Alice and no other for a year since. While Adam and Becky had been watching middle-aged holidaymakers attempting to ski, Mrs MacGregor had been washing dishes in the kitchen and Alice was playing on the swing in the back garden when two strange happenings had occurred. Firstly, Alice, an obedient child as all attested to, had disappeared from the back garden and, secondly, Mrs MacGregor had claimed to have felt a presence at the front of the house just before the flames had suddenly broke out, engulfing the front room’s curtains first of all and forcing her out into the back garden. The presence had not gone away however, and – here was where her account became sketchy – someone had grabbed her before she passed out, presumably from shock considering she was not found to be suffering from smoke inhalation. Her account gave no clue to the assailant as she had not seen his face and it was strange to all involved that there were no physical signs of assault or violent attack. Such questions would have to be tackled another time, however, for the missing child was the priority puzzle to solve and, according to the mother’s account, she was adamant that Alice was missing before the ‘presence’ and flames had arrived.
This was the key query that all were tasked with, weighed against the likelihood of finding Alice alive and well. The primary fear of all involved, as was typical of the times, was that a sex predator had abducted the girl; a possibility they refused to rule out, but the more they weighed up the possibilities the more likely it seemed that Alice had fled from the danger sooner than her mother, explaining why the garden was found empty and yet the attacker had still felt the fire and attack necessary. The community remained optimistic that a paedophile was not involved, though the minus tempera
tures meant that the search underway – of gardens, sheds, derelict buildings, fields, streams, woodland and bush – was being treated as a matter of life or death.
So it was that Adam and Becky, turning up with a tale to tell and clear physical signs of being attacked by some madman, scared the townsfolk into thinking that the two had to be related in some way – or else that the two might become related. If nothing else it gave the frustrated parties a target to seek out and it looked like matters would go ill with Stevens if he were discovered by an angry mob prior to the police finding him. Becky did of course point out that her pursuer was unlikely to attack a random house in such a reckless manner, but it is easy to imagine why common sense might have been a secondary concern while the child remained missing, something that caused her increasing anxiety as she fretted over what would unfold.
‘What if I’ve brought that psycho here just so he can hurt some little girl?’ she said to Adam, not meaning for Affleck and the police to hear.
‘You didn’t bring him here, Becky,’ Adam replied, while inside he was also kicking himself for having let Stevens get away.
‘Did he have a history of sex crime or paedophilia?’ one of the policemen asked her.
‘No, not that I ever heard.’
‘But you think he might be capable?’
‘The man’s an unhinged lunatic. There’s no telling what he’ll do; no knowing what he’s turned to in the years since he last saw me, what extremities…’
‘Expect everything,’ Affleck told the police, ‘catch him at all costs is all we need to know. There are plenty of walkers around the mountains he could attack as well as the little girl.’
After some deliberation as to the possible route that Stevens might follow once he had fled from Adam and Becky, the remaining police at the scene, to be accompanied by Affleck, were to begin the pursuit, searching if not for sight of the man himself then for the tracks that might lead them to him. Affleck himself was confident enough to give them assurances the nutcase would be found, telling them that in the snow he could track down the mountain’s wild goats if need be.
Before he left the warden (having organised for Adam to receive two stitches for his now cleansed wound) told them they should make their way back to the hotel and rest until he sent word – something Adam was made to acquiesce to by superior numbers – but if they insisted on helping with the search to stick to the town where they were less likely to come face to face with their attacker again. He hoped by morning to have an update for them, at which time he expected police business would be necessary on their behalf.
As an aside to these exchanges, however, Adam also found himself in conversation with a figure of earlier intrigue, from a time when his expedition had still been central to his thoughts. The red-haired, elfin figure of Clara was unmistakable even from a distance and Adam sensed that her eyes were fixed on him. She wanted discourse, that was clear, but held back from the on-going discussions to speak with him alone.
With Becky answering some final questions from the police on the character of the man Stevens, the opportunity presented itself and he managed to slip away from the group in order to approach the mysterious girl. It seemed a long time ago that her words to him had been at the forefront of his mind and he could not imagine how recent events were in any way related, but there was a subtle intensity about her that proved difficult to dismiss.
As he predicted, Clara’s demeanour remained as enigmatic as before, but there was no tomfoolery in her expression. From the shade of a nearby property she stood in shadow with only her face visible. Snowflakes brushed against her eyelashes behind which the wells of her eyes seemed not so fragile as that he had seen in Becky’s on the previous night, but in flux somehow as if poised for an intergalactic disruption of uncertain magnitude.
‘How is your scar?’ she began by asking him.
‘I’ll live,’ he replied, hoping to avoid another descent into riddles. ‘Do you know the family who was attacked?’
‘Everyone knows everyone here, city boy,’ Clara replied, with no tone of mockery accompanying the name ‘city boy’.
‘You know something more though.’
‘I already told you something was about to happen. It’s no small reason why so many are gathering here. Confrontations like this, they don’t happen every day.’
‘What does our attack have anything to do with the Highlands, or with you?’ Adam asked, although wondering which confrontation she was referring to, but she replied –
‘Nothing, and precisely why it means something. It would be incidental if it were not for the reason I gave you before.’
Though he had to think, Adam did recall the word she had given him: ‘Ceilidh’; at the same time realising he had given it little thought, having been enticed far more by the stones. ‘Ceilidh’ meant ‘gathering’ and there was certainly a gathering around them, but only as the result of another.
He and Becky were both part of a gathering, one that also brought with it demons from other realms and – of a kind – from across the sea.
The thought dawned on him that the strangest part of all the tales and encounters he and Becky could relate was that they had all assembled in the Cairngorms. Who knows, perhaps the Grey Man might yet be added to that list.
‘You believe I’m part of a gathering.’
‘A gathering, maybe,’ Clara replied, ‘but you could interpret Ceilidh in several ways; a meeting, perhaps, or even, a showdown.’
‘And who or what has drawn us here?’
‘Do football players concern themselves with who put them on the pitch, or do they just get on with the task in hand?’
‘Footballers are thick as two short planks.’
‘But you are not, so don’t presume you’re at the epicentre of this particular gathering because you’re the one with the handsome face, ask yourself who is being attacked here, who is the one really in danger?’
‘Becky… no!’ his selfish thinking dawned on him. ‘The little girl, Alice! She’s the one in peril.’
Clara responded with a short nod.
‘But why?’
‘How many forces are there in the universe, college boy?’
It was a strange question, but Clara was inspiring his thinking enough for him to play along.
‘Four: gravity; electromagnetic…’
‘No! They are just the tools. You know the answer as well as anyone who was read stories by their parents when they were six years old. The most ancient, most instinctive forces are in our make-up without having to be learned; they are the forces of good and evil – if you’d prefer a more useful conversation.’
Then it was Adam’s turn to be quiet for a while. Clara seemed to be speaking in a language he had desired to hear but had been forbidden by his education. Despite the many qualifications he could boast, he knew that any scientific argument against what she was saying would get them nowhere whatsoever.
‘You think we’re pawns,’ he offered at last, seeking to think on her terms. ‘Tools of good charged with protecting the child against tools of evil. We all think we’re here for a reason, but we’re unwittingly drawn. But why is Alice so important, who is she?’
‘Who can say?’ Clara replied. ‘And what will we risk for that we don’t understand?’
‘I’d protect her if I could,’ he replied, ‘but Affleck’s not included us in the search.’
‘Protect?’ Clara said dubiously. ‘Looking at your face, seems more like a fight than a baby-sit. You’re not even close yet anyway; besides, I thought you were here for the Grey Man.’
At this Adam really was stung into silence, there seemed to be too many riddles to offer any sensible response to and, of course, he was staggered by how much Clara knew… or guessed. At that point though the conversation came to an end of its own accord, for as he stood stunned by her words Clara stepped back and disappeared into the shadows. From even a few feet away he could not tell if she had really left, but Affleck’s voice call
ing him meant he was unable to find out.
‘Who you talking to, Adam?’
Turning to see him approach, with Becky alongside, Adam was relieved to discover the question turned out to be rhetorical. ‘We’re off to find this nutter of yours,’ Affleck went on, ‘would be best for you and your lady friend to stick to your hotel rooms.’
‘Sure, but I think I should help.’ Adam replied, though in his state of confusion he did not sound as determined as he wished and found that the argument was over without Affleck allowing him to press the issue.
‘No, you’ve done enough already,’ he shouted back on the way to the police vehicle. ‘He’ll be easy for us to track so you rest that head of yours.’
Affleck, along with the police, was gone.
As for Becky, she did not question Adam either, having enough to think on as the pursuit of Stevens commenced. She had long given up on the authorities actively hunting for the man who had ruined her family’s life and could not help feeling anxious that the matter might not really be over with soon. She was also beginning to contemplate what kind of anxiety his capture would bring in terms of legal complications: if Stevens had committed enough crimes to secure life in prison, or if she would spend the rest of her life in fear of the day he would be a free man again.
Excepting a few villagers, who lingered talking among themselves, the crowd had dispersed and Adam and Becky made their way in silence to where the hired car had been parked. Many riddles were troubling their minds so that despite the cold and their aching limbs they found it difficult to leave the scene. Both felt in some degree culpable to the safety of the missing child, regardless that no one was suggesting anything of the sort, and once inside the car neither of them could suggest that the drive to the hotel got under way.
Becky eventually broke the silence, but only to ask what Adam was thinking and, firmly against character in doing so, put the ball back in his court.
‘You’ve had something on your mind since we reached the village,’ she commented, ‘though you seemed fine after getting that knock on the head; nothing much to harm up there I guess.’
‘Something’s not right here,’ he told her.
‘You don’t say.’
‘There’s something I haven’t told you.’
‘Told me?’
‘Something happened to me, the day before you got here. You know, as crazy as things seem if we really are good scientists then we shouldn’t be leaving clear evidence covered up.’
‘Evidence? But… are you talking about your project again?’
‘I’m sorry, but ever since you got here I guess I’ve been enjoying myself too much, but all these strange goings on can’t be just a coincidence.’
‘Have you seen something?’
‘Seen, yes! But more than that, I was almost killed.’
Adam then proceeded to tell Becky of his pursuit by the flaming eyes that had sped away from the dark mass and his near miss by the lorry driver. Becky listened well but then admitted she didn’t understand how the story had anything to do with their encounter with Stevens, or else with the Grey Man.
‘Perhaps Ben Macdui is an epicentre of something, but what pursued me didn’t look like a Grey Man.’
‘Then what’s the connection?’
‘Like a good scientist, the next day I returned to the scene of the crime. I found some marks on the ground.’
‘Marks?’
‘The same marks that are outside the front of that house.’
So it was that Adam found himself telling Becky another ridiculous story from his research: the story of the Devil’s Footprints. The one relief was that the emergence of footprints outside the house of the MacGregor’s meant he was able to tell the tale without referring to the photo of his sixth birthday. It seemed ominous that the curse he believed to have touched him that day had brought him to the Cairngorms, where someone had now told him his arrival had been, if not foretold, then pre-organised to the tune of a Ceilidh – but with the well-being of a child at stake he was determined not to think greatly on his own fate until she could be saved.
After all that had happened, Becky didn’t quite seem to appreciate what Adam was telling her about hoofprints from 1855, but suggested he show her the prints themselves in way of explanation.
Returning to the burnt-out cottage, where police ribbons alone remained after the community had completely dispersed, the pair of them were able to proceed unnoticed to the rear of the property. Though the route could no longer be seen, they knew they faced the forest valley from where they had walked unsuspecting.
With the wind and snowfall increasing, the importance of their debate seemed to heighten by the second. They knew that the snow might not only cover the tracks of an escaped psycho, but also the tracks of a lost child.
The marks were not difficult to find, though it was easy to see why no one ignorant of their history would pick up on them as anything special; no human could have made them and they resembled the tracks of no animal. Becky studied them for a while, still far from certain why their Victorian origins were important but believing Adam’s story of his attack on the road and understanding the markings were linked to that terrifying event, regardless if there was yet a down-to-earth reason for explaining it away.
‘Well, let’s follow them and see where they go,’ she volunteered rather than thinking any more on the puzzle and set off immediately along the verge that lined the gardens.
With the land being uneven and footing difficult, it was easy to see why no one had clued on that the marks constituted a trail, but as they balanced their way to the end of the row of houses, rather than finding nothing of interest as they expected, the marks suddenly became more pronounced and turned to follow the remains of an old farmer’s fence. In doing so, they found themselves heading back up the valley once more, hoping for some clue but all they found were more prints and it was clear that they might end up spending another evening on the mountain if they persisted in following them for miles and miles to no avail.
They were just about to turn back when Becky spotted something new.
‘Wait! Over there!’ Adam turned to where she was pointing and saw that there were more marks going in the same direction, perhaps ten feet away in parallel motion, and as they moved closer to study them it turned out they weren’t of the same shape but were small and human.
‘Oh my God, it’s little Alice,’ Becky realised, ‘and whatever your thing is, it’s following her.’
‘I hope she had something warm on,’ said Adam.
‘Come on, even if you’re losing your mind that fucker’s up there somewhere.’
‘Exactly, I want you back in the hotel first, I’ll come back and look for Alice,’
But Becky was having none of it, he could see she remained in the process of blaming herself for something bad happening and knew that her arguments for their involvement were sound also. Even if the police quickly hunted Stevens down and there was nothing supernatural in the hoof-like prints, it was clear that young Alice was in peril for being out on her own on a freezing mountain and with the snow coming down thicker than ever. They had found her tracks and the police were now far away. Time was of the essence and they made it their task to locate her, regardless of whatever doom awaited them as a consequence.
If the will of a Ceilidh was at work then the parties it had drawn from England and the Americas were not going to be discarded from any events poised to unfold.
Not Far From Aviemore Page 12