XVIII
Two blessings
Back towards the Lairig Ghru valley Becky ran, her instinct always telling her to avoid the chance element of involving other people. Affleck’s location on Cairn Gorm was uncertain and any attempt to involve him also meant a clear risk to Jim’s life considering his helpless state. Compelled to make a sudden decision, for better or worse she had fled back down the mountainside, luring her pursuer away with the philosophy that it was better to take a risky decision than none at all – at least she’d heard something similar once said about an American football game.
More sophisticated wisdom had not been granted by whatever force controlled her destiny (as had always been the way) and so obscurity and flight alone proved to be her only tools for survival, the power of which to keep her alive finally appeared to be ebbing away. There were no more refuges and there would be no new day to rebuild her life somewhere else. One way or another the issue would finally be closed before the night was out and, whether due to his machinations or her own hard luck, all the odds were now stacked in his favour. By coming into view on that climb to Corrour Bothy as he had, all the circumstances Becky had dreaded of coming to fruition had matured. No more barriers lay between them and no attempt at manoeuvring remained, meaning that if she could not outrun or fight him then she would become the victim, not just of his obsession but also of the desires that had seen it spawn.
Faced with torture and death, the scorch of raw injustice her life had been subjected to burned afresh and she knew that all the snow in the Cairngorms would fail to numb the pain.
During traumatic events our powers of perception are heightened and for Becky this resulted in a moment of clarity on the successes and failures of her life. That all her endeavours had led to this desperate scenario suggested fate’s fickle hand had been mocking every decision made, only allowing her pursuer to savour his victory with sweetened relish. Hope would have been an ugly word to draw upon, but attuned to the pathways of destiny as she was might it be that her cry had greater volume in the heavens than mortal voices usually achieve? If such beyonds exist then surely her cry was heard and known there, but what tool for survival other than her very self could be provided? If a battle of good versus evil was taking place in the mountains that night then, just as battles have played out in ancient times, so a price must be paid in order for good to prevail. Becky had played her part in holding Adam to the task of seeking out Alice when he would have delayed and so her role was fulfilled; but the subsequent question of her own fate was secondary to the task that a long decreed gathering had demanded.
Both she and Adam had been seduced into believing the fight was for their own skin, when all along a child’s life at been at stake. Pledges made without foresight have a habit of disappointing and the friend who would have accepted this conflict instead of her was too far away to help. Only in sport does life succeed in becoming an arena for our battles, while elsewhere foes fail to show themselves until we are weak and ill positioned to vanquish them.
In such a fashion was the chase under way. Two individuals whose stories had very little to do with the Highlands had found themselves somewhere they never intended to be in order to bring closure to their twisted bond. Fate has other plans, as we have discovered, but surely now all is chaos as far as this strand of events is concerned; the predator has sighted the prey in an open clearing and no additional forces will intervene in that pursuit to death.
So doom was set, but the snow beneath their feet meant that any sense of urgency they had to kill or be killed was denied any swift resolution. Lack of secure footing, accompanied by uneven terrain, determined that human limbs were restricted to an optimum speed, with any attempt by Becky to quicken her stride proving useless. Each block of snow took the same amount of time and pressure to crush before another stride could be attempted. At first she wondered if this might work to her advantage, as although failing to put any distance between herself and her pursuer it was clear that Stevens was hardly making dramatic ground either. Sprinting was an impossibility and, realising that a lengthy pursuit was due, Becky allowed herself a frail hope that evenings spent in training for marathons would see her outdo him for stamina. A presumption of physical superiority over the gentler sex was not an uncommon occurrence and she dared to envision her lighter and dwindling figure causing his undisciplined frame to give in with shock and surprise at its own uselessness in being unable to catch a woman. A long shot considering all the hill walking of the last couple of days but, telling herself she had many miles left in her legs, she persevered on into the valley in the same determined manner she had often prepared herself for similar feats. Indeed, many miles she would gladly have run to escape those vile clutches and for sure she had the self-discipline if the chance was available… but such an idea was not to be.
Challenging as the terrain was for even an experienced runner, Becky was unable to put any distance between them using stamina alone and, as anyone who has attempted to make quick ground in any depth of snow will sympathise with, the attempt was demoralising. Her strength reserves soon ebbed away on the lessening slopes, with all the willpower and determination she could muster floundering at the incompatibility of the human frame on uncertain ground. As a seal caught on land finds that the grace and smoothness it boasts under water cannot save it from death, soon it was clear that running pedigree provided little advantage. She knew her limbs were losing the battle and Stevens was closing the distance.
In despair she looked to what could be seen of the landscape for any possible aid to survival. In a kinder universe centuries of evolution would have planted within her the ability to prevail against such lustful desires, but predation and physical fulfilment have been used to accelerate ours and so she was born to be a lost cause in this respect. His obsession for her was poison to all freewill, his intent unyielding unless brutally repelled. Utmost desperation was upon her, demanding she search her opaque surroundings for even the slightest complication to thwart great odds. A fragile hope, but as the thought fell something out of the ordinary did grab her attention, a right-angled shape that suggested man’s interference in that remote place. Though the image was vague and uncertain, no further temptation was needed to head in that direction. One last potential complication to find a way of saving her skin. With the time to stop and study the structure she might have been able to ascertain what it was, but the shaking horizon and falling snow combined to make sure such knowledge was unobtainable. Once she was close enough to appreciate the shape in spite of this, however, she remembered she had seen it before. From the mountain pathway that very morning, not far from where Stevens had originally attacked, she recalled the sight of what she thought an abandoned farm building. The national park was not used for farming, so they could not guess what purpose the building had, or what, if anything, was kept inside, but to Becky the fact that there might be something other than snow provided the only faint hope where all else had failed.
That her life had arrived at such a frail chance did nothing to comfort her, only heightening her despair in recognising that the concluding act to their drama was finally at hand. There was no wisdom with which to suppose she would not be that most pitied of victims, the woman that had become the sole target of one man’s exercise of power. He would rape and kill her because he could, at whatever pace and in whatever style his private fantasies played out.
Yet again even a small victory in her continuous flight from him was unachievable. Any tactics her mind could conjure failed to impact upon his determination to destroy her and any faith that the world would prove more her friend in the tale of their conflict had ebbed away as the dream of a God that loves us. Even usually assured strengths failed, with two days of walking steep Highland paths meaning she was unable to push her legs any farther, the brief respite she thought to have obtained from his onslaught proving bogus. At no stage had he been fooled or tricked; she had only fooled herself and disabled any ability she had to foil an act she had known pl
anned for years. Mentally she felt sharp, determined to survive but, though her lungs confidently accepted the strain of physical effort, the failure was in her bones and muscles that craved rest and recuperation at the time she wanted them to perform to their potential. On the treadmill she would have accepted this quickly; a runner gets to know their body and its mood very well, but on this occasion there would be no other day to return and get back in the game if no way could be found to prevail.
Even as she changed course towards the construction her legs slowed, developing awkward momentum as with someone who has over-trained. What looked like a shed was close, but no wisdom had been found to suppose any hope lay there and the thought entered her mind that her number was up, falling indiscriminately out of the sky as one of its many snowflakes.
Failings she would have thought minute and pathetic tore at her, even the memory of claiming to never complain about the weather or have a favourite season, liking them all, now seemed a part of her undoing. Homesickness for sunny California found her at last, an alternative homeland having only delayed her demise.
Arriving at a decrepit fence structure, she found the energy and agility to leap over it without affecting her momentum. Survival instinct was still strong in her, but could it possibly be enough? Wisdom to fight this man was traitorously absent, unless some object could become a tool for self-defence. Flagging as she was, only the possibility of some sharp wood or implement to be found at what she thought to be a barn ahead kept her out of arm’s reach.
Closer then than it first seemed, Becky knew that her time was up and faced the task of making sure this final hope was not the last clear image she ever beheld. Stevens was a few strides away from reaching out and taking his prize. No more time for dread and fear, the fight was now and if nothing could be found to aid her plight she didn’t fancy her chances of poking his eyes out before being overpowered. Lonely outbuildings were random places, however; this one had appeared abandoned and of little use, but there were one or two implements lying around to take a chance on. Nothing so convenient as a machine gun might have been, but upon the ground even before she reached the door an object was visible and she wasted no time in scrambling to pick it up before hurling it at her assailant. What turned out to be a rake struck Stevens in the midriff, gaining her a couple of breaths but little else. Of the two of them, she was the only one resorting to desperate acts, whereas he could afford not to rush. The glancing blow did no serious hurt and he even found time to pick up the same rake and taunt her. At first she expected a similar attack, but instead he challenged her to make a run to either side and she realised he actually wanted her to enter the structure she had been fleeing to, under the roof of which she would be available for his total amusement. The nightmare continued to unfold exactly as she sought to prevent, fleeing first to New England, then to England, then to Scotland, and lastly to this lonely barn, none of which allowed her to fulfil a sworn promise not to let him have his way.
Fury boiled inside her for being goaded by the man that had ruined her life for no sane reason, but could such feelings prove of any use? Darting glances about the barn’s exterior, she found nothing more deadly to strike him with and knew the interior was her last option. An attempt to outmanoeuvre Stevens was repelled by a swing of the rake, narrowly missing her scalp and causing her to stagger backwards. To the doorway she was steered as she wished for one more weapon to make better use of.
Shadow took her then and she despaired that a way back from that darkness would not be found. Desperately she searched for some means of prolonging her life but, alone and forsaken, felt that any remaining fight she could muster only insulted the will of Creation that had clearly designed her to be a victim.
Into the interior she went, longing for resilience that proved more effective than a child’s tantrum. Did her eyes deceive her or was there something else on the barn floor? A metallic implement? Yes: there would be another play before her enemy was able to make sure the world never saw her again.
Until her hands lifted the object she could not tell what it might be, but even as she held it she sensed her pursuer had relaxed, giving her time for thought and aim. The gloating villain is a stupid beast; a moment savoured a gaping hole in any stratagem. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the rake lowered and sensed his failure to be ruthless just at the moment she realised the implement in her hands was a sithe. One last strike from a dying creature could be deadly and Becky was not even a dying creature yet. A small window for brainpower to triumph over brutality, Becky had kept herself alive long enough for that window to present itself. Stevens seemed to be waiting for the strike, exposing his chest to her – perhaps he did not know she had found a weapon. Beyond hope the act had become a duel no more but a standing target. All the same a good strike was required; all the strength left in her bones, all the precision of her mind.
The sithe was rusty at its edges, but still deadly, piercing coat and flesh; fulfilling a twist of fate neither of them had expected. Even as all seemed turned to Stevens’ will the pursuit was over. By the look in his eyes Becky knew he had taken more than just a bruising or a scar. Disbelief stained his features and, as a means of hitting home the truth, she withdrew the weapon and saw his eyes widen with the realisation that something sharp was sliding its way out from flesh and skin, even though he could have felt nothing like it before. Recognising a reversal of roles to that she thought decreed, Becky herself wasted no time savouring bringing his life to an end, lifting the weapon to strike again. The second time she aimed at his throat, but no such effort was needed. Stevens was already losing his balance, striving without success to maintain control of his senses before collapsing on his back. What little moonlight made it through the doorway was kind enough to show Becky the dismay on his face and the discomfort of his breathing, right up to the final shakes and quivers that made up the last moments of that dangerous and destructive individual.
Becky couldn’t deny the satisfaction taken from witnessing what she had longed to see confirmed years ago when he had faked his death. Before his ending there were gasps and an attempt to make some words; one sounded like ‘brother’ but she cared not to listen and after a few minutes the strained breathing stopped and Stevens became not only dead legally, but dead as a matter of fact and the US Government no longer had to feel embarrassed by its paperwork.
Shock and numbness overwhelmed her then, forming a nothingness that as a scientist she was able to attribute to nerve endings performing at maximum firepower suddenly going quiet. Understanding the brain does nothing to lessen the ordeal of being human and, regardless that a time of great relief, perhaps even resurrection, was on the horizon, Becky was overcome by timidity for having killed someone. Survival she accepted gladly, but shrank back from daring any emotion, shrinking instead into the shadows of the barn’s interior where she was content to rest herself on the cold ground and think on nothing or nobody. Dwindling, she let all concerns wash away until a time when something might convince her it was okay to start thinking and feeling again, an eventuality she had no dilemma or unease over offering the utmost patience.
Few of us know if we have the ability to take another human life or if it is something we all possess. Certainly it seems that reactions to the act of killing differ from person to person. For Becky she felt forced to do something obscene, which she had been capable of seeing through but took no pleasure from. Being someone who preferred to catch mice and rats in humane traps whenever they became pests then releasing them in park or woodland; who shepherded wasps out of doors and windows rather than squashing them, the experience was something she was wholly unsuited to, even if she held no idealised view of the sanctity of human life. Her education and career had taken a winding route to avoid any kind of experimenting on animals, despite being an area often encountered in her profession. So it was that any elation she had expected to feel was absent in the sight of that motionless body, but it was not victory she felt robbed of. Her loss was the
years spent hiding in shadows, living a half-life she would never get back. A decade of pursuit had come to an end in one violent incident, but in too many ways her life had become defined by that chase and a void opened up in her mind that before had been filled with schemes of secrecy.
Where was the girl she had hoped to get back once the trauma was over? That person had been left behind and it was not obvious who she had become. Exactly what this meant and whether there was cause for tears she could not tell; no assessment had begun as to where she belonged or what she wanted from life, but there and then the snowy landscape demanded nothing of the sort and she was happy to wane and forget everything. Stevens had been drawn away from the child Alice and, though losing track of whether those two strands were intertwined, Becky concluded there was nothing more for her to do if she had indeed played a part in protecting that young life.
Had nothing else happened at the barn that night, Becky would have stayed there with no dilemma until morning. (It was not a barn, in fact, but an old disused bothy. There are several in the Cairngorms but not all have been renovated and this one had fallen into disrepair.)
Considering all matters settled, Becky would wait for someone to follow her tracks and find her before looking to kick-start her brain, adopting mental laziness until the time came to give her story of the dead body. In the infinite wisdom of the law courts she would probably be expected to prove her actions were self-defence before she would be truly free of the subject. The chance to embrace inactivity in the face of great mental effort ahead proved too enticing to feel any shame over.
Later on she would not recall how long she lay there letting emptiness wash over her senses, only vaguely aware of the dead body still in her eye-line. All was still and Becky did not imagine that even small mammals were active in the vicinity, but she did not have to wait until morning as she had expected before being found.
Not all her senses had shut down. The trauma of being chased gave her an alertness to approaching malice, an instinct that had served her well at the arrival of Stevens, even though misinformation caused her to imagine it might be something else entirely. Again that same switch was triggered in her consciousness that caused her to look up and know, before she had seen or heard anyone, that someone was outside that fragile shelter.
Stevens was dead and this time she did not think on the Grey Man at all; there were several individuals it might have been but something held her back from rising and making them aware of her location. Some kind of paranoid madness had taken hold, she told herself, as for what possible reason could it be beneficial to remain hidden and allow the dead body to be discovered before revealing she too was present? Nevertheless, she’d had enough of fighting or thinking deeply on anything, and so remained where she was, sitting up to see who would come forth but otherwise staying put in the darkest corner of that unused place.
Sure enough, her awareness was proven sound. Footsteps in the snow were heard, slowly approaching as if studying the scene ahead of them, but very soon they were just outside the door and whoever it was stood looking in to where Stevens’ body lay motionless.
From Becky’s position she was unable to see the person’s face, hidden as it was by those beams that remained keeping the roof almost in place. The boots only, of what looked like a male, could she make out as he stood there regarding the scene of death and still she made no sound. Whatever the individual made of the discovery she was content not to intrude on his thought process, waiting instead for him to step forwards so she could make out his features. She was sure the boots were not Adam’s but could not identify to whom they did belong.
Silence still hung over the scene and perhaps this is important in assessing why Becky did not speak up. Had Affleck been nearby, or Clyde, it is likely they would have made plenty of volume in their search and, with her mind functioning on an instinctive level, there was little in this individual’s behaviour to urge a breaking of the silent rabbit syndrome.
What happened next was the most astounding revelation of Becky’s life. In the context of the events of this book it was not as amazing as finding a door to another world, but for Becky it would prove more earth shattering than any assault on the boundaries of physics.
For some time she waited while the man stood over Stevens’ body, silhouetted from her viewpoint as he studied a visage that had shuffled off the mortal coil. Strangely he then knelt down and put his hand to Stevens’ face. Trying to make an identification perhaps, but almost tender she thought… and then he looked up and his face came into view.
It was the same face.
Not Far From Aviemore Page 18