Brutal Revenge (10 page)

His right shoe kicked against something
tinny
and he bent to pick it up.

A torch.

A hand clawed at his heart and pulled it up
into his
throat. He stared at the object for what amounted to
seconds, hoping it would disappear
suddenly or turn into
a stick or a
rock. The glass was smashed, along with the
bulb
inside, so obviously Anna had dropped it.

But why had she
dropped it? And where was she now?
At first, his mind refused to accept the obvious, which
was that she had been attacked by those same two men.
He wanted to believe that she had dropped
the torch
accidentally and, failing
to find it in the dark, had simply
gone
on to the village. Nevertheless he looked around.

It didn't take him long to find her and he
was thankful
in a way that it was
dark because he knew it spared him
the
real horror of what lay there in the heather.

He could see enough to
know she was almost naked and
covered in
blood. But the blood was not red. The night
turned it into a ghastly collection of inky stains
on her
pale flesh.
Whoever had done
this was an animal. A monster. Anna was barely recognizable. Her lips
were swollen and torn and her nose was just
an unsightly
smudge between her wide staring eyes.

“Oh, my God, what
have they done to you, lassie?”

Touching her cold
flesh brought emotion to the surface
in a sudden, surging
flood, and he collapsed on top of her,
crying
uncontrollably. It began to drizzle and the thun
derous wind blew the rain on to the back of his neck and
began to wash away the blood from Anna's
face.

He would have gone on crying for much
longer if the
hate hadn't welled up
in him suddenly. It overcame his
grief for a brief moment and made him think of his
daughter
in a curiously detached way. He looked down
at her, tears streaming down his cheeks, and he knew he
would have to punish the men who had done
this, if not for
Anna's sake, then
for his own.

He pushed himself to his feet, slipped out
of his coat,
and wrapped it gently
around his daughter. Then he lifted her in
his
arms and started walking towards the village.

THIRTEEN

There were only five street lamps in the village. One of them
was situated outside the tiny post office where Ross Mor came to a stop.

Anna's left arm was hanging limp and as it swung from
side to side
in a wide arc its shadow grew out of all proportion on the road's gritty surface.
Blood trickled from the ends of her fingers to form dark spots
on the road and was washed from her dangling hair
by
the sweeping rain.

For several
long minutes Mor just stood there cradling his daughter in his arms and staring
glassy-eyed into her shattered face. Instinctively, he willed her to move. The
flicker of an eyelid would have been enough. Just a sign to show that life had
not deserted her.

Of course, she did not move. She couldn't. She was
dead and he
was alone.

Alone.

For the first
time he realized that the future was a hell in itself. First his wife, and now
Anna. Dear Anna. No
longer there to make
his supper and keep him company. To fill the
house with joy and hope and laughter. To pull him out
of those
deep, dark depths of despair. The house would
now
be empty but for the shell of himself. He wouldn't
live there anymore.
He'd merely exist, hoping every day that he'd be struck down by an incurable
disease or a failed heart.

He jerked his head up suddenly and shouted at the sky.
“
Oh, God, why did you let them do it? Why? Why?
Why?”

He dropped to
his knees and laid Anna in the road, taking great care to keep her covered with
his coat.

Four lights went on
in answer to his grief-stricken cry and heads appeared at the windows. Mor
stood up and
raised his arms
in a beckoning gesture. “Anna has been murdered,” he shouted. “My daughter,
Anna, has been murdered. For God's sake, come down.”

They appeared in dribbles.
Women in belted dressing gowns and indoor slippers and men in overcoats over
pyjamas. They approached Mor slowly, horrified by the sight of the bundle on
the ground before him. Anna's feet were poking out from under the coat and her
hair lay like a mop-end on the road.

An elderly woman in curlers
stepped forward, prompted by her husband, and said, “Are you all right, Ross?”

He stared at her unseeingly. “It's
Anna,” he said. “She…She's dead. They killed her.”

The old woman turned to her
white-faced husband, who knelt stiffly beside the body and gently lifted the
coat from Anna's face. He dropped it back in place quickly and struggled to his
feet, shaking uncontrollably. “Oh, Ross — who did this terrible thing?”

More people were emerging from
their homes. Gradually they ventured nearer to Mor and soon formed a circle
round him that was five deep. Shocked faces stared from Mor to his daughter.
These were people who knew death only as the inevitable conclusion to old age.
Murder and all other crimes of violence were unknown on the island.

A man stepped out of the
encircling crowd and peered at Anna under the coat. He was tall and big-shouldered
in a heavy ankle-length overcoat and cloth cap. He straightened himself, paused
for a moment, and stood facing Ross Mor, who had lowered his head and was
sobbing loudly on to his chest. The man reached out and took Mor's shoulders in
a firm grip. It showed in his face that he himself was having to fight back the
tears.

“Ross,” he said gently. “Can
you tell me what happened?”

Mor lifted his head, opened his
eyes. His face quivered in anguish.

“Angus?” he said.

“Aye, laddie, it's me. Now will
you try to control yourself and tell me who is responsible for this?”

Mor closed his eyes to squeeze
out the tears and myriad new lines appeared in his forehead.

He said, “Two men . . . wearing
masks ... They . . . came to my house and stole the treasure. They had guns.”

Angus said, “The treasure! My
God.”

“When I came down here to raise
the alarm I found her.”

“Where was she, Ross?” he said.

“The exchange,” Mor said with
difficulty, remembering how he had found her lying there in the heather. “She
was outside. She must have disturbed them as they were breaking up the
equipment. They destroyed the phone lines.”

Angus Campbell's veneer of
calmness began to crack and his eyes exploded. “Are you telling me they've cut
us off from the mainland? We canna use the phones?”

“That's what I'm saying.”

Angus looked around at the
others and saw that they were equally alarmed. Then he returned his attention
to his friend. “Where are they now, Ross?”

“I don't know,” Mor said. “They
must have a boat somewhere.”

“Then
we've got to stop them.”

Mor
nodded. “Aye, and we have to kill them, Angus. We've got to kill them for what
they have done to Anna.”

Angus
nodded understandingly. “They'll get what's coming to them. You can be sure of
that.” He glanced quickly at Anna's body and in a gentler voice, said, “You can
take Anna to my house, Ross. My wife will watch over her.”

Mor
nodded absently but made no attempt to lift his daughter. He just stood there,
staring at the ground, as if lost somewhere deep within himself.

Angus
turned sharply and addressed the crowd in a loud, savage voice that sounded
strangely alien even to his own ears.

“Well,
you can all see what these men have done to Anna. I say we go after them. Now.”

The
crowd was slow to react. At first they were not quite sure what Angus meant by
'go after them'. But when it did finally sink in there came cries of “let's get
them” and “the bastards deserve to die.”

Angus
brought order by raising his arms. “Then get dressed quickly and meet me down
at the harbour. We'll check on all the possible landing places like the beach and
the old jetty and we'll round up those outside the village.”

He
stood very still for a moment, thinking, then said, “You'll need weapons.
Anything you can lay your hands on. Some of you have rifles and shotguns. Bring
those. You others can find something. Pitch-forks or knives. We need to call
Erchy McGregor and Donald Ruaug. And there's Andrew Maclean. He's staying with Bella
McLeod. We'll get him to help as well.”

A
woman's hysterical cry rose above the heated chatter of the crowd. “Should we
no inform the police on the mainland? They'll stop these men.”

“How
can we, woman?” Angus barked. “We’re without phones. And even if we could get
through, surely it would be unwise for all our sakes if the police were to
learn about the treasure? Are you forgetting that?” He turned to look at Mor, a
sympathetic expression touching his mouth. “Besides, if the police were to
catch these killers they would only receive a measly prison sentence for what
they have done. We ourselves have got to see that they are justly punished.”

The
small crowd began to disperse, disappearing briefly into their homes and
emerging shortly after fully dressed and armed with all manner of weapons.

Mor
lifted Anna gently in his arms and carried her into the warmth of Angus
Campbell's small semi-detached cottage, where he laid her out on the bed
upstairs. Angus's portly wife took it upon herself to look after Anna but was
unable to persuade Mor to have his injured head seen to.

Within
twenty minutes a milling crowd had gathered on the pier. The rain had abated
but the wind was still an unremitting force screaming around them.

They
were confused, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. This was all so
totally strange to them. Not only the terrible business of the murder, but also
their own violent intentions.

It
was Angus who took the lead.

“First,
we'll find out where they left from,” he said. “Then we'll set off after them.”

One
of the boat owners realized suddenly that someone had been tampering with his
engine. His loud bellowing cry was carried along the pier. The other two boat
owners made the same grim discovery shortly afterwards. They informed Angus
that vital parts were missing from all three engines that could not be replaced
immediately.

There
was uproar.

The
shouting and cursing brought Ross Mor out of himself and when he realized what
all the commotion was about he called out, “We've got to get them. They can't
get away with it. They can't.”

The
desire to avenge his daughter's death was burning like a fire inside him.

Just
then everybody's attention was drawn to a pair of bright headlights approaching
the pier from the village. Eventually the crowd could see it was a van. When it
came to a stop beneath a street lamp at the head of the pier they saw there
were figures inside. The crowd fell silent, curious as to why no one had got
out.

Frowning,
Mor began to walk towards the van. And that’s when the doors flew open and three
masked men stepped from it. A fourth remained behind the wheel, his features
lost in the gloom beyond the windscreen. Each of the three men was armed with a
shotgun.

The
one who spoke had a broad London accent. He was looking at Mor, who continued
to walk forward fearlessly.

“Don't
be a bloody hero, mate,” the man warned. “I'm prepared to use this and so help
me I will if you come any closer.”

Mor
stopped. He had no wish to die before he’d made these bastards pay for what
they had done.

*

Parker
held his shotgun in a firm grip and said, “We want to leave this island without
any fuss. So if you don't make trouble nobody will get hurt. Is that clear?”

“You
killed her,” the man cried out. “You murdered her like she was some animal.”

Parker
swallowed a huge lump and when next he spoke his voice was high, strained.

“Who
the fuck are you?” he yelled.

“I’m
Ross Mor,” the man said. “Anna’s father. Why did you have to kill her?”

“I
don't know what the frigging hell you're talking about,” Parker shouted back. “I
admit we came here to take the treasure from you, but that's all. We've killed
no one. We're prepared now to hand it back if you'll give us an outboard engine
for one of the boats down there.”

Mor
bared his teeth in a mirthless grin.

“If
you didn't kill her, then who did?”