Brutal Revenge (11 page)

“I've
told you — I don't know what you're talking about. Now, do we get to leave this
damn island peaceably or are people going to get hurt?”

As
if on cue, Ross Mor charged forward, casting all caution aside. He had about
fifteen yards to cover before reaching Parker and two shots were fired over his
head as a warning. But Mor ignored the threat. He was like a prize bull that
has smelled fear in a matador.

Parker
could see that Mor was not armed, so he didn't bother to blast him as he ran,
and he told the others not to shoot, either. Instead, he waited until Mor was
almost on top of him and then smashed the mad Hebridean in the face with the
butt of his shotgun.

Mor
might have looked like a bull and he might have possessed a bull's strength,
but all the same he collapsed to the ground like a knocked-over skittle, blood
streaming from one corner of his mouth where a tooth was buried in his lower lip.
He was unconscious, but alive.

Parker
looked up at the men along the pier and tried to anticipate their next move,
which was impossible.

There
were about twenty of them and most were not a day under sixty. Even so they all
seemed pretty fit and formidable. Plus they were all armed.

Hodge,
sensing the need for a further display of dominance, raised his gun and fired
yet another warning shot at the sky.

He
shouted along the pier. “If someone doesn't come up with a fucking engine right
now, at this very minute, I'm going to blast your friend here to pieces.”

He
lowered the barrel of his gun until it pointed at Mor's head. His hands were
dead steady and his expression rock hard.

For
some seconds the islanders discussed the situation among themselves, speaking
in loud Gaelic voices. Then a tall man in a long dark overcoat snatched a
shotgun from one of the others and stepped to the front of the mob. Even from a
distance of about twenty yards Parker and the others could see that his hands
were shaking.

He
spoke with authority, addressing his words to Hodge. “My name is Angus
Campbell. I'm a friend of the man you're threatening to kill.” He paused to
swallow and to wipe a sweaty palm on his coat. “Let me tell you now that not
one of you will leave this island alive if you harm him. So I suggest you put
down your weapons and give yourselves up. We far outnumber you and there's
nowhere you can run.”

“We
want a boat,” Hodge called out. “And if you want your friend here to live you
better go find us one.”

Angus
yelled back. “I gather from what you say that your own boat is either lost or
damaged. Which is indeed unfortunate for you.”

At
which point, Hodge pulled the trigger.

Ross
Mor's head exploded a bloody mess of shattered brain and fragmented skull, leaving
nothing above the shoulders. Pieces of charred flesh and bone splashed
everywhere and clumps of hair fluttered to the ground like strange, winged
insects.

There
were bits of him everywhere, for yards around.

The
islanders did not move and neither did Parker. He, like them, could only stare
in stunned silence at the heap of meat that was once a man.

Hodge,
on the other hand, appeared unmoved by what he had done and he seemed unaware
of the stinging tension that now filled the air.

Slowly,
he raised his gun and called out, “Now, who the hell else wants it?”

It
was at that moment the islanders surged forward in an angry mob.

For
a brief moment, Hodge stood frozen to the spot, staring wide-eyed at the
approaching figures, wondering why his little display of ruthlessness had
failed to work. Then suddenly he became aware of the engine revving behind him,
and he was wrenched out of his trance-like state.

Turning,
he saw Parker clambering to get into the front passenger seat. He ran
desperately after the van, which was speeding in reverse without him. He
managed to get a tentative grip on the handle and was flung on his back when
Maclean applied the brakes to spin the machine around.

He
got up quickly, saw the rear doors swing open, and threw himself at them,
landing half in and half out of the van. He heard the screech of tyres, the
report of a shot, and managed somehow in all the confusion to get on to the
back of the van. He snatched a glance back and caught a glimpse of Stewart some
yards away. He had fallen over and was screaming something about his foot being
hurt.

Hodge
realized immediately what had happened. Stewart had been standing against the
nearside wing of the van when the crowd began its charge and when Maclean
reversed the wheel must have run over his foot, crushing the bones.

Now
the angry mob was bearing down on the befallen Scot and there was nothing the
others could do to save him. “For pity’s sake get moving,” Hodge screamed. “He's
had it.”

Maclean
slammed his foot down and the van screeched forward up the slope towards the
main street.

FOURTEEN

Angus
Campbell stood staring down at the man left behind. The villain had removed his
stocking mask and Angus thought what a pathetic looking individual had been
hiding beneath it. His eyes stared ahead into nothing and he somehow seemed
resigned to the fact that he was going to die a horrible death. His face was a
mask of terror, his eyes huge and his skin taut.

A
voice behind Angus sounded. “Kill the bastard,” and the words were copied by
the others who turned it into a chilling chant.

By
now these normally placid men had been worked up into a frenzy by the course of
events. They hungered for revenge.

“Kill
him”

“Murdering
bastard.”

“Kill
him.”

An
old man of about sixty-five took the initiative. He leapt forward, and the
knife in his hand slashed across the villain’s forehead, leaving a thin line of
blood. The stranger rolled on his side and suddenly the others closed in. They
began to kick him and stab him.

“That
one is for Anna,” one man yelled.

“And
that one is for Ross,” said another.

The
kicking and stabbing continued. In the face, the ribs, the legs. Everywhere.
They spat on him, huge dollops of phlegm dripping from his face.

Angus
wanted to be the one to finish him off. He decided the shotgun he was carrying
would be too quick, too merciful. He threw it to the ground and grabbed a
pitch-fork from the man standing next to him. The others cheered him on, urging
him to kill the snake. Chanting, shouting, kicking.

“Killer.”

“Bastard.”

“Murderer.”

Angus,
his eyes fierce with hate, took the fork's handle in a firm two-handed grip and
raised it above his head. Then he forced it down with all his strength and the stranger
opened his eyes just as the two middle prongs of the fork punctured his throat.

*

Angus
stepped back from the body, leaving the fork embedded in the bloody mess that
was the man’s throat. The handle dropped when he let go, causing the prong-end
to flick up and wrench the dead man's chin on to his chest. He looked like he
was trying to stare at his own feet over his mound of gut.

Two
of the group turned away in horror, one old timer vomited all over himself, and
three of them actually smiled. Angus stood there with a blank expression. He
did not feel guilty. The villain had deserved it, he reasoned with himself.
After all, he was no better than a savage beast. A ruthless killer. He deserved
to die like a rat.

Lechy,
one of Angus's two sons, tapped him on the shoulder. “Are you all right,
father?” he said.

Angus
turned to him and nodded.

“Aye,
laddie, I'm fine.”

“So
what do we do now?” the boy asked.

Angus
turned from his son to the faces of the men around him. Faces glowing with a
new awareness, but still showing signs of having been through a shattering experience.

He
said slowly, “There are three more that deserve to die. And I say we show them
no mercy. Do you all agree?”

A
cheer went up and as Angus turned and walked towards the main street the crowd
followed.

FIFTEEN

When
they left the village, Maclean turned on to the road which took them up the
hill past the battered telephone exchange. Just beyond Ross Mor's place the
road descended towards a long beach, revealed by a lacework of phosphorescence.
Then it swung inland again to skirt a wind-ruffled lochan.

“Where
the hell are we going?” Hodge said from the back.

They
were the first words spoken since the mad dash from the pier and they brought
home to all three the awful truth of their predicament. The fact was there was
nowhere to go except around in circles.

Parker
turned slowly in his seat to face Hodge. His expression was cold, hostile.

“That
crazy stunt you pulled back there has fucked us,” he accused through tight
lips.

Hodge
merely shrugged. “I thought it would scare them.”

“Well,
it didn't work, did it? And you can take it from me, you slimy rat, that if
these island people don't get you, then I will. You're more dangerous than
bloody cancer.”

Hodge
crawled across the floor, placed his back against the side of the van, and
laughed, an obscene, braying sound. His teeth were almost as bright as his eyes
in the gloom.

They
drove on another half mile in silence and then Maclean braked and switched off
the engine. Immediately the wind began to kick the side of the van as it swept
around the hill on their right. They were surrounded again by moorland. Bleak
and desolate stretches of treeless terrain dissected by a run-down network of
dykes. Cotton grass swayed mournfully at the edges of the road and holes in the
cloud threw down weird shadows that danced around them like ghosts playing hide
and seek.

Maclean
tapped his fingers nervously on the wheel and bit into his bottom lip.

“This
is ridiculous,” he said. “We can't go on driving around forever.”

“As
I see it, we have no choice,” Parker said, matter-of-factly.

So
they thought about it. A minute. Two minutes. But it got them nowhere. They
were marooned on an island being hunted by a bunch of wild men and their only
avenue of escape lay across miles of treacherous sea.

“Look,
there’s a chance Bella can help us,” Maclean said. “She knows the island like
the back of her hand. I need to go to her. She doesn’t live in the village so
she won’t know yet what’s happened.”

“Then
let’s go there,” Hodge said. “Find out what the fuck she can do.”

Maclean’s
eyes grew hooded. “I’ll go alone,” he said. “I don’t trust you to keep your
cool.”

“Bollocks
to that,” Hodge fumed.

But
Maclean stood firm. “I know a place where you two can hold up. Soon as I sort
something I’ll come and fetch you.”

Hodge
shook his head. “Forget it. We stick together.”

“Not
on your life,” Maclean said. “You’re hyped up and dangerous. I’m not taking a
chance that you’ll do something stupid. I’ll handle it. You just have to
fucking trust me.”

Hodge
backed down and expelled a breath. “So where’s this place you know?”

“It’s
an old derelict house up there on the hill,” he said. “It's as good a spot as
any and better than most. I’m pretty sure you’ll be safe there, at least for a
while. You'll have a bird's eye view of the surroundings in daylight.”

“Does
this road go up there?”

“No.
This only goes around the island. A circular route. You have to walk if you
want to go inland.”

“So
how can we find the house from here?” Parker asked.

Maclean
pointed. “There's an old dry-stone wall over there to the left a little. Follow
that up the hill and it takes you right to the house.”

Hodge
leaned forward, frowning. “What about the treasure? We might as well hang on to
it as long as we can. We might still be able to take it with us.”

Maclean
nodded. “You're right.” He glanced out the window again. “Let’s hide it in the
ditch over there.” The ditch ran parallel to the road and long failing grass
reared up from its gloomy depths. “We all know where it is so if we can come
back for it we will.”

With
a sense of urgency, they clambered out of the van and unloaded the cases and
crates.

“Get
back to us as soon as you can,” Parker said to Maclean.

“I
will,” Maclean promised.

As
the van moved off, Parker and Hodge started walking up the hill in the dark.

SIXTEEN

Bella’s
house was on the other side of the island from the village. It was a single-storey
brick affair and had been converted from a traditional crofter's cottage.

Maclean
drove halfway there in the van before dumping it on the moor. He walked the
rest of the way — about a mile and a half—across smelly peat bogs and fields
made rough by tufts of grass. He was beginning to feel the cold himself now.
That damn perpetual wind he remembered from his childhood had still not ceased.