Brutal Revenge (14 page)

Keeping
the byre between themselves and the group to the north — from where Hodge
believed the shot had come — they broke into another run, this time making a
point of keeping their heads down.

The
machair was much easier on their feet as the grass was smooth and relatively
short. Soon, though, they were over it and on to the sand, which immediately
slowed them down.

Wading
through the soft flowing whiteness was a nightmare. The men behind were quickly
closing the gap and it was only a matter of time before the rifleman had
another crack.

They
headed for the highest dune, which happened to be the nearest one, and dived
into the long grass growing up one side of it. Behind them the sea, a calm,
glittering green, was gently stroking the shore and gulls fluttered and
squawked overhead.

Parker
crawled into a position so he could look back the way they'd come.

The
islanders were slowing, obviously hesitant to approach the dunes now that
Parker and Hodge were out of sight. The two groups on the flanks were making
their way to the centre and Parker assumed they would meet and formulate a plan
of action.

He
turned to Hodge, lying beside him in the grass and said, “As I see it, we
haven't a prayer.”

Hodge
rolled on his back and stared at the sky, his chest heaving with every breath.
Sweat dribbled from his forehead on to his black tangled hair and from his
cheeks on to the sand. A gull flew over him, its shadow caressing his features,
and when he turned to Parker his face wore a hollow expression.

“How
many guns you reckon they've got?” Hodge asked.

Parker
looked towards the islanders who were converging into a single group.

“Impossible
to tell from here. We'll have to assume those out there have at least two
between them. When the others arrive on the scene, though, they'll probably
have a couple more.”

“D'you
think they'll come after us, or wait for reinforcements?”

Parker
shook his head. “It's my guess they'll come in. They won't take a chance on us
sneaking away along the coast while they stand around out there.”

“Well,
I hope to God they do just that. Right now I want more than anything to blow a
few fucking heads off.”

“Go
for whoever's carrying a gun,” Parker advised. “We need all the ammo we can lay
our hands on.”

Parker
glanced over his shoulder, keeping his head low. The dunes humped their way for
about forty yards before dropping on to the beach. On either side of them they
stretched about half a mile each way. To the left, the south, the coastline ran
up into steep, bird-infested cliffs. The other way, the cliffs were not so
high, and the grass on top plunged down almost to touch the sea's slate grey
surface.

Parker
could guess what they were up to. Two groups were branching out to the left and
right of them. They would probably wait at either end of the line of dunes or
might even work their way towards the centre, squeezing himself and Hodge in a
vice and forcing them to flee from the dunes towards the guns out front.

Parker
didn't realize until it was too late that Hodge had taken aim. The blast of the
shotgun sent his head spinning and the noise reverberated in his ears.

Ahead
of them a group of men scattered and Parker saw immediately a body sprawled in
the grass.

“That’s
one down,” Hodge said. “Now let’s try to get the fuck out of here.”

TWENTY
TWO

But
they didn't get very far before they were spotted. The cries of the gulls
overhead were drowned suddenly by an acrimonious bellow from the mouth of a
thick-set man wearing a reefa jacket and holding, incongruously, a pitch-fork,
which stood taller than he did in the sand next to him.

He
was standing at the top of one of the dunes, watching like some predatory bird
as they slogged through the ankle-deep sand. They were in a hollow between the
dunes, south of their previous position, and the going seemed to be getting
tougher. The man gave another cry and then started down after them, waving the
pitch-fork like it was a flagpole.

Parker
and Hodge ran, slowly, clumsily, fighting every inch of the way against the
soft, deep sand. The man was some twenty yards behind them, one minute screened
by a mound of sand, the next in sight and yelling for them to stop.

They
veered to the left, up and over the shoulder of a grass-flecked dune and then
into a deep and difficult trench that took them into yet another hollow.

“Just
hold it there.”

The
rasping voice brought them to a sudden halt. It belonged to a short, thin man
with a dyspeptic expression who didn't look a day under sixty. He was holding a
long, slender hunting rifle in a pair of bony hands. And they had almost run
into him. He had popped up from behind a dune and they were only about seven feet
from the muzzle of the gun held snugly against his hip, finger poised on the
trigger.

Parker
felt his shoulders sag and, totally exhausted, he dropped to his knees. Hodge
stood motionless, wondering whether he could lift his own gun and drop the man
before he was blasted himself. He decided he couldn't. It'd be suicide. But he
didn't give up the gun directly when the man gestured for him to do so. Parker
did, however, by placing his in the sand next to him.

“Put
your gun down,” the man said to Hodge. “Or so help me I’ll shoot you.”

The
guy aimed his weapon unsteadily at Hodge's belly, but it was as clear as day
that he didn't want to have to use it. He struggled with his conscience, which
finally won over, and he raised the barrel skywards and fired a shot that was
meant to bring the others running.

Of
course it was a mistake. The biggest mistake he had ever made in all his life. Before
he’d even lowered his rifle he was reeling backwards from the blast of Hodge’s
shotgun, his face registering both surprise and pain, his fingers clawing
instinctively at the huge gaping hole in his belly as if to try and push back
the thick slimy entrails that came gushing forth.

He
was dead before he hit the sand and his hands fell to his sides, permitting his
insides to rise up through the hole in his body like some horribly misshapen
foetus. Hodge stared down at him for a long moment with gloating eyes, then he
stepped forward and picked up the rifle. As he turned with it in his hands he
saw the pitch-fork carrier back among the dunes, watching them, uncertain as to
whether or not he should proceed. Hodge fired from waist level and the bullet
pounded into the sand inches from the man's left foot, sending him leaping for
cover.

Hurriedly,
Parker picked up his own gun and they were off again, leaping over the dead man
and wading on through the sand.

But
minutes later they were confronted yet again and this time the odds were stacked
firmly against them.

Four
men.

They
came charging out of nowhere into a large, grass-free clearing. Two to the
left, two to the right. Two armed with shotguns, one with a lethal-looking
scythe and the other a long kitchen knife.

As
Parker let loose, the four islanders dived for cover, one of them raising
himself quickly to return the fire before both Parker and Hodge had reached the
cover of the nearest dune. But the first shot went astray and they were safely
screened by the time a second and third shot came their way.

They
darted to the left and then saw the fields ahead of them, rolling away towards
the hill in the distance. Another shot exploded behind them but they kept running,
determined now to break clear of the dunes and try to get out of range of those
bloody shotguns.

It
was then they saw him.

Maclean.

In
fact they very nearly ran into him. He was alone, standing on the grass beyond
the dunes. He became aware of them at the same time. His gaze was unsteady and
from his stupefied expression it was obvious he hadn't been expecting them to
appear.

They
were just as surprised to see him and even more surprised at the rifle he was
holding.

When
he saw how they were looking at the rifle he raised it slightly and stepped
forward to say something.

But
at the same time Hodge lifted his own rifle threateningly.

Parker
knew instinctively what Hodge was thinking – that Maclean had changed sides to
save his own skin.

So
what followed was inevitable.

Maclean
moved like lightning, crouching and getting off a shot first. The bullet tore
into Hodge's left eye and came out through a fist-sized hole at the back of his
head. Then he fired a second time and the bullet rammed into Hodge’s chest,
knocking him at least two feet into the air.

Parker
looked from Hodge to Maclean and the anger rose in him. He heaved his body
sideways and squeezed the trigger. Click. Oh, Christ! The ruddy thing's empty!

Behind
him, the sound of voices. Excited, loud, hostile. Coming closer.

He
lunged forward, lifted the gun by the barrel and swung it at Maclean, catching
him on the side of the neck, sending him tripping backwards.

And
then Parker was standing over him, looking down, hatred pouring from him, his
mouth spewing obscenities.

The
shotgun was poised inches above Maclean's forehead and because he was unable to
comprehend the strange, almost pleading expression on Maclean's face, he didn't
hold back. The butt-end crashed down and Maclean went limp.

Parker
didn't stand around to see what damage he'd done. He didn't care, anyway.

He
turned to look back, saw five men struggling to get to him through the dunes,
and then he fled, out across the field and it wasn't until he was well out of
range of their weapons that he realized he hadn't thought to pick up a gun that
was loaded.

TWENTY
THREE

Parker
didn't bother knocking when he came to the little crofter's cottage. He simply
pushed open the front door and stomped in. It was empty and he guessed the
family had already been evacuated to the village for their own good. They'd
left behind greasy plates, which were piled high in the kitchen sink, and on
the table there was a half-eaten loaf of crusty bread and a sharp knife.

Four
places had been set and he wondered fleetingly if any of the men who had so far
been killed was the bread-winner of this particular household. Would the woman
who had prepared the meal only hours before return home later as a widow?

He
pushed the thought resolutely from his mind as he hurriedly searched the rest
of the cottage. It didn't take him long. The rooms were small and there wasn't
much in the way of furniture.

Back
in the kitchen he found a grubby plastic shoulder bag in one of the cupboards.
Into it he stuffed the bread and the knife and a packet of digestive biscuits
from on top of the sideboard.

The
larder was well stocked, mostly with tinned food, which he left, but a lump of
cheese, and a dozen ripe tomatoes he took. There was also a bottle of lemonade
and three juicy-looking apples. He took those as well and when the bag was
bulging he went to the window and looked out.

He
could see them in the distance, coming across the fields away from the dunes
and he knew he'd have to hurry if he wanted to get away from there without
being seen.

He
used the back door this time and found himself in a small yard where a dozen or
so chickens were charging around and a load of peats formed a pile six feet
high. He climbed over a low wall and, crouching, looked about him.

He
estimated the distance between himself and the foot of the next hill at about
four hundred yards and he reckoned he could probably make it before they
reached the cottage and were able to see beyond it.

But
what good would it do him now to gain the high ground without the rifle? No,
he'd have to go around the hill, try his luck on the other side of the island
where the land wasn't so flat and therefore offered more cover.

More
than anything he needed a place to hide out. Somewhere he could rest and think
and have time to regain his strength. Later, maybe, when it was dark, he'd try
to seek out a means whereby he could leave the island.

He
chuckled suddenly, a low, braying sound. Who was he kidding? Certainly not
himself. There was no way out now. Deep down he knew it but was afraid to admit
it because the moment he accepted the inevitability of the situation, that
would be the end of it. The longer he stayed out of their way and the further
he ran, the longer he breathed and the more chance there was of a miracle.

He
stood and moved off with his head down. Above him the sky was clear and blue,
but dark, puffy clouds were moving in from the north, threatening rain. He
prayed it would rain, not just a shower, but a heavy, prolonged downpour that
would reduce visibility. For he needed all the help he could get now if he intended
staying alive.

TWENTY
FOUR

When
Maclean came to, he was lying on top of a bed and an obese woman with a
crinkled face was pawing his aching forehead with a damp cloth. Her breath
stank and her large pendulous breasts threatened to crush his chest when she
bent over him to inspect the wound at close quarters. He didn't know her name,
but he knew her to be the island postwoman and that she doubled as the nurse
and midwife.