Stonemouth (45 page)

‘What?’ I ask Phelpie as he slips the phone away.

‘Nah, just Mrs MacAvett saying she got this call from Fraser. Fraser
Murston,’ Phelpie says, looking round at us all. ‘Thought he sounded a bit drunk maybe or something. Few minutes ago. He was asking where people were; tried Ellie’s phone but no answer. Sue said we were on the beach.’ Phelpie frowns again, nods at me. ‘Asking where you were, Stu.’

‘Was he now?’ I say, trying to sound unconcerned.

I glance out at the waves again, but there’s still no sign of Ellie. She’s been out a while now. Well over ten minutes. Even at the end of summer when the water’s had months to warm up a little, even if you’re used to it and even if you’re as impervious to cold as Ellie claims to be, a quarter of an hour in the North Sea without a wetsuit is when you start to get really, really cold. I’ve tried it, swimming with Ellie, sort of daring each other to stay in longer, and after a while it
hurts
; it’s not just cold, it’s painful, so cold your nerves can’t tell whether they’re feeling heat or cold, just pain, just potential damage.

Her phone goes off in my hand, making me jump.

‘It’s Grier again,’ I tell the others.

‘I’d answer it,’ Jel says. She holds her hand out. ‘I will if you won’t.’

‘No, it’s okay,’ I tell her, lifting the phone to my ear and pressing the green phone symbol. ‘Grier, it’s Stewart. Ellie’s in the water. Can I help?’

‘Where are you?’ Grier sounds…un-Grier-like: tense and worried, maybe breathless.

‘We’re on the beach at the end of the Prom; north end.’

‘Listen, there’s been a situation up here,’ she says, words tumbling out of her so fast it’s hard to keep up. ‘Dad and Murdo got a bit lairy with each other, Murdo pulled – well, Powell’s gone, and—’

‘Powell’s gone? What do you mean—’

I’m suddenly aware of Phelpie looking very intently at me.

‘He’s left. Always said he would if – might come back; doesn’t matter. But, look, Fraser’s kind of gone off the deep end.’ I hear her stop, swallow, almost like she’s choking.

‘And Don and Murdo? They got—’

‘Knocking
lumps out of each other. Stopped now I think. All gone quiet. Apart from Mum, still screaming herself hoarse. Lucky the rels were here or— But it’s Fraser.’

‘Fraser?’

‘Set off a couple of minutes ago. Roaring drunk, in his pick-up. Couldn’t stop him. Might be looking for you.’

‘Me?’

‘You, Stewart. Yes, you.’

‘Why—?’

‘Why do you fucking
think
?’ Grier yells, almost screaming. ‘You and Ellie. That’s what Don and Murdo came to blows over. That and stuff about Callum. Christ, you wouldn’t…Anyway, I guess he doesn’t know where you are, so—’

‘You could have tried calling me, not Ellie,’ I tell her, then slap a hand to my forehead, realising as soon as I’ve said this that of course the rubbish phone is out of power.

‘I did! Your fucking phone’s off !’

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ I’m saying. Then, ‘Wait a minute; Fraser phoned Sue MacAvett a bit ago and she told him we’re on the beach; he does know where we are.’ I glance up and down the beach, up to the Prom. The others, watching silently until this point, maybe frowning a little, are staring at me now.

‘Jesus fuck. Well, get away from there.’

‘Can’t. Ellie’s in swimming.’

‘What?
So?
Get away. Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Okay, he might be carrying.’

‘What?’ I say, then realise what that word might mean. ‘WHAT?’

‘Christ, look, I can’t – this – this could be getting – I can’t …’ Grier sounds like she’s about to start sobbing, then she stops. I hear her take a quick breath and when her voice resumes it’s calm, clear, urgent. ‘Just get out of there. Off the fucking beach. Leave Ellie. She’ll be fine. Move. I’m phoning the fucking police. Jesus fucking H. Christ I’m phoning the fucking
police
.’ It’s like she can’t believe it herself. ‘Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—’

Then
the phone clicks off.

‘We might need to—’ I start saying to the others, just as Phelpie – not looking at me now but up towards the Prom – says,

‘Uh-oh.’

I follow his gaze just in time to see a big black American pick-up, with a rack of hunting lights right across the top of the cab and gleaming chrome nudge bars, as it smacks into the metal bollards guarding the top of the slipway, riding part-way up the two middle posts as they get knocked back, lifting the vehicle off the ground at the front and stopping it. The noise, of the impact and the screech of buckling, shearing metal, follows a fraction of a second later.

‘Oh my God,’ Jel says, jumping up and starting towards the slipway.

‘Hold on,’ Ryan says, grabbing her by one wrist, stopping her. Jel pulls at her brother’s hand. ‘Ryan, what are you—’

‘That’s Fraser Murston’s wagon,’ Phelpie says.

‘Oh, I’ve
got
to get this,’ Ferg says, and pulls out his phone, holding it up in front of his face, pointing towards the crash.

I’ve got Ellie’s phone dialling 999.

The oversize pick-up hangs there, impaled, engine roaring distantly, then tips to the right, bouncing down, angled at about thirty degrees, one front wheel still spinning in the air and a load of grey-blue smoke coming from the rear. The engine stops suddenly, stalled.

Still thinking in right-hand drive, I’m surprised to see the left-hand door open part-way, then shut again as gravity takes over. Of course: left-hand drive. Whoever’s trying to get out is trying to open the driver’s door while it’s angled heavily upwards.

We’re all standing up by now. I glance round, to see if Ellie’s visible yet. No sign.

‘What was all that about?’ Jel asks me. She shakes her arm, still in Ryan’s grip. ‘Ryan, let me—’

‘Okay, but don’t—’

‘Not going to.’

‘Fraser’s looking for us,’ I tell her. ‘Well, me.’

Back
at the black pick-up, the driver’s side door is thrown open again, looking more of a hatch than a door because of the angle it presents to the sky. Again it slams back down. Then it opens more slowly, and somebody squeezes and wriggles their way out and half jumps, half falls to the ground. Yup, that’s Fraser.

He’s holding something.

I should just run. Lots of beach. The guy is drunk. Okay: drunker than me. The Murston boys are all overweight. I’d outpace him, outlast him.

But just running away, especially with Ellie still in the water, seems cowardly, ignominious. Anyway, if that is a gun, then a lucky shot…and what about the others? Suppose we all just bail? Suppose only Ellie’s left for him to focus his anger on, when she comes cold and dripping from the waves?

‘—ervice do you require?’ says an operator’s voice from Ellie’s phone.

‘Police,’ I tell the guy calmly.

‘Fuck me,’ Phelpie says, ‘is that a fucking shooter he’s got?’

‘What?’ Ferg yelps.

‘Oh my God,’ Jel says.

Ryan takes hold of her hand, and they pull together, holding each other. Fraser Murston staggers a little, avoiding one of the other, undamaged bollards, then comes jogging down the slipway, straight towards us. Jeans and a white shirt, flapping open. You can see some of his chest tats from here. He’s shouting something, but it’s against the wind and lost in the roar of waves behind us. No shoes; he’s barefoot.

‘Stonemouth,’ I say, talking over the Emergency Services operator. ‘There’s a guy with a gun, a handgun, threatening people on the beach at Stonemouth, north end of the Promenade. Just crashed his vehicle. A black pick-up.’

‘—id you say—’

‘Armed. The guy is armed. He has a handgun. Walking towards us now. I’m just going to keep talking if you want to get some cops
towards us right now. Stonemouth beach, north end of the Promenade. He’s walking towards us now. Got a handgun.’

‘Gilmour! Gilmour, you fucking
cunt
!’ Fraser yells, his voice made faint by the wind and waves.

‘You better get behind me,’ Phelpie says, moving slowly towards Jel. And, in the midst of this, just in the way Jel sort of shrinks, bringing her arms in, and moves towards Phelpie, pressing close to him while he puts a protective arm round her shoulders, I realise, of course: Jel and Phelpie. They’re an item.

‘You got a gun or anything?’ Ryan asks. He’s also trying to position himself somewhere behind Phelpie, though without making it too obvious.

‘No,’ Phelpie says. ‘I’ve got fuck-all.’ He takes his phone out with the free hand not holding Jel’s shoulder. ‘Calling your dad.’

Fraser looks wild, hair messed, blood about his mouth and smeared across one cheek, his face ruddy. He’s carrying the gun down at his thigh. Big-looking thing. Flat.

‘Automatic handgun, not a revolver,’ I say into Ellie’s phone, like this makes any fucking difference. I stop the call. I look at Ellie’s phone screen. I had a Nokia like this myself. I find the phone book, flick down to the Fs. Ryan tries to get Jel to move behind Phelpie, who is edging backwards and slowly holding both hands up and out, palms forward, fingers spread.

‘All right, Frase?’ I hear him say, trying to sound calm.

‘Fuck off !’ Fraser yells, only six or seven metres away now. ‘You keep the fuck out of this, Phelpie!’

‘Aw, I’m just sayin, like, Frase—’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Fraser screams, still striding forwards.

We’ve all sort of pulled back a little without even noticing, except Ferg, who seems immobile, frozen with fear or something, off to one side, still with his phone in front of him, pointing at Fraser now so he must have swivelled a bit. The rest of us have retreated; the blankets and towels are in front of us. I’m furthest back, then Ryan, Jel and Phelpie.

I
could still run. I can’t – I’m not going to – but maybe I should. Too late now anyway. It’s all too late. Oh fuck, this mad fucker’s going to fucking kill me. I’m fucking dead. I wait for some revelation, to discover I am religious after all, or some feeling of resignation or something, but I just feel annoyed, concerned. I feel some fear, but it’s not bowel-loosening, not trembling or collapsing terror, just a sort of acknowledgement that this could be it and it all ends here and, well, what a bastard, eh?

Fraser’s maybe five metres away. He brings the gun up, pointing at me. He looks at something over my shoulder, his face contorting with some emotion I’m not even sure I can decipher.

I have to look round, though I glance down at the phone in my hand as I do, and thumb the call button.

And of course it’s Ellie, running towards us through the last shallows of the surf like she thinks she’s the fucking cavalry.

‘Fraser!’ she yells, though I can hardly hear. Movement somewhere to our left, south, as I turn back to look into the eyes of Ellie’s brother over the top of the gun.

‘You fucking leave him—’ Jel starts screaming, and Ryan and Phelpie both have to grab her as Fraser and I glare at each other.

‘We shoulda fuckin hunted you down five fuckin years ago, you cu—’ Fraser is saying, quite quietly now, when something bounces off his head from the right, knocking him staggering to the side as whatever it was goes somersaulting up into the air. It’s a mobile phone, as thrown by Ferg, who starts towards Fraser, taking a single giant leaping step as Fraser turns, only half staggering now, recovering, and points the gun at Ferg.

The noise of the shot is quite flat: a single sharp point of sound, then nothing, and even most of that sound energy lost in the wide expanse of nothing around us. Fraser wasn’t quite steady when he fired and the recoil sends his right arm back and makes him stagger a little further back again.

Ferg folds, clutching at his right side, then pitches forward onto his knees. ‘Fucking
aow
, ya bastard!’ he bellows, then, still kneeling,
looks at the palm of the hand he’s holding against the bottom right part of his ribs. It comes away covered in blood. He looks up at Fraser. ‘Cunt,’ he says calmly, as his face goes grey. He collapses back on his haunches and rolls over onto his left side, going foetal, holding both hands over his wound.

Jel is screaming and kicking and writhing in Ryan and Phelpie’s arms. It looks like it’s taking all their combined strength to keep her there.

Fraser shakes his head and points the gun back at my head. I can hear Ellie somewhere behind me, shouting, as the movement I glimpsed earlier resolves into two grey-black wolfhounds coming tearing across the sands, darting between Fraser and the area of blankets and towels. Fraser jerks back from them, gun hand going up. The gun fires again and the shot tears the air over my head. The wolfhounds are turning hard, barking furiously now as they come back towards us. Fraser points the gun at the dogs, starts firing.

One of the dogs drops instantly like a thrown fur coat, like something utterly lifeless, just collapsing. The other seems to jerk, startled by the sound or hit, then takes another couple of bouncing, uncertain steps towards Fraser, who screams something and keeps firing at it. Its head flicks back like something hinging open and it falls too, tumbling in a loose tangle of long hairy limbs. Jel’s screaming, Ellie’s screaming behind me, closer now. And Phelpie is moving, throwing himself at Fraser. Who turns and shoots him, right in the head, and Phelpie drops and just spreads himself on the sand in an X, unmoving.