The unforgiven dead, p.15
The Unforgiven Dead, page 15
“Have you ever tried it?”
He had. So many times.
He shook his head. “Paracetamol or antibiotics usually work for me.”
“Sure, but no harm in giving it a go, eh?”
From her pocket she produced a handkerchief. She gave the material a swift yank and it came apart. She handed him a section then climbed down the bank and dipped the rag in a glassy pool. He hesitated, unsettled. The rags on the tree fluttered as if alive, and for an instant he thought he could hear faint whispering. He strained his ears, but although the words sounded vaguely Gaelic, he could not make them out.
“Angus.”
He started at the sound of his name. Nadia was frowning at him, the wet rag held in her hand. “You okay?”
“Aye, fine.” He slid down the bank, then dunked the rag in the burn, the water so cold that it felt as if he’d been bitten.
“Christ! That water’s freezing.”
Nadia grinned at him. “Don’t be a baby. Come on. . . .”
He scrambled back up the bank and stood next to Nadia to tie his rag to a low-lying branch, just as he’d tied red ribbons to the Christmas tree with his mother when he was a child. He fancied he could smell pine resin and cinnamon from the cakes his mother used to bake, but the memory was fleeting, gone before he could catch it, like the trout darting away from his bandy net. He yanked the knot tight on his rag and stood back.
“So, Angus, what did you ask to be cured?”
“Old shinty injury,” he lied. “You?”
“Broken heart.” He met her gold-flecked eyes, not sure whether she was being serious or not. A sudden blast from her mobile phone broke the spell. She turned away from him and fished the device from her pocket.
“Hi, Ruthven.”
She began to walk away, the phone pressed to her ear.
“Nope, no sign of him yet.”
He took one last look up into the tree. The rags dangled like slithers of rotten meat from the branches. He felt that familiar tingle of apprehension, as if an army of ants were crawling across his shoulder blades.
Suddenly he heard the sound of horses’ hooves and an obscene gargle. He closed his eyes, wincing in pain as a series of images flashed into his head. He saw a chain biting into pale white ankles. A bloodied body hoisted into the air. The obsidian eye of a crow.
Then nothing but flames.
Chapter 21
The old barman in the Clan Ranald stared at Nadia with rheumy eyes. He fiddled with an ancient hearing aid that was roughly the size of a satellite dish. Angus imagined he could pick up the whispers of the dead with it, yet he was having trouble hearing Nadia a foot away.
“Whit’s that ye were saying, hen?”
“Have. You. Seen. Ewan. Hunter?”
The barman nodded along, slack-jawed. “Eh?” he replied after a too-long wait.
“Come on, Jamesey,” Angus said, “everyone knows you can hear perfectly fine.”
The barman knitted his wrinkly brow. “Eh?”
“Maybe a wee visit this Saturday night to check the ID of your customers would clear the wax from your ears?”
Jamesey grinned, showing a row of yellowing teeth. “There’s nae need fir that, Gus. I wiz only havin’ a laugh.”
“Aye, hilarious, Jamesey,” he said, growing tired of this. “Have you seen Ewan or not?”
The barman scratched his dimpled chin, as if deep in thought. “Naw,” he said at last. “Barred him a few weeks back. He was pissin’ off ma regulars.”
Angus glanced at Nadia, but she was already turning for the door of the dingy pub. He shook his head at Jamesey, whose grin only lengthened, then followed Nadia outside. She had her phone pressed to her ear.
“We’ve been in every pub, lounge bar, and shebeen between Silvaig and Glenruig. No one’s seen him, Ruthven. Could be he’s out in the hills, shooting poor defenceless deer, or beating up grouse, or whatever the hell it is ghillies do.”
A smile crept across her face. “Aye, I know it’s cold. They breed them hardy up here.” She glanced at Angus and rolled her eyes. “Aye, he’ll probably be home later. We asked the housekeeper to phone when he gets back.”
Nadia was silent for a few seconds, nodding along. “No problem,” she said. “We’re on the way.”
She cut the call and smiled up at him.
“So?” he asked, drawing out the word.
“Take me to church.”
The Free Presbyterian Church was little more than a barn clinging to the edge of Reverend John MacVannin’s croft. The walls were rough stone and seriously in need of repointing if the crumbling mortar was anything to go by; the door was warped oak pocked with metal studs; and the roof rusting corrugated iron the colour of an infected scab. A steep, rocky hillside loomed over the church, casting it in shadow. The minister’s crofthouse sat, unloved, at the edge of the sheep field, surrounded by ramshackle sheds, the rusting bones of farm machinery, and the fank.
Angus thought of the rusty chain biting into the ankles of the body he’d seen in his vision. It had seemed so real. He’d heard the flames devouring the corpse, had smelt the acrid stench of charred flesh. Why was this happening again, after so long? Why weren’t the pills working?
He stared balefully at the black-faced sheep gnawing the sparse grass. Tufts of their wool and scraps of black polythene clung to a barbed-wire fence surrounding the field. Six or seven cars belonging to MacVannin’s parishioners were parked nearby.
“Is that the church?” Nadia asked, incredulous.
“Aye. Lacks a bit of grandeur.”
“It’s no Glasgow Central Mosque, that’s for sure.”
“Maybe it’s nicer inside.”
“Doubt it,” she replied, reaching for the door handle. A blast of cold air smacked him on the face as he climbed out of the Land Rover and followed Nadia. A crow was perched on the arm of a rusted iron cross bolted above the door of the church. It hopped back and forth, observing him with eyes as black as tar. It opened its beak, but the caw, rather than coming from the bird, seemed to come from inside his head. A heartbeat later he heard the sound of pounding hooves. He whipped his head round, half-expecting to see a horse galloping towards him, but the only animals in sight were MacVannin’s sheep, gnawing at the grass.
He turned back to the church, and his breath caught in his throat. He froze, staring wide-eyed up at the cross. The crow was gone. In its place hung a body, chained by its ankles to the cross. There was no wind, but the corpse swayed as if tugged by currents of air. Rivulets of blood coursed down the contours of the body and plummeted to the ground. Angus tasted vomit at the back of his throat. His stomach spasmed. He doubled over, but the feeling of nausea quickly passed. He glanced back up at the cross, but the corpse had gone. He closed his eyes and tried to still the beating of his heart.
You’re losing it, pal. Get a fucking grip!
He swallowed. His saliva somehow tasted of smoke and blood. He ground his teeth and trudged after Nadia. She hadn’t seen the episode. But how long would that luck last?
Reverend MacVannin’s haranguing voice seeped out of the church, becoming louder when Nadia shoved open the door. Heads twisted in their direction as he and Nadia slipped inside, but MacVannin’s tirade continued unabated, his black robes flapping as he strutted, like the crow outside.
“Demons seek out idolaters because their souls are fertile ground to sow the seeds of violence,” MacVannin snarled, his eyes bulging. “Look no further than the horrific crime that has befallen our community. This is what happens when idolaters are allowed—nay, encouraged—to take root. I refer to the so-called pagan commune, that hotbed of sin and debauchery that grows unchecked in our midst.”
MacVannin’s head looked like a turnip lantern left to rot on the doorstep, the features sinking into one another. Everything about his body was disproportionate: thick blubbery lips, but tiny fluted ears; wide powerful shoulders, but a cinched waist. One leg looked shorter than the other, which made him walk with an odd, rolling bowlegged gait, as if he’d soiled himself. Whenever Angus saw him, out tending his sheep, or driving his ancient Massey Ferguson tractor, MacVannin reminded him of an ogre from one of Gills’s fairy tales.
Angus slid into an unoccupied pew beside Nadia. Icy draughts surged through nooks and crannies in the roof and walls. His eyes darted upwards. No ceiling frescos here, only rusty corrugated iron stretched across a skeleton of worn timber joists and rafters. Loose skeins of cobweb billowed in the breeze like tormented wraiths.
The congregation, barely twenty people, sat cocooned in scarves, although hats were forbidden. He noticed Raymond the Waver sitting in the second row, nodding enthusiastically to everything MacVannin said. Raymond worked as a greenkeeper at Traigh golf course, but Angus frequently saw him standing at the crossroads in Arisaig, bicycle propped against a nearby tree, waving to passing cars. Folk made allowances for him.
Next to the Waver sat Elspeth Cummings, a cheerful, stylish woman of about sixty who owned a craft shop in Silvaig. He was surprised to see her here. She didn’t seem the fire-and-brimstone type. Nor did the elderly gentleman sitting behind her. Jim Gavin was a retired maths teacher who made radio-controlled model boats, replicas of warships and frigates that he displayed in the bay at community events. Angus sometimes met Jim walking his two golden retrievers along the shore. A pleasant guy, he would always stop for a natter about the latest village gossip or the fortunes of the local shinty team. The subject of God never cropped up in their conversations. Who knew that behind Jim’s friendly exterior lurked a belief in what Angus could only describe as a doomsday cult? Why were all these people here? he wondered.
He heard his father’s voice in his head, bitter and sarcastic: If God does exist, he’s got a twisted sense of humour. Either that, or he’s a bloody sociopath.
“Judgement Day is upon us,” MacVannin declared, voice rising. “The Devil and his imps are everywhere. They are relentless in their quest to bring about the downfall of mankind. They play on our base desires, with a set of temptations tailored to each and every one of us.” His eyes darted from the Waver to Elspeth to Jim Gavin and the other worshippers. “Money. Sex. Power. Materialism. Homosexuality. Drugs. Pornography. These are the chips demons use to gain entry to our soul so that they might overpower us and possess us!”
As if on cue, a faint rumble followed the minister’s declaration. Angus wondered if someone, his wife, perhaps, was hidden out back with a tape recorder full of sound effects that she pressed at the appropriate juncture of the sermon. There was something kitsch about MacVannin’s performance, as if he’d taken lessons from an American TV evangelist.
The minister locked eyes with Angus, as if he could read his scepticism. “Beware of false prophets who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves,” he growled.
The rumbling noise came again, louder this time. It was not a sound effect, and the storm was closer. A few of the worshippers glanced at one another, frowning. Angus sensed a subtle shift in the barn, a collective anxiety. Storms had not been forecast, and besides, it was far too cold for thunder, wasn’t it?
“Even now they prowl amongst us looking for someone to devour!” MacVannin roared, oblivious to the rumbling. The Waver was now nodding so hard, he was almost bouncing. “But He will strike back; He will punish those who follow false Gods, those who unleash the wolves!”
A fine shower of dust landed on Angus’s thighs. He glanced up at the ceiling. Was the corrugated iron roof shaking slightly?
“We must fight this evil, we all must—”
The rumble came once more, so loud this time that it stopped MacVannin mid-flow. Angus felt a tremor ripple up his legs. He sprang to his feet and scrambled from the pew. “Everyone out!” he bellowed. “Now! Get out!”
The nearest parishioners jumped up, as if his words had sent an electric shock through their bodies. He grabbed the nearest man by the arm and thrust him towards the door. Over his shoulder, he saw Nadia staring at him with wide, fearful eyes. “Rockfall!” he yelled.
Around him, people began scrambling over pews towards the exit as the first rock smashed into the roof of the church. The noise reverberated around the barn like an explosion. Elspeth Cummings screamed like a banshee. Her usual politeness forgotten, she clawed past an old couple, causing the woman to fall on the floor. More rocks rained down on the roof. A section of the corrugated iron collapsed, the sound of shearing metal like a human cry. The old woman was being trampled by those behind. Angus shouldered through the fleeing worshippers and yanked the old woman to her feet. He dragged her towards the door, adrenaline making her body seem as light as dust. Another rock smashed through the roof and landed on the exact spot the old woman had lain. He pushed the woman outside and turned. MacVannin was nowhere to be seen, but Raymond the Waver was still inside. He stood amongst the carnage, smiling as if this were all some game.
“Raymond!” he shouted. “Raymond! Get out!”
The Waver did not respond.
“Ach, bugger!” Angus growled. He glanced at Nadia. She was the only one looking back towards the church. Everyone else was running for safety. Their eyes met, briefly, then he turned and ducked back inside the church. Great holes had been punched in the ceiling by the falling rocks and part of the gable wall had collapsed. The timber spine of the building was still intact, but wooden ribs hung from the roof, splintered and broken. He vaulted over smashed pews and darted down the central aisle. The air was thick with dust. It swirled around him like ash, making him choke. He hacked and coughed, and the sound made him realize the rumbling had stopped. The rockfall might have ended, but an ominous creaking suggested the building was close to collapse, a boxer who’d taken too many punches.
“Raymond,” he hissed, grabbing the man by the shoulder. The Waver’s head jerked round. His neatly side-parted hair was covered in a layer of dust. He grinned, then gave a weird, hiccuppy laugh. “God isnae happy wi’ us.”
Angus dragged him towards the aisle. They both stopped and glanced up at the roof. The whole building seemed to quiver. “Quick!” he yelled, thrusting the Waver down the aisle. He heard a rumbling, then, louder this time, more ferocious. The volume intensified, until it sounded like massed ranks of cavalry charging an enemy position. His heart pounded in his chest as he followed Raymond’s shambling figure towards the door. He was almost there when a thick timber joist swung from the ceiling and caught the Waver a glancing blow. He went down hard. Angus scrambled over to him. Blood poured from a cut on Raymond’s head. Angus saw the Waver’s leg was trapped under the joist. He crouched and took hold of the coarse timber, but when he tried to lift the joist, it wouldn’t budge. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another section of wall collapse. Only seconds remained before the structure would buckle and the roof would cave in. He desperately worked his fingers further under the joist, then pulled with all his might. Nothing happened. He gritted his teeth and let out an agonized cry, drawing on every last vestige of his strength. The joist moved: a centimetre, an inch, three inches . . . enough for Raymond to free his leg. The Waver, though, just lay there, grinning.
Spittle flew from Angus’s lips as he yelled: “Move! Your! Fucking! Leg!”
Raymond finally got the message and pulled his leg free as Angus’s strength gave out. He whipped his hands away and the joist cracked to the floor in a puff of dust. He grabbed the fallen man by his lapels, hauled him to his feet, and half-carried, half-dragged him from the crumbling building.
They ran across the muddy ground, entwined like children competing in a three-legged race on school sports day. Angus chanced a quick look over his shoulder. Huge boulders, scree, and mud surged down the hillside. Suddenly the sheer cliff behind the church collapsed, like a condemned high-rise destroyed by explosives. A giant fist of rock smashed down on top of the church, pulverizing it into the ground.
Raymond the Waver gave another hiccuppy laugh and repeated himself, an echo unaware of its origin. “God isnae happy wi’ us.”
Chapter 22
Gills watched the nurse flit around Uisdean MacNeil, chirping inanities.
“That’s it, good man yourself. Let’s get this TV on for you. Countdown should be on soon. You like that one, don’t you? Not the same since Carol Vorderman left, mind you . . .”
She gave Gills a conspiratorial smile over Uisdean’s tartan-robed shoulder. He smiled back, but this nurse—Lesley—grated on him; she spoke to Uisdean as if he were a child. The Uisdean he knew would have detested Lesley’s relentless cheeriness. He would have much preferred the surly boredom of the other nurse—Catriona—who treated all the residents with the same detached indifference.
The nurse struggled to manoeuvre Uisdean from his bed onto the stain-resistant chair in front of the television. Gills took his friend’s arm, noting how thin he’d become.
“That’s the good fellow,” the nurse said, placing a hand on Uisdean’s shoulder and pushing him down. At first Uisdean’s limbs resisted, but then he slumped onto the chair.
“Thank you, Lesley,” Gills said. “You’re a saint.”
“Och!” She swatted away the compliment and bustled from the room.
His smile dropped. He reached for the remote and turned off the TV as the credits for Countdown began.
He stared at Uisdean, but his brown eyes that had once shone like ripe chestnuts were dull and lifeless, stripped of their lustre. They seemed to stare, unseeing, at a painting of Ben Nevis across Loch Linnhe that hung on the wall to the left of the TV.
“Your mob lost again yesterday,” Gills said. “Thumped five nil by Kilmallie at Pairc nan Laoch. Could do with a new goalkeeper by all accounts.”
