Electric Light (Blair Dubh Trilogy #3) (14 page)

“I’m afraid so.”

“Jesus Christ, what are you all playing at?”

“This isn’t down to me. It’s being handled by North Ayrshire Area Command but they have to consider the safety of their officers too. The sniper has already set one trap for them. No doubt he’s arranged more.”

Freya was rocked on her feet, the situation hitting her with the force of a train. It was happening again in that fucked up village, only this time it wasn’t herself in danger, it was her husband. “Craig,” she whispered, turning her back so Eric wouldn’t see her tears.

Eric shuffled uncomfortably. He’d never got used to breaking bad news, despite the number of times he’d had to do it. The fact this involved his friends only made it harder.

An idea occurred to Freya that caused her body to stiffen. Her head snapped up and she spun back round to face him. “The woods.”

“What?”

“The woods. The police can get into the village through the woods. They’re huge, there’s no way the sniper could booby trap all of it. But it would be dangerous, there are lots of slopes and ravines in there. Docherty fell and broke his neck and that was in broad daylight. They’d need a guide, someone who knows those woods like the back of their hand, which I do, they haven’t changed since I was a wean.”

“Now hang on Freya, that could be incredibly dangerous. I don’t think they’d even let a civilian anywhere near that village.”

“Someone has to do something or they’re all going to die.” He looked uncertain but she was determined to change his mind. “At least let me put it to the powers-that-be. For Craig.”

“Alright,” he eventually replied. “But I want it noted for the record that I think this is a terrible idea.”

“Objection noted.” She picked up Petie and started pulling on his shoes. “Can you swing by James and Vee’s? I need to leave Petie with them. There’s no way I’m taking him anywhere near that village.”

CHAPTER 15

Graeme sauntered back into the village, happy now the emergency services were being held at bay. They’d fart about for hours assessing the situation, deciding what to do next. That left him enough time to complete his work and get out. Worry niggled at the back of his mind. What if he left it too late and he couldn’t make his escape? He would be stopped from continuing his great work.

The isolation of his situation hit him, as it had been doing more and more lately. If he had a partner there would be someone to carry on if he was arrested or killed. The sense of loneliness had been getting stronger lately. It was a hard life wandering from place to place, not putting down any permanent roots, keeping everyone at a distance. He liked women, would have liked to start a relationship, settle down, have a child. He envied ordinary people their ordinary lives, he’d not known normal since he was twelve years old.

Graeme hesitated, his grip on the gun slackening. The thunder was returning, sweeping in from the sea, the clouds in the sky lit up from the inside by the accompanying lightning. He felt like that little boy again, scared, afraid. Never had the police got this close to him before. What would become of society if he was stopped? Evil would be allowed to flourish and that could not happen.

He shrugged himself out of his melancholy. God had charged him with a sacred mission and he would not allow sentiment to get the better of him, it was just a trick of the devil to distract him.

He stood in the centre of the main street, ignoring the bodies lying around him. As far as he was concerned he’d liberated those poor souls from burning forever in hell and returned them to the Saviour. But the rest of the disgusting sacks of evil were still holed up in the pub, thinking its thick walls and locks could save them. He was convinced he’d killed at least one of them in there with the volley of fire, the screams and exclamations had carried all the way up the road, sound had the strange habit of carrying far here. But now they would be cowering in a corner, well out of reach of the windows and Gordon was in there with that beast of a shotgun. He turned cold as he recalled the damage one of those things could do, the shredded bodies of his own family a testament to the power of such a weapon. He had no wish to get anywhere near it again. In fact just the memory of Gordon firing at him with that thing, hearing the roar it made as it spat its shot at him was enough to make his knees weak, the memories rushing back, surrounding him, overwhelming him. He saw his father’s chest cavity torn open, his mother’s dead eyes staring at him as he cowered under the table, his sister’s screams as she was mercilessly blown apart. Finally he saw Malcolm’s ruined corpse.

Graeme closed his eyes and shivered. That would not be him. All he had to do was stay out of range of Gordon’s shotgun and he’d be fine. The weapon was big and cumbersome, it didn’t have the range or accuracy of his rifle. He had the upper hand in every way, he told himself in an attempt to rid himself of the last of the clinging memories and the cold fear that always accompanied him, reducing him to a child again. He bent double, resting his arms on his knees, the rifle clutched in one hand, and breathed deeply, his stomach rolling over.

When the feeling had passed he straightened up and gazed at the sky. The clouds were coming in thick and fast, hanging low and heavy. The thunder was getting closer, the wind picking up, sending the waves crashing against the shore.

He pulled on the night vision goggles and studied the surrounding area. There didn’t appear to be any activity. Next he took out the thermal camera and looked for any heat signatures belonging to interlopers stupid enough to come into the village, but once again all seemed quiet. All the activity was confined to the pub. Graeme smiled. He was going to make sure they weren’t active for much longer.

Full on assault with the rifle would be useless. He could plant an explosive at a strategic point of the pub but the walls were old, thick and built to last. There was only one solution and that was to smoke them out.

“It’s gone too quiet out there,” said Craig. “It’s making me uneasy.”

“Shall I take another look Sarge?” said Steve.

“You’ve already done your share.” Craig looked to Hughes cowering in a corner, knees pulled into his chest. He hadn’t uttered a single word since Craig had attacked him. “Are you going to do your job and take a look?”

Hughes vehemently shook his head, unable to look him in the eye.

“You fucking disgust me,” muttered Craig before turning his back on him.

Tears squeezed from the corners of Hughes’s eyes and he buried his face in his knees.

“I’ll take a look,” said Gordon.

“It’s not your place,” replied Craig. “We’re the ones paid to put ourselves at risk.”

“And this is my pub.” He picked up his shotgun that was propped against the bar and brandished it lovingly. “I’ll look from the upstairs window.”

“Be careful. I’m guessing he’s got night vision. He’ll be able to see you.”

“Just leave it to me,” he said before jogging upstairs.

The others lapsed back into silence. Craig took in each weary face, wondering how much longer they’d be able to tolerate the strain. To his pride his mum seemed to be coping admirably. He was particularly worried about the older villagers. One had already succumbed to a heart attack. What if more did? This had to end soon.

“The thunder’s back,” commented Lizzy.

Craig lifted his head and listened. It was right overhead and he hadn’t even registered it was there. He swallowed hard. The storm was back, which meant the danger must be.

“Where are you going?” said Nora when he started to crawl towards the window.

“I have to look.”

“Gordon’s taking a look. Leave it to him.”

“The storm’s back.”

“So? What’s that got to do with anything?” She recalled Freya’s words during the Docherty debacle and understood what he was referring to. “Oh no.”

A huge noise made them all jump, Hughes actually groaning in fear, but it was only Gordon racing back down the stairs from the flat above. “Someone’s moving about outside,” he called as he ran for the front door.

“Jesus, don’t let him go out there,” called Craig.

Craig, Steve and Bill scrambled to their feet and tried to rush him but Steve slipped on the pool of Toby’s blood and went down, taking the other two with him. By the time they’d got to their feet Gordon had pulled open the heavy door and was outside.

“I see you, you bastard,” yelled Gordon before blasting the gun in the direction he’d spied the movement from the window.

Gordon’s heart pounded and his senses sang. He hadn’t felt so alive in years. A whimper of pain from the direction he was firing only spurred him on. He broke the gun, yanked out the spent cartridges, shoved two more into the chamber then snapped it shut. He raised the weapon and pulled the trigger, sending another volley of deadly shot into the blackness. He couldn’t see a fucking thing but he didn’t care, he felt wild, invincible. Finally he was living again.

A sharp pain in his stomach didn’t slow him down. He knew he’d been shot but he didn’t care. He broke the weapon again and reloaded. Another pain started up in his stomach then a third in his left shoulder, joined by the warm trickle of blood. But he was on an adrenaline high and he fought through the encroaching pain and fuzziness to let off one more volley before dropping to his knees. When light shone all around him he felt sure he was dying and was heading into the light. Arms around his waist made him realise it was the light from the pub. He was pulled back inside and as his sight started to fail he saw Craig snatch up his shotgun.

“We know it’s you Graeme,” Craig called into the darkness as he retreated back into the pub, wielding the gun. “You’re going to prison for the rest of your life, that’s if this doesn’t get you first.”

Craig dashed back inside and locked the door. Gordon was laid flat on his back, gazing up at the ceiling of the pub he’d run for years. Blood bubbled up over his lips and he released a wheezy chuckle.

“I hit him,” he managed to gasp. He knew he was dying but he felt no sadness. On the contrary the pain was finally over. He could hear the voices of the others telling him to hang on, feel hands trying to staunch the flow of blood, another hand clutching onto his but he ignored them all. Instead he smiled at the face floating before him, the soft gentle face that he loved more than anything…

“Gordon hang on, don’t give up,” yelled Craig, clamping a towel over one of the stomach wounds but blood just bubbled up beneath it. He watched as Gordon’s eyes turned glassy but he had a smile on his face, as though he was happy about what was happening.

“Isla,” breathed Gordon, the name turning into a death rattle.

When his jaw went slack and his head lolled to one side, Craig pressed his fingers to the pulse in his neck. “Shit,” he sighed, hanging his head. “He’s gone.”

“Out of the way, I can bring him back,” said Lizzy, preparing to resuscitate him.

Craig caught her hand. “Leave him be. He was happy to go. He said Isla’s name.”

As Lizzy started to cry Craig buried his face in his bloody hands. “Dammit,” he whispered.

Graeme staggered through the back door of Lizzy and Jimmy’s cottage, the feel of his own blood trickling down his arm making him want to throw up. In all the years he’d been doing this he’d never got injured before, consequently he hadn’t brought anything to patch himself up with. He didn’t think a plaster and a tube of Savlon would be enough to sort out the damage to his arm. But Lizzy used to be a nurse and she still tended to a lot of people in the village. If anyone would have the right equipment she would. Plus there was a good view down the street from here so he could keep an eye on the bastards in case they decided to try and escape. The only problem was he was too terrified to look at the wound. He was afraid that the only thing holding his arm on was the jacket and if he took if off the limb would drop to the floor with a sickening wet thud, just like his sister’s had when Malcolm had blasted it off her shoulder.

He doubled over and retched into the sink both at the memory and the pain.

“Pull yourself together Doggett,” he muttered before gingerly shrugging himself out of his jacket. An appalling pain blazed a path down his arm into his fingers and he groaned out loud. For a moment he thought he was going to he sick again so he took in a few deep breaths, urging the sensation away and fortunately it passed.

Finally he freed himself from the jacket and his arm remained attached to his shoulder.

“Oh thank you God,” he breathed.

However blood was still leaking from the injury. If he didn’t do something he’d end up bleeding to death.

It took him another minute to pluck up the courage to look, the fingers of his right hand gripping the left shoulder of his jumper. His heart banged against his ribcage as he tried to summon the willpower, but all he could see were the bodies of those he’d loved most.

“Come on Graeme,” he hissed.

The sound of his own voice snapped him out of it and he yanked down the jumper.

Again he sagged with relief. The shot had just nicked his upper arm, slicing through the skin but avoiding the structures below. Thank Christ he’d sidestepped when Gordon had run out at him like a maniac.

Quickly he set about cleaning and bandaging the wound. There wasn’t as much blood as he’d initially thought, it had all been in his overactive imagination, fuelled by the horrible childhood memories. As he worked anger filled him. Small wonder Logan, Lynch and Docherty had all failed, the residents of Blair Dubh had some dark luck surrounding them. The evil they nurtured protected them.

He gritted his jaw not just against the pain but the rage too as he dressed the wound, soothing himself with the knowledge that he’d killed Gordon. He’d put too many bullets in him for him to have survived. One less evil-doer in the world. Begrudgingly he admitted that he admired the way he’d gone out. It had been very brave, if extremely reckless. Gordon had died like a man. He couldn’t say the same for the future of the others cowering inside the pub, thinking it could save them.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned as he cleaned up the wound with antiseptic, which felt like he’d applied fire directly to his skin. He screwed his eyes tight shut and gritted his teeth, the tendons straining in his neck.

When the agony began to abate and he was able to move again he cleaned away the blood. Fortunately there didn’t appear to be any shot still in the wound. On the down side the flesh was exposed, it had split the skin clean open. He’d never been at all squeamish but it was different when it came to his own body. The sight of that split skin made him dizzy. It required stitches but that would have to wait. Instead he bandaged it as tightly as he could, which wasn’t easy one-handed, then staggered into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa.

Graeme released a growl and curled the fingers of his uninjured arm into a fist. The good residents of Blair Dubh were going to pay for this.