Electric Light (Blair Dubh Trilogy #3) (29 page)

“Let’s stand over here,” she said, leading him to her parents’ graves. She still thought of John Macalister as her dad and she always would. He’d done his best for her. For some indefinable reason being close to them made her feel a bit safer as they continued to watch the church burn.

Although she tried hard not to she couldn’t help looking towards Logan’s grave. Even unmarked she could place it exactly, the slightly mounded lump of grass-covered earth overrun with shadows. His grand monument had been torn down when he had been revealed for the monster he was. Learning that he had been her biological father hadn’t softened her to his memory in any way. He was still the man who’d murdered her mother and so many other women, whose actions had led to her being taken from the only home she’d ever known, setting her on a path of despair and hopelessness. She hated him more than ever.

Craig looked back over his shoulder to Martin Lynch’s grave that lay just beyond the boundary of the graveyard, the villagers had refused to allow him to rest in hallowed ground. He’d been a friend of Craig’s for years, he’d been a man he thought he could trust. He’d also tried to kill Freya.

Both of them could feel the evil creeping up on them, the malign influence left behind by not just Logan but Lynch and Docherty too twisting the ice in their hearts, but outside the church its authority over them didn’t feel as strong. In a way Graeme had been right, the village was infected but he’d been wrong about Freya being the source. It had all stemmed from Logan. He was the font of it all and he’d never release Blair Dubh from his stranglehold. He was master here, just as he had been in life, and nothing had changed. Until now.

“You don’t think this is a bit sacrilegious?” said Craig as he watched the church burn.

“No. Logan used that church for evil purposes. I don’t think God will be angry with us.” During the years that she’d struggled to survive on the streets Freya had found it very hard to believe in God but she did now. In the aftermath of the Blair Dubh Massacre, as it had been officially referred to by the media, she’d pondered on Graeme’s words about fate. How had she survived when so many had died? The answer was she wasn’t finished here yet, she still had things to do and do them she would. Obliterating the church was first on her list. It was time to try and atone for what her ‘father’ had done. It wasn’t just a purification of the village, herself and Craig but their son too, who likewise had Logan’s blood running through his tiny veins. Through Freya and Petie he would live on but they would never talk about him. John Macalister was her dad, the man who’d raised her and Petie would be told he was his grandfather - a good, decent man who’d loved his wife very much. One day she would have to tell Petie the truth, it would be impossible to keep it from him with the amount of media coverage there’d been, but that was way in the future. When the time came she and Craig would tackle it together.

They both staggered back slightly as the wind blew harder, sending the smoke eddying around them, blocking everything out until they were surrounded by a wall of black smoke. They coughed and spluttered as they inhaled it, squinting as it seeped into their eyes, Freya stumbled over a gravestone and her hand was snatched from Craig’s.

“Craig,” she called, but her voice was lost in the wind. Vaguely she could hear him calling for her but he sounded miles away.

She spun round, trying to get her bearings but could see nothing, it was as though night had come prematurely. It was getting hard to breathe and she choked on the smoke.

As she groped blindly around the graveyard she tripped over another tombstone and went down, falling onto the grass on her hands and knees, coughing hard. She could still hear Craig’s voice but he sounded even fainter. When she took in a breath to call back to him all she did was choke on the acrid smoke. With horror she realised she wasn’t breathing in any ordinary smoke but smoke filled with the infection that had corrupted the village and she retched violently, wanting it out of her body.

“Craig,” she cried but her voice was nothing more than a whisper, her throat parched.

She pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the ache in her knee that was starting up and hobble in the direction of what she thought was the road back down to the village, trying to escape the blanket of smoke, but no matter which way she turned all she encountered was swirling blackness. Gazing upwards through the funnel of smog she could spy glimpses of tantalising blue, of fresh air and freedom but she was imprisoned by the miasma that seemed to be alive, coiling around her like a serpent and squeezing the air out of her.

Freya continued to stumble on but it seemed that no matter how far she walked or which direction she took all she could see at her feet were grass and gravestones. She could imagine the smoke billowing down the hill into the village and smothering it. Logan’s final revenge.

Pushing aside these disturbing thoughts she pressed on, groping blindly before her, hoping to find Craig.

The heat was getting closer, like a furnace on her face and with a horrible jolt of realisation she recognised that she was close to the burning church but she didn’t know how to get away from it, it was all around her, hints of orange through the black smoke no matter which way she turned. She coughed violently, the smoke starting to make her feel woozy. Her head spun and she staggered and almost fell, the church looming over her out of the smoke, the entire building engulfed by flames, the heat searing. Freya reeled away, stumbling over the uneven ground, praying she spotted some landmark that would help guide her away from the fire, but the blackness of the smoke prevented any clear vision.

A figure emerged before her out of the smoke and she staggered towards it.

CHAPTER 31

“Craig,” Freya cried, reaching out for him.

She recoiled and lurched away from him when she saw the look on his face, the dead look in his eyes. In response the ice in her heart shifted again, seeking to envelop her, but she wouldn’t let it.

“Craig,” she repeated when he advanced on her, his body looking stronger, fitter. He wasn’t limping anymore and the smoke didn’t seem to affect him either while it stung her eyes and made her cough.

He made a grab for her and she jumped out of reach. This angered him and he released a feral grunt.

“Craig, stop, it’s me,” she yelled before launching into a fresh bout of coughing.

Through a brief break in the smoke she saw the church was entirely consumed by fire and teetering on total collapse. She prayed her theory was correct.

She was so disorientated that when he lunged for her again she was unable to get out of the way quick enough and he grabbed her by the upper arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. The face she looked up into wasn’t her husband’s, it was one that was both a stranger and someone she could recall all too well.

“Daughter,” he hissed.

“If you can hear me Craig, I’m sorry,” she said, drawing back her fist.

The punch to the gut doubled him up and he dropped to his knees. She was about to run - it didn’t matter that she couldn’t see where, she just had to get away - but the sound of him throwing up made her stop. She turned and saw him attempting to get back to his feet and unable to. When he raised his head he was her husband again.

She ran back to him and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Come on,” she yelled, attempting to be heard over a huge, bestial roar just beyond the curtain of smoke. Alarmed, she hauled him to his feet and together they staggered back from the heat, his weight threatening to pull her down but determination kept them both upright.

All of a sudden the wind changed direction and it was like a giant vacuum had been switched on. The smoke was captured in another vortex of swirling air and sucked upwards into the sky and she could see again, like a curtain had been lifted. This massive eddy of smoke was pulled back over the church, funnelling the smoke up into the sky, away from the village.

Freya could tolerate Craig’s weight no longer and fell, bringing him down with her. She lifted her face out of the grass and quietly chuckled. The roar she’d heard was the roof of the church collapsing in on itself. All the magnificent stained glass windows were gone, the once-resplendent structure left a shell.

Anxiously she clasped Craig’s face in her hands and studied him carefully. The pale face that looked back at her was entirely her husband’s. “Are you okay?” she said. “I’m sorry I had to hit you but you weren’t yourself.”

“Jesus that hurt,” he said, massaging his abdomen.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You were right to do it. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t hit me. I’m sorry Freya, it wasn’t me…”

“It’s okay, I know,” she said, pressing her forehead to his.

She helped him sit up and together they watched the massive cyclone of smoke being carried across the water, taking the infection away from the village. The sea churned violently in response to the power of the wind. Leaves, sticks and other debris were carried high into the air above the church where they remained, jostled about by the buffeting wind. The chaos had caused the birds to fly up out of the trees and away from the village. The sun shone brightly, sending the temperature sky-rocketing and as Freya felt the sweat gather on her back she saw it bead on Craig’s face, the elements at their most tempestuous again.

Freya stared into the orange flames dancing in the dark smoke and thought she spied a figure standing in what remained of the doorway of the church - now just a stone arch, the door entirely gone - a tall, resplendent figure whose eyes burned harder than the fire.

“Time for you to go to hell Logan,” she whispered.

As the walls, that had stood for centuries, finally gave way with a loud crash the figure vanished. At that very moment the wind died down, the raging smoke turning into little puffs of grey cloud as the collapsed building settled, only the embers burning now. The feeling that they were being watched had gone.

Freya took in a deep breath and smiled. The ice in her heart had melted and the temperature was gradually decreasing. “It feels like a weight’s been taken off my shoulders.”

“It does,” Craig nodded. “I think your idea worked.”

They stared at the remains of the church smouldering away, the big oak tree beside it reduced to a blackened stump. He fell onto his back on the grass, exhausted and gazed up at the clear sky. “Thank God that’s over with. I’m knackered.”

Freya wanted to ask him if he’d seen the figure standing in the doorway but thought she’d only sound stupid. It hadn’t been a figure but the smoke playing tricks on her eyes. At least, that was what she was determined to tell herself.

“We’d better get out of here before the fire engines arrive,” he said.

They hauled themselves up off the grass and headed for the road that would take them back down to the village, still coughing, faces smudged with soot.

Freya paused before the graves of her parents to whisper, “I won’t come again but that doesn’t matter. You’re not here anymore. Goodbye.” She touched their names etched into the stone before turning her back and walking away.

They only had to pause once back down the hill for Craig to get his breath back. He hated not being at full strength, it made him feel vulnerable and incapable of protecting his family. Not that Freya had needed his help to overcome Graeme Doggett. The memory of her shielding him from Graeme would never leave him. If he was truthful he felt a little shame too that he hadn’t done more to defend her. He’d acted recklessly and put her in even more danger but that was what happened when he let his emotions get the better of him. He was incredibly proud of her bravery but he’d recognised in that moment when armed response had finally arrived that she had been fully capable of killing Graeme. Not that he blamed her for a second after everything that psycho had done but she’d definitely had it in her. He also recalled the strange way she’d looked, her green eyes burning with more than her usual inner fire, the shape of her face distorted. She’d told him that in that moment she’d experienced the same sense of possession he had, the one that had made him want to attack her up there in the graveyard. He stifled a shiver. That feeling had gone, never to come back, thank God.

At the bottom of the hill the remaining villagers had gathered outside the pub, watching in silence as they made their way back to the car. Freya gave them all one last fierce glower before turning her back, dismissing them. Craig gave Jimmy and Bill a nod each, which they returned, Bill holding Toby’s dog Hamlet as well as Nippy on their leads, the latter’s belly round and full with pups. He’d felt sorry for the orphaned dogs and given them both a home. Unlike their owners they were sweet-natured little things.

No words were exchanged, no goodbyes said, but Craig and Freya also knew everyone would get a case of amnesia when the authorities demanded to know who had burnt down the church.

They drove back to Glasgow in silence, the stink of smoke filling the car. When they drew up in front of their house Craig switched off the engine and took Freya’s hand. “You okay?”

She nodded. “We got rid of something really bad today and just knowing I never have to go back to that village again is a huge relief.”

“We’ll move past this,” he said determinedly.

She planted a kiss on his lips. “I know we will.”

They strolled up the garden path hand in hand and Craig marvelled at how relaxed his wife was. It seemed that since they’d exorcised Blair Dubh the last of her own personal demons had gone too. He felt better too, the oppression that had dogged him had finally released its hold and he was entirely in control of himself.

They entered their living room to find Nora sat on the floor playing with Petie. She’d stuck to her word and decided to leave Blair Dubh once and for all, the Graeme Doggett incident one life and death situation too many. She’d put her cottage on the market, the cottage she’d shared with her beloved husband Pete for four decades, where she’d raised her son and, to her surprise, it had been a huge relief. She’d found a comfortable flat just a couple of streets away from Freya and Craig that suited her nicely and she got to see her grandson everyday. After quickly settling in and making new friends she wondered why she’d been so resistant to the move, she hadn’t been so happy in years. However her expression when they both walked in was wary, she knew exactly why they’d made their final pilgrimage back to Blair Dubh.

“How did it go?” said Nora, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“Good,” smiled Freya, bending down to kiss Petie. “We did what we had to do and we think it was a success.”

“The whole place felt different afterwards, lighter, like it was easier to take a breath,” said Craig.

Nora smiled at Freya. “You look better too.”

“I feel it. Finally we can all get on with our lives.”

The smile Freya gave her in return made Nora’s heart soar. They’d had a very long and very difficult heart to heart during which Freya had forgiven her for concealing the truth about her real father and let it go, realising Nora had only been acting in her best interests. Plus she’d been like a second mother to her when she was a child. Hanging onto that pain would only have kept her in the past and all she wanted to do was move on with her family, which Nora was at the very core of.

“Another letter came for you this morning Freya,” said Nora, holding an envelope out to her.

Freya didn’t want to touch it when she saw the prison stamp on the upper right corner.

“Has that arsehole not got the message yet?” said Craig angrily.

“Language in front of the bairn,” said Nora, indicating Petie, who was banging two building blocks together, completely oblivious to the conversation.

“Sorry Mum but how many letters is that now?”

“Seven,” replied Freya, eyes fixed on the envelope.

“Throw it away,” he said.

“I may as well read it. I’ve read all the others. Excuse me.”

She retreated upstairs to the bedroom and shut the door. Not that she had anything to hide, she always let Craig look at Graeme’s letters but she liked to be alone when reading them for the first time.

Freya opened it up and sighed. There was nothing new, just a quick rundown of his very monotonous life. Overnight he’d become the most famous mass murderer in British history with a frightening amount of kills under his belt, consequently he was treated with great wariness in prison, the other prisoners deciding it would be in their best interests to stay out of his way. After his arrest they’d discovered his real name was actually Richard Murphy, but he’d refused to relinquish the name Graeme Doggett. In his letters he’d told her that Richard had died with his family and he’d been reborn as Graeme, the avenging angel.

Once again Graeme bragged about the marriage proposals he’d received and the number of women telling him they wanted him to father their babies. These women completely boggled Freya’s mind and she wondered at what state their lives must be in to make them think a man like Graeme was a good prospect as a life partner. It was as though he was trying to make her jealous. Pathetic really.

His letter once again encouraged her to
keep up the good work
. She knew what this was referring to, it meant he wanted her to continue where he’d left off, executing innocent people while wrapped up in some deluded God complex. He was once again convinced that Freya was his rightful heir and he repeated that she’d made a mistake by refusing to run off with him. She sighed and shook her head as she continued to read, there was nothing new. She was about to screw it up when a line at the bottom of the page caught her eye -
you are your father’s daughter.

Freya’s jaw tensed as she was sent hurtling back to that night in the church. Graeme was on the floor begging for his life. She could feel the weight of the gun in her hand, her finger curled around the trigger. All it had taken was a gentle squeeze, it was surprising how easy it was and a bullet had ploughed into Graeme’s left shoulder. He’d stared at her in shock, face turning white then he’d broken into a slow, maniacal smile. She’d meant to kill a man and it was only Providence that meant he was still alive. After firing she’d let the weapon drop, claiming it had been an accident, that it had gone off in her hand. Thorne had bought her helpless female story but Craig hadn’t. He’d seen the whole thing and she’d confessed her intentions to him the second he’d confronted her about it while he was recuperating in hospital. He didn’t blame her, he’d said if the gun had been in his hand he’d have shot the bastard willingly and repeatedly and his dad had never killed anyone in his life. But Freya didn’t like the thing inside her that had found it so easy to point a gun at someone and pull the trigger. It wasn’t just the malign influence in the church that had made her capable, the ability had already been within her, something that lurked in her DNA.

There was a knock on the door. “Freya?”

“Come in,” she called.

Craig slipped into the room and quietly closed the door. “Are you okay?”