Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) (2 page)

“There’s been a change of plan.”

***

John and Sandy had really gone to town. Pints had led to cocktails which led to shorts which in turn had led to bad behaviour. They had been demonstrating a now forgotten theory involving vertically stacked pint glasses to two young students when an almighty crash heralded an early exit from Rab’s, forcing them out into the billowing snowstorm which had wrapped itself around the city.

“Where did all this come from Sandy?  I could do without it that’s for sure – let’s not hang about for too long – where are we heading?”

“Devil May Care?”

“Sandy,” John protested, he knew where the conversation was going.

“Go on JJ – just for one.”

“I can’t – you know I can’t.”

“Are you saying you won’t?”

“I’m saying I shouldn’t,” John smiled and Sandy led the way.

Devil May Care was the latest in a short line of ‘exotic’ bars which had opened up in the last ten years but it was by no means in the top tier. Fashioned into the ground floor of an otherwise derelict tenement block it had at one time been a thriving club but was now home to the less exclusive end of what was supposedly a luxury market. Every time Arbogast passed it he was reminded of a short-lived topless hairdressing salon which had opened amidst howls of protest. They said they weren’t sure if it was a backdoor brothel. It was and it had been his smiling face which had closed it down, his picture on the front page of all the papers, making him the butt of a thousand jokes. The picture in the papers was far from flattering and the copy painted the snippers as slappers with faces to match. To say that Devil May Care was bottom of the barrel would be unkind but you could still see it if you looked hard enough. Badly hand-drawn outlines of unlikely dancing girls announced the club’s mission statement from the off. When they arrived outside it was still only 11:30 and the place had just opened. If the club’s doorman was sober he would see the first guests of the night were far from it. John had met Sandy straight from his weekend shift at 4:30pm and they had drank straight through, so it felt later than it was. When the doorman asked if they had been drinking they said ‘just a couple’ and by the time they made their grand entrance it was hard to say who was most disappointed. The circus began in earnest with one girl taking lazily to the pole in a move which was supposed to pique their interest. Three girls mobbed Sandy at the bar, with flattery disguising a dogfight for tips and the start of business on a cold winter’s night. Arbogast got talking with a dark haired eastern looking woman with eyes he could not see past.

“Will you dance for me?”

“Come with me.”

She was sallow skinned and wore light blue lingerie which made a showcase of an arse which rocked from side to side as she led him by hand to the red room at the back. A figure at the door told him ‘look but don’t touch.’ As she sat him down she undressed him with her eyes and herself with her hands. He knew he shouldn’t have come. He lent to touch her right breast which was now just inches from his face but had his hand brushed away. He was quite drunk and definitely in the mood for more than was on offer. Drunk and turned on he reached behind her back and grabbed her, bringing her body towards him. He kissed her violently. She screamed, turning from goddess to banshee in one easy breath. The next thing he knew she had fallen back. Arbogast was hoisted from his seat by two men he hadn’t noticed before. He felt a sharp pain in his armpits as their ham fists dug deep. He couldn’t quite work out what was going on although he knew this hadn’t been part of the plan, as he was dragged through the hall and was unceremoniously thrown through the fire doors.

“You were told no hands – so don’t come back you stupid prick,” was the last thing he heard as the city whirled by in a haze, his head hitting off the side of an industrial bin which was perfectly positioned to break his fall. As he lay face-down and unconscious in the snow a small trickle of blood oozed from his forehead which dripped to the ground, mingling with the rest of the garbage from the day before.

2

George Rome had been farming for 25 years and had never seen anything quite as bad as this. He’d spent early evening rounding up the sheep from the higher pastures with his son Gerry, shepherding the animals back to the warmth of the barn and out of the reach of the thickening storm. That way at least he would be able to feed them and they would be safer too. If the weather front continued for any length of time George knew that it would soon become impossible to reach the animals and he couldn’t afford to lose stock at this point in the season. Herding sheep in the snow was no easy task and it had taken four hours to find them all, with white on white being a hard ask. Finally they had accounted for the entire flock and had driven them all safely back down the two mile journey to the farmhouse. By this time the snow was heavy and drifting deeply and it looked likely to get worse overnight. Satisfied they had done everything they could the family settled down for the night and waited.

It was 2:00am when George opened his eyes. Something had got his attention. Hauling himself from his bed George could feel the freezing cold bite at his arms and feet. He quickly pulled on his robe and crept out of the bedroom, taking care not to wake Jean. The kitchen thermometer showed -14c which was colder than he had expected and worse than he feared. George went through the house to check no-one was there. It struck him as a ridiculous routine, creeping through the house with a poker from the hearth, but it put his mind at rest. It could just have been the cat or probably more likely a noise from the barn, which tonight was full of sheep not used to being there and certainly not used to the temperature. He pulled trousers and a jumper from the laundry basket and made his way over to the barn to check.

The snow was deep. There must have been more than a foot in the courtyard, which was sheltered from the wind so he could only imagine what it would be like in open country. George Rome checked the barn. Nothing. There were no tracks so he ruled out foxes,
‘It’s unlikely any animals will be out hunting tonight,’
he thought,
‘and if they did try, how far would they get?
’ Cursing his intuition George knew he had wasted his time and also lost half an hour’s sleep which he would regret come morning. After knocking the snow from his boot he made his way back up the stairs to bed. He rubbed his face which was numb from the blizzard outside. And it was then that he noticed. Outside in the gloom he saw a row of lights and what appeared to be a bus.

George woke his son and the two went to work. Gerry fired up the tractor and together they attached their snow plough. The Rome farm was near to the Kirk o’ Shotts, an ancient church in central Lanarkshire which sat on a hill, dominating the skyline for miles around. This was the high ground between the east and west coasts and snow was a fairly regular feature in wintertime.  Normally they used the plough on the poorly maintained single track back roads to clear avenues for their cattle and to open up access around the farm. Theirs was a supply and demand business and they needed to keep their assets in good condition or they could quite easily face financial ruin. Tonight looked like being an entirely different prospect.

“I knew I’d heard something,” George said, “Depending on which way the wind blows you can just hear the engine of the bus rumbling away in the background. The lights are on so there must be someone on board.”

“You don’t know that dad,” but George just shook his head.

“We need to reach the bus.”

The coach was on the main road around a mile away from the farm and the snow was deep. The coach sat in a dip in the land and the snow was drifting deeply on one side, which was now partially covering the windows on the lower level at the driver’s side.

“It’s going to take us a while to get there,” Gerry said, “The plough isn’t really designed for snow this deep and I can’t see that we’ll make it all the way. Maybe we should phone the police?”

“There’s no time for that,” George said. He was becoming impatient with his son’s reluctance to help, “It would take the emergency services hours to get here in this weather. We’ve seen this before and we could end up being cut off for a time, so we need to try and get there now. OK?”

It was hard going and the snow got deeper as they worked their way downhill. There wouldn’t normally be a bus on this stretch so George guessed it must have been diverted onto the old A8, which ran parallel to the newer motorway.
‘It must been closed down,’
he thought. George knew from experience that planners never planned for weather like this. At this temperature the normal way of making roads safe didn’t work. Grit and salt were only effective up to temperature of around -10c and it was way below that already. George looked at his watch which read 2:45am and he wondered if the main road might reopen. There would be little point in clearing the motorway during the blizzard as the snow was coming down at such a rate that any progress would be undone in a matter of minutes.

They had managed to dig through about a quarter of a mile in the first hour when the lights went out in the bus and the engine stopped. They saw it shudder to a stop and the chassis swung on its suspension from side to side as the pistons stopped firing and the engine died.

“That’s bad news son. If there’s anyone on there, it’s going to get cold pretty quick,” George said, trying to convince himself the coach could still be reached more than anything else. The closer they got the harder the task became. The sheer weight of the snow was causing problems for the plough blade and they had to take it in turns to physically move snow by hand to relieve the pressure on the plough and allow it to keep moving. After a while it became clear that they were facing a thankless task. In the end the tractor gave up, the dark diesel fumes spluttering into the night against the tractor’s arc lights, a stark contrast to the whiteout which surrounded them. The pressure was too much and the machine overheated and died. They still had a reasonably clear route back to the farm but still had 300 metres to go before they would be able to reach the bus.

George phoned his wife Jean who was now wide awake back at the farm, “Hi...yes but its bloody hard work...listen could you get over to the barn and attach the trailer to the quad bike and get it down here?... it should be fine...listen we’re having to dig by hand...the tractor’s died...no it’s not ideal...but it’s the only option we have and we’re close now, so close...OK yes...of course...yes OK...speak soon. Hurry, Jean.”

Both father and son were both exhausted and freezing by this point. Their jackets weren’t made for these conditions and their hands were numb and their faces ruddy and blank as the biting icy wind robbed them of expression, the cold bringing tears to their eyes. Two hours later they were close, inching ahead using shovels and grit, determined to reach the bus – finally they got there.

“Thank Christ,” Gerry said, “I hope there’s someone in there after all this.”

Following the instructions on the side of the bus he turned the emergency access lever clockwise beside the door. Nothing happened. He took off his gloves and forced his hands through the rubber seal between the double doors. Slowly they juddered open until there was enough room for them to squeeze through.

“Pass the torch, will you?” George said.

The bright beam shone a halo into the interior. Outside there was no light and the grey skies left the coach looking black inside. It took George time to find a focal point as the torchlight swept through the bottom deck. It seemed there was no one on board after all. The driver’s seat was empty. The key was still in the ignition.

“There’s no one here but why would they have left the engine running?”

“It’s strange right enough – best check the top deck too,” He watched his father make his way up the steps. When he reached the top floor the low height of the roof forced George to stoop.

“There’s nothing here,” George said as he paced the isle, “Wait – what’s this?” he said bending over to pick up a pair of jeans on the floor and then a jacket and jumper. “Women’s clothes?” he added sniffing the garments in a gesture Gerry found odd but didn’t mention.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be leaving much behind on a night like tonight,” Gerry said, but that was all there was and both men then returned to the bottom deck and sat down.

“Well that was a complete waste of fucking time,” Gerry said but wished he hadn’t when he caught the glance from his father.

“We had to try – what if someone had been here?”

Then from the back of the bus came a soft thud. Both men were startled and Gerry screamed despite himself.

“What was that?” he said, whispering, concerned that he might have given himself away.

“Snow falling from the roof perhaps? Although it sounded like it was inside – somewhere at the back?”

“I’ll check,” Gerry said, trying to appear a bit braver as he edged forward, torch in hand.

The bottom deck was split into three compartments. The first two quarters were reserved for seats which were arranged around three sets of tables as was standard in the luxury model. At the back a boxed off area at the side revealed a spiralling staircase which led to the top deck, while at the end of the aisle on the bottom there was a door for the onboard toilet. The rest of the bus was given over to luggage space at the back and was only accessible from outside. The door of the toilet, which was covered in black material and matched the interior walls, was closed. But it was obvious this was where the sound had come from.

As he opened the door he peered round with fearful eyes. When he saw her, he wondered if it was already too late.

3

When the coach was an hour overdue John Dale started to worry, but given the blizzard he knew it would take time for Stevie to make it back to base. When he still hadn’t returned after two hours, he became anxious and had an uneasy feeling something had happened. The radio was dead, with white noise the only response. As a last resort he had checked the travel websites and although there were multiple road closures there were no major incidents reported and he could not figure out why Stevie had not arrived back. John Dale had taken a lot of stick when he had taken Stevie on because of his background but he had reasoned that you couldn’t label someone for the rest of their life just because of one mistake however serious. Stevie had already paid his dues. He had been a great driver these last four years and always stuck to the timetable, until now anyway. That he hadn’t heard from him in since he left from the bus station in Glasgow was worrying but the motorway had been closed and it would have taken time to wind through the city and the surrounding countryside for what should have been a 25 minute trip. Dales Travel catered for tourism but the company had branched out to provide a limited commuter service between Lanarkshire and Glasgow. Business had been slow of late and when John Dale saw the forecast he sensed he might have been gifted with a golden opportunity to generate some good PR and extra cash. There would be a lot of people stranded by the weather and additional coaches would be in high demand. By stepping in and providing a lifeline for commuters John Dale knew he was facing a win-win situation.
‘But where the hell was the coach,’
he thought. He tried the radio one more time but again all he heard was static. All the other drivers were home and dry and he was alone now at the Shotts depot having sent everyone else home. John only lived a few streets away so he could afford to stay on, but the weather was hellish and he knew the business would be shut down for at least the 24 hours while the authorities tried to beat back mother nature and restore normality. Having paced the shop floor for half an hour, checking his watch every minute, he bit the bullet, phoned 999 and reported the coach as missing.