The Second Stranger, page 19
Clarity at last. There was indeed a reason Troy Foley had chosen this particular February night to escape. There was a reason why the site of the crash had been planned so close to the Mackinnon hotel. And that reason was me.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said. The words sounded hollow and I knew it.
‘Let me clarify,’ said the man across the table. ‘Just before I had your brother killed, a helpful prison guard reported a conversation he’d heard; a conversation in which Cameron Yorke told his sister – a regular visitor to Porterfell – about a savings plan and a storage locker. Naturally I was interested and paid young Cameron a visit. Delivered a threat to him. And during the course of our conversation, it became clear the lad knew exactly what I was after. Soon he realised he was a dead man either way and clammed up. Must’ve loved his sister, eh?’ An unbearable sadness dragged at me. I wiped my eyes. Foley continued. ‘So I know you have access to a locker in some facility somewhere, and I know there’s a bag that belongs to me. And I also know that you have all the necessary details to access the bag.’
I tried not to dwell on Cameron’s final, desperate moments as he’d attempted to shield me. There would be time for mourning later. Right now, I had to hold it together and somehow out-think this man. ‘And if you get your money?’
He used his good arm to tap the breast pocket of his coat. ‘Well, in return, you get your passport,’ he said, ‘and you’re on your way. So I’m guessing that on your big loop of keys, there’s something that opens a locker. Hand it over.’
I tried to swallow. ‘Not as simple as that. Electronic keypad with a six-digit code number.’ Foley’s face tightened. A couple of years behind bars had left him out of touch. ‘I’ll give you the number,’ I said. ‘I don’t care about the bag. I just need to catch my flight.’
Foley grinned. ‘You expect me to trust you?’
‘I swear. I’ll give you the number. The correct number.’
‘No you won’t,’ Foley said. ‘You’ll give me a number that doesn’t work and by the time I discover my mistake, you’ll be long gone. I didn’t trust your brother and I don’t trust you. Seems we’ll have to pay a visit to this storage place together.’
My stomach heaved. No way. Very slowly, I slid down in my seat. Made it look like exhaustion. Jai would need a clear shot and there was a chance I might kick the stock of Foley’s gun away from his hand; buy my accomplice a valuable second or so. ‘Not if I kill you first,’ I said.
‘Excuse me?’ said Foley icily, stiffening.
This was it. I raised my voice and spat, ‘You heard, Foley.’
It came out high and clear. I waited for a shot. Jai’s voice at the door, at least.
Nothing happened. Except that Foley stood up, lithe like an animal, leaned across the table and struck me hard in the face. For a man of about my size, he had a vicious hook. My chair went over and I crashed to the floor, rolling off my backpack with my cheek blazing, teeth rattling in a spinning head. He was over me pretty quickly, leaning in with a face contorted beyond recognition. An animal anger, as well as his injuries, had transmuted him from man to monster. His good hand came at me and he crushed my throat. I was disabled by a pain so sudden and intense I felt my pulse drum behind my eyes in nauseous flashes. My windpipe closed inward. Foley stank of sweat and blood and desperation. An unyielding iron band across my thyroid cartilage, closing my airway. I threw my arms up and drove my fingernails into something – the man’s face, I hoped – and sucked in a quivering rill of oxygen, drawing frantically through a collapsed throat.
Then he let go and stood.
I managed a shuddering intake of air. It was like breathing broken glass. My front was wet with the monster’s spilt whisky, its smell somehow revolting. I pushed myself back with the heel of one boot. My vision was a wet blur.
Foley’s shape had taken a step back. He was holding my radio. ‘If I didn’t need you alive,’ he said, ‘I’d have very happily strangled the life out of you, bitch.’ He pressed the radio against his chest and awkwardly twisted the volume knob then examined the screen. Satisfied, he spoke into it. ‘It’s me. Where are you up to?’
He drifted beyond the blurred field of my vision and I lay on my back, my throat glowing, trying to regulate my breathing. Somewhere across the room, Foley was talking into the radio but I couldn’t make out the words. Where was Jai? What was I going to do? Hauling air through my swollen windpipe, I tried to bring the room into focus, to gather together the details. The carpet beneath my head. My hockey stick, the cloth tape peeling from the handle. Breathe. An upturned chair beached on its back and, beyond, the familiar shapes of the bar I’d run six nights a week for the last eighteen months. The ceiling roses. Smoked-glass wall lamps set either side of sepia-tinted scenes from Mackinnon history. The photo of the geese Shelley Talbot had professed to like so much; the bar stool where she’d perched as she let me talk, reeled me in, reported back to Foley. Same bar stool Jai had chosen at the start of the night. Coben must have Jai, I thought, breathing in broken parcels. Which meant she had the rifle and any advantage we’d once possessed was gone. Must be her on the radio. I had a vague sense of Foley giving instructions. They’d be taking me with them and there was no way off Farigaig by road, which meant we were heading down to the water, making the journey along Alder’s edge to the boathouse.
It was a walk I’d done many times before. In the summer, the lower path, the one that hugged the inlets and beaches, was green and glistening, peaceful at sundown but by day thronged with guests, birdwatchers and walkers. In those warm months, when the rainwater channels feeding the loch were at their lowest, kids hopped across stepping stones where the tributaries of mountain streams joined the main body of water. It was a flat and gently undulating route to the boathouse, lengthened slightly as it wove in and out, matching the shape of the shoreline. The upper path, though, forked left beyond the terraced gardens and cut through the woods. It was more direct but potentially treacherous. I’d told Foley about Barnacle Bridge before. I just had to pray he hadn’t remembered.
He was over me. I flinched and cowered.
‘You’re going to take me to the boat,’ he said.
I had to use the hockey stick to get myself upright.
31
He waited while I unlocked the bi-fold doors, and we made our way into the darkness. I led, my Midbow a walking stick as we shuffled between terrace tables and out into the deeper snow of the lawn. My neck throbbed and my vision flexed disturbingly. I leant on the stick, and managed one last look back at the Mackinnon as we crossed the open space. I had a strong feeling I would never return. The building that had been home to me for a year and a half stared implacably back, dishevelled but unmoved, its flanks flooded with slipped snow, its terrace doors open and the lights on within. I imagined for a moment how the place might look to the first officer on the scene, fresh from the station in Inverness, leading a team of police across the threshold sometime tomorrow. The fallen tree and the broken frontage. The lobby empty and the cryptic message painted on the corridor wall. The cellars flooded; the kitchen vandalised; the empty bar open to the night. My bedroom with its abandoned suitcases.
Foley jerked the rifle at me. ‘Move.’
The snow beneath our boots was already churned up, a confusion of prints drawing a diagonal line across the lawn towards the loch edge. They were fresh. That meant Coben and Jai were ahead of us. Not necessarily together, I told myself; could be one after the other. Perhaps Jai had been disturbed while he waited outside the bar for me and had withdrawn hastily to safety. He knew what he was dealing with, he was a careful man and there was a chance, however small, that he’d made some circumspect escape. All of which meant he could be among the trees on the route down, ready to spring me free.
The path would be splitting in a matter of minutes. As soon as we were down the steps beyond the gardens I’d have a choice to make. Maybe it would even be a life-or-death choice; the route that carried on to the loch then proceeded along the water’s edge, or the upper path through the pines. My feet and hands had only just recovered feeling and the prospect of descending to the water and following Alder’s inlets through the sub-zero night in clothes still wet from the cellar-flood made me ache. I’d been in earnest spelling out the dangers to Jai; in winter, the little deltas where streams met the loch were often flooded and, with temperatures as they were, I didn’t like the idea of hobbling over unstable ice on senseless feet, clothes sticking to my skin, never sure where ground ended and water began.
The other route – the higher one through the woods – was better. I began nurturing a particular prospect; a possibility attached only to this alternative path. This second route struck off to the left, sticking to higher ground as it passed through the trees. Further up Farigaig’s sides, the mountain streams were a series of deeply cut torrents, foaming down to the flatter ground below, treacherous, particularly when gorged with winter water. The upper route included wooden bridges crossing deeply carved ravines – the drops beneath the wooden structures were long and sheer – before weaving down to the boathouse beside the perimeter fence.
It would be a good place to launch an attack. I feared it would be my last opportunity.
* * *
Just before the junction I misjudged the incline and lost my footing.
My left boot twisted and my Midbow went from under me. I crashed into the snow. The floor thumped the air from me and I lay for a moment on my backpack, groaning, star-peppered sky above, a quilt of snow below. Foley, stooped himself now as his injuries began to take their toll, regarded me with a black scowl, breathing clouds. I tried to swallow, my neck a burning brand of bruises, and felt, for the first time, defeat worm its way through me. I could just lie here, I thought. Close my eyes and slowly die.
‘Get up,’ Foley grunted, gesturing with the barrel of the gun.
I raised an arm, shivering violently. ‘Give me a hand,’ I croaked.
He backed away a step and adjusted his rifle-grip, using the inside of his right elbow to press the stock against his hip. He kept the barrel pointed and the index finger of his right hand tight around the trigger. ‘On your feet.’
I planted the hockey stick, rolled on to my side and pushed up until I was swaying upright. We waded on through thick drifts, each step agonising, until we reached the junction. The moon illuminated a single line of snow-churn – straight on, following the hill down. Two people had descended to Alder’s edge and worked their way along to the boathouse. Coben and Jai. Was Coben leading Jai against his will? It looked that way, unless the tracks had been made at different times. I clung onto the possibility that Jai was ahead of her; that he might be safe and unharmed, even waiting to help me.
The bridge was off to the left. If I led Foley that way now, following the higher path into the woods, I’d be breaking fresh snow. And that meant Jai wasn’t somewhere in front of me and I was on my own. Foley had noticed too. This was it; follow Jai or strike out and head for the bridge. There was only one answer. I turned to Foley. ‘The route up there through the woods is quicker,’ I said.
* * *
Into the trees we went.
Thick cedar, larch and pine grew densely, which meant less snow to fight our way through, but also knitted canopies that blocked the moon, shadows so confusing we had to plant each foot carefully. The woods banked high on our left as the hill climbed, and quickly dropped away from the path to our right. Tangled overstorey scraped back and forth in the wind; trunks and branches creaked, eddies of snow-mist chased their tails at our feet. I heard owls and the bleak cries of crows. The steep beck-channel chattered in the distance. I could hear geese. I’d often heard them flying over the hotel at all times of the night and there were always plenty around Barnacle Bridge.
Soon, the hill to our left became an ice-rimed boulder the size of a house. The path cut around its base and beyond there was just enough moonlight to pick out a lively torrent of water tumbling into a deep black ravine, where it smashed onto snow-topped rocks below. Crossing the gap was Barnacle Bridge. We approached. Nesting geese shifted in the dark. Close to, the water roared and the air was wet. I pointed with my hockey stick. ‘Watch your footing here,’ I said, raising my voice over the noise.
Foley examined the crossing. There was a flurry of wings and a trio of geese took to the air. He didn’t look comfortable. For a horrible second I thought he might refuse. Then he nodded and we made our way forwards. My calves were cramping with pent-up anticipation as we began our crossing. This was it. Birds lined the steep banks either side of the ravine, some sleeping, others flapping and strutting. We moved out over the foaming hole, only wet wood preventing us from plummeting down to the glistening rocks below. The balustrade had a slick coating of guano and misted water. Halfway across I slipped, thumping hard against the barrier for balance. Geese hammered upwards, a braying drumroll of winged movement. I stooped, arms over my head, turning. Saw Foley, the moonlight silvering his thin shoulders as he slithered, off balance, arm raised over his face as birds exploded and circled.
This was my moment and my body let me know, pulsing with feral panic. With monumental effort I threw myself against him, barging him against the wooden rail, jarring his hip as hard as I could. The rifle swung in his grip. Wingbeats and screeches. I heaved my bodyweight against Foley’s damaged arm until he shouted in pain, bent across the bridge rail. He tried to direct the gun barrel but I pushed as hard as I dared, both palms out against his shoulders.
His feet left the ground and he folded backwards across the rail, eyes wide, roaring in shock and fury. The last thing I saw were bared teeth, an arm pedalling against nothingness, the rifle spinning from his grip. Then he went over the rail. Such was the force with which I’d slammed against him, I was close to following him over. I folded across the balustrade at the stomach, nearly pitching forward but somehow managing to steady myself, fingers slithering against wet wood. I saw Foley drop, a brief three-pointed star, legs open, a single arm raised back towards me, eyes wide and a horrible expression of braced-for-impact terror crossing his face before he fell beyond the shafts of moonlight into the darkness of the ravine. Below, the mountain stream foamed and rushed over a tumble of icy boulders. I saw Foley hit, smashing into the rocks, head thrown back. Didn’t hear the impact. The noise of the water and the broken cries of settling birds masked the sound, but I heard blood in my ears and my wretched, ragged breathing.
I’d done it. I panted, weeping with relief, looking down into the churning space for a long time, waiting for movement. Geese circled and settled. Spray filmed my face and hair and I had to keep pushing my wet fringe back. My stomach burned against the bridge rail.
Soon I’d lost track of which black shapes were rocks and which were Foley.
32
Once I was recovered, numb with disbelief, I collected my stick and completed my crossing. On the other side I left the path and followed the edge of the ravine down through glistening woods. I had to get my passport back.
I made slippery and exhausting progress, the cold gripping me, bleak and unforgiving until finally access to the churning beck looked easier. Down through the trees was a route between the chaos of snow-capped rocks. I began using my hockey stick to steady me, but such was the drop I ended up descending on all fours until I’d slithered down alongside the shouting torrent. Water roaring all around, I held my breath and waded in, thrashed up the beck’s glistening path until I saw the bridge again. I guessed the point at which I’d tipped him over, then drew a vertical line down with my gaze until I’d detected the outline of Foley. The sight of the dark shape made me burn with fear. I picked my way carefully upstream, feet throbbing in the icy water. Using my stick for balance, I grounded myself against the rush and leant in close to the splayed shape.
Troy Foley had been moved by the water. I’d seen him fall backwards but he lay face down now, slumped over the curved back of a rock, his legs in the torrent, the current plucking at his boots. No sign of the rifle. Must have tumbled clear. I pulled at his shoulder, and, with an effort, turned him on to his side. His eyes were closed, skin wet and pale, his damaged arm flat across his body. His jaw lolled.
An eyelid flickered and, with a shout of alarm drowned by the roar of the river, I let him go.
Foley’s broken body slumped back. He was still alive. I stumbled, breaking the ice on a rock pool, and steadied myself, adrenaline charging. Then I raised the hockey stick, gripping it tight in both hands, bringing it up in an arc until it was above my shoulders. All I could think of was the night I’d smashed Danny Franks’s hand, the boy’s white face and his open mouth; the sound of his howl. If I’d never brought the stick down that night years ago, perhaps everything would have been different. Now here I was, ten years on, having to do it all again. I faltered. Couldn’t allow that, so I thought about the flight. Heathrow. Madrid. Santiago. Channelling all my energy into my arms, I brought the stick down once, as hard as I could, against the side of Troy Foley’s head just behind the ear. My old Midbow sheared in half, breaking into two neat, even pieces. I let the handle drop into the dark churn of the water, pushed the rest in after it.
