A warrior lives by acting, not by thinking about acting, nor by thinking about what he will think when he has finished acting
— Carlos Castaneda
Black had two dead men in the boot of his car. It was a matter to be dealt with expeditiously. He drove to the Eaglesham Moors, a large area of tightly packed forest and tracts of wild grass and gorse. Black knew it well, having once lived only a couple of miles down the road in the village of Eaglesham.
He had run its myriad of paths many times. Some paths were well trodden. Others were secret. It was a secret path he chose that evening. He arrived at 10pm, taking a single lane road used for access for forestry traffic, and driving three miles, the trees thick on either side. He pulled into a grass verge. With no street lights, the dark was complete. There was hardly a sound. Black knew the way well enough. He had a torch, and found a narrow opening in the trees. He popped open the boot. Both bodies were cocooned in the travelling rugs. Like pigs in blankets, thought Black. He lifted one out, carried it fifty yards into the trees, repeated the process.
He rolled out the bodies of Daniel and Mr Neville. He left them where they lay. He retrieved the rugs, which he would burn later. The bodies would be found, in due course. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. Decomposition, and the wildlife, would render them unrecognisable. Black left, drove back to his flat in the south of Glasgow, then changed his mind, and went to a cheap hotel in the city. It was entirely conceivable Copeland would have Black’s flat watched. On his way there, he stopped at an off sales, and bought a bottle of Glenfiddich.
The hotel was called the RedBrae Arms. A long flat-roofed structure, the stucco walls pale cream, and peeling. An altogether uninspiring building. At one end, a pub, which was quiet. Three television screens on the walls showed European football games. The place was drab and tired, but the prices were cheap. Black was unperturbed by the décor. His room was basic – a single bed, a small en suite.
Black had killed four of Copeland’s men. Five, including Tristan, though that had been unintended. Copeland wouldn’t let this go. Neither, for that matter, would Black. Black had an address, given to him by Daniel. Plus, he had two handguns. A helpful advantage. Black unscrewed the whisky bottle, took a slug. To Black’s mind, the flavour never diminished. At times like this, when the world seemed bleak, if anything, the flavour got better.
“Fuck it,” he muttered. Copeland would regroup, consider his options, plot Black’s demise. Black couldn’t allow this.
He screwed the top back on, placed the bottle on a bedside table.
Whisky would come later. Black had to act.
Now.