That which you sow does not come to life
Unless it dies.
— Corinthians 15-36
In a cabin built of timber, with a pitched roof of corrugated iron the colour of old blood, music played on a somewhat antiquated CD player. No one would hear Mick Jagger’s drawl. Not here. The cabin sat solitary, by a broad stream, on the edge of nowhere, in the very north of Scotland. When it rained, the sound on the metal roof was like a thousand heartbeats. When it snowed, the world turned white.
In the distance, not far, the brooding wedge of rock that was Ben Hope. A great carcass of stone and ice, rising up from the peaty moors, immune from time and weather. In summer, despite the cold, the ground was bright with alpine flowers. Great swathes of colour. Purple, red and yellow, and a myriad of shades in between.
When he’d first seen the land, the colours, he thought of a winter jacket he’d bought his daughter. Her rainbow jacket. All bright and splendid. A splash of wonder. But in his dreams – his nightmares – the colours always morphed to red. Like the sunset. Like the corrugated roof above his head. The colour of old blood.
Here, in the heart of nowhere, no damage could be done. Here, the equation was simple. Just him, and his old friend. A friend who had been waiting a lifetime to embrace him. An embrace countless others had felt, including his wife and daughter.
Now, at last, he was prepared. It had come to this, and he was glad. Already, he could glimpse their faces. Their smiles. His heart sang. In the shadows, somewhere unseen, his friend waited. Patient as time. And he was glad of that too.
The cabin lacked everything but the most basic requirements. This was of no concern to him. On a table was an empty bottle of Glenfiddich. Beside it, a revolver loaded with a single bullet.
It was midday, the weather unsettled. Rain came down, in short light flurries. The sky was a canvass of black bruising. A downpour would follow shortly. The music stopped. For a brief moment, a stillness settled.
A deer nosed close to the front door, maybe looking for food. It jerked its head up suddenly, stiffened, sensing movement.
When the gunshot split the silence, it jerked away, and bounded off.
Then the rain started.
And the heavens opened.
Black stepped out, into the cold wet highlands, head dizzy with drink and took a deep calming breath, and thought, Not today.
THE END
ADAM BLACK WILL RETURN