That morning, before it was fully light, before he had drunk a cup of coffee, even before the first whisky of the day, Christie saw ghosts crawling through the field opposite his house. He had come to in the armchair in the living room. He wasn’t sure what had woken him. Probably a tractor or car going by. His head ached and his mouth felt like it was stuffed with newspaper. The room was still half-dark and he stumbled over an empty bottle lying on the carpet as he went to the window and pulled back the shabby brown curtain.
Across the narrow road was the big field, and beyond it another road, and beyond that trees and more fields rising up into the hills. There were houses dotted along the distant road and also on the hillside. He could see lights in some of the windows, but it was not yet bright enough to make out smoke coming from the lums. He remembered the smoke that had poured from those houses when they’d been set on fire. He remembered their neat red roofs before the fighting started and later, when the fires were out, the charred rafters through which could be seen the raging green of abandoned gardens. A few of the houses had been repaired since then, by men who had brought their families from other villages and settled into them as if they owned them. Those were the ones with lights showing. But most remained broken and empty, reminders of what had happened. It was as he was thinking this that something caught his eye in the big field and he saw the ghosts.
They were moving with painful slowness through the shaws of MacTaggart’s winter crop, from which strips of mist were hanging like tattered flags. Christie watched as the ghosts crept across his vision, from right to left, away from the end of the field where MacTaggart’s old shed had been. He should have been filled with horror but he was not, he felt only a dull stirring of the old fear that had been with him for months. It was as if he had been expecting them. He’d not known he was expecting them, but as soon as he recognised what they were it made sense that they were there, and that they were on their hands and knees trying to get away from the shed.
The crop was Brussels sprouts, a vegetable he hated, and the shaws were like miniature versions of those stark, blasted trees that appeared in photographs of the trenches in the Great War. The ghosts might have been the ghosts of soldiers crawling in No Man’s Land, but they weren’t. There seemed to be a lot of them, far more than there should have been. Christie tried to count them but they were indistinct, and low on the ground. He could hardly make them out at all. He wondered if the dog would have a ghost and tried to pick it out among the shapes, but then they all started to look like dogs. After a few minutes he could not concentrate anymore, and went to the back of the house, to the kitchen.
The kitchen window looked out on his scrap of back yard which ended at a listing wooden fence. Beyond the fence was a dirty wee burn. A couple of starlings were pecking at the hard soil of the yard where he sometimes flung out the crumbs of an old loaf. Christie preferred the wee, bonnie birds – chaffinches and robins and blue-tits: starlings were too ragged and sly and oily-looking to be bonnie, but at least they were real. His hand shook as he filled the kettle and put a spoonful of coffee grains into a mug. When the water had boiled he poured it into the mug. He liked his coffee black and strong. He added a shot of whisky from the bottle that was standing on the worktop next to the cooker. The bottle was almost empty. He wondered when Malky would come.
The kitchen was cold. The whole house was cold. The fire in the living room had died in the night and he would have to reset it later. The television was also dead but it had been dead a long time. He did not remember falling asleep but there was a book crushed between the cushion and one arm of the chair and he guessed he had gone under while reading it. He took his coffee through to the bedroom, slopping some of it on the floor as he went. He did not have any shoes on, and there were holes in his socks. He did not take off his socks nor indeed any of his clothes as he got beneath the covers. None of these things was surprising or unusual to him. The ghosts were unusual, he had never seen ghosts before, but even they were not surprising.
By the time he had drunk the coffee, his hand had stopped trembling. He did not know, nor did he care, whether this was due to the whisky or because he had warmed up under the bedclothes. He thought vaguely about going back to the kitchen for the rest of the bottle but he felt a vague, distant comfort from being in bed. It reminded him of being ill as a child, of the security of being in a sickbed. He snuggled down and pulled the blankets over his head. In a minute he fell asleep.
He had redd out the cold ashes from the hearth and was just putting a match to the re-laid fire when he heard Malky’s motor pull up. Christie recognised the sound of its exhaust, the way it coughed and hacked like a smoker. Malky got out and slammed the door shut, leaving the engine running as he always did. Christie heard the front door bang. Malky came into the room with a large carrier bag in his hand, which Christie tried not to look at.
‘Aye, Christie. How are ye the day?’
‘I’m fine,’ Christie said.
‘Just up, are ye?’
‘Aye.’
They stood together and watched the flames lick up the paper and the kindling begin to crackle.
‘Ye’ll need tae pit some coal on that,’ Malky said. ‘Dae ye hae plenty coal, Christie?’
‘The bunker’s still hauf-full,’ Christie said. ‘Ye ken that.’
‘I just wouldna want ye tae be short. I can get ye mair when ye need it. Here, I’ve brocht ye a few things tae keep the wolf fae the door.’
He put the carrier bag on the carpet in front of the fire. It was a plain blue bag, its handles stretched by the weight of its contents. Malky began to empty it.
‘Some breid,’ he said. ‘Bacon. A dozen eggs. Four cans o beans. Ye can mak a few meals oot o thon. And here’s somethin tae wet yer whistle wi.’ He took out two bottles of Whyte & Mackay.
‘Ye shouldna hae done that,’ Christie said.
Malky said, ‘Ach well. They were on special offer for twa. Keep ye oot o danger, eh?’
‘Keep you oot o danger, mair like,’ Christie said, trembling at his own boldness.
‘Now, now, Christie,’ Malky said. His black moustache seemed to thicken and bristle up. ‘Dinna start. I’m just tryin tae help.’
‘Aye, I appreciate it.’
‘Gillian’s askin for ye.’
‘She awright?’
‘Right as rain. She’s no gaun oot muckle these days, though. Like yersel. It’s no the season for it.’
‘Naebody gaes oot ony mair,’ Christie said. He knew this to be the case, but it wasn’t because of the time of year. The road outside went to the village and yet there were never more than a dozen vehicles on it all day. As for walkers, there were none at all. Auld Sammy used to take his dog along to MacTaggart’s farm and back every afternoon. But he wouldn’t be seeing Auld Sammy again.
‘She’s feart,’ Christie said. ‘Like me, right enough. She’s feart.’
Malky snorted. ‘Naw she’s no. She just hates this time o the year. Cauld, dreich, dark. I wouldna gae oot if I didna hae tae. She keeps hersel busy but. She’s aye cleanin and cookin, cleanin and cookin. A right wee domestic goddess.’
Malky moved to the window and stood with his back to Christie. I could lift the poker and crush his heid wi a single blow, Christie thought. But he couldn’t. The poker was a feeble thin thing, not like the old heavy-duty ones. And he wasn’t strong enough. Malky was built like a house-end, he wouldn’t even dent.
‘MacTaggart’s pit his sheep intae the field, I see,’ Malky said. ‘It’s a shame tae see aw thae sprouts away for sheep feed. Still, canna be helped. Naebody tae lift them.’ He turned. ‘I never really liked sprouts onywey. Do you, Christie?’
‘Naw,’ said Christie. He wanted Malky to fuck off, but he didn’t tell him. Malky was his brother-in-law. And he had brought the food and drink, after all. He was always bringing things. Just about every single day. And he never asked for money. It wasn’t about money.
Malky didn’t seem to know where to put himself. His bulk took up half the room. He picked up a cushion from the second armchair, turned it over, patted it and put it back. He shook his head.
‘Christ, ye’re a manky bastard. This place is a cowp.’
‘That’s how I like it.’
‘And what aboot that television? It’s years since that worked. I can get ye a new ane. Or a good quality secondhand ane at least.’
‘Aye, so ye keep tellin me. But I dinna want a new ane. That ane suits me fine.’
‘But it disna work!’ Malky sounded exasperated, but Christie knew what he was playing at. If he got him a new television, that would be another distraction. Another way of controlling him, like the whisky. But he’d finished with the television – had left it on day and night till the back of it melted – and one day soon he’d be quitting the whisky, but not yet. At least with the whisky he could think his own thoughts.
‘Dae ye no want me tae get a woman in tae gie the hoose a good clean?’ Malky said. ‘Gillian’ll ken somebody.’
‘Can ye she no come hersel?’
‘Aw, noo, Christie, ye ken she canna. She’s no weel. She’s nae energy. Canna dae the hoosework like she used tae.’
Christie knew he was lying. He’d just left off calling her a domestic goddess. Gillian was stuck in the house for the same reason Christie was: fear. And Malky wouldn’t let them meet. His own sister. Not without him being present. If they met they’d start talking. Spilling the beans. And mair than four fuckin cans o them tae. Those international guys that were supposed to be snooping about, asking questions. Malky didn’t want Gillian and Christie getting any ideas about speaking to them.
Outside they heard the car engine splutter and die.
‘Fuck it,’ Malky said, ‘I’d better go. I’ve got frozen food in the boot.’
‘Aye, right,’ Christie said. ‘Thanks for coming by. Wi thon stuff. I can drink mysel tae death in comfort.’
Malky laughed uneasily. ‘I think ye’d hae done that by noo if ye were gaun tae.’
‘Well, the gas oven then,’ Christie said. He had a wee smile in his chest but he kept it off his face. He liked to goad Malky. ‘Or the razor blades. Schff, schff!’ He made cutting noises and swift cutting motions across his wrists.
‘Dinna talk like that, eh?’ Malky said. ‘That’s no nice. I’m keepin an eye on ye, amn’t I? Ye’re awright, eh? Ye wouldna dae onythin stupit, would ye.’
The last sentence was more of a statement, or a threat, than a question. Christie knew Malky wasn’t talking about suicide. Malky was worried about him going to the police. Not the local mob, worse than bloody gangsters they were. The international boys.
‘Or the shotgun,’ Christie added. ‘I could stick the shotgun in my gub.’
Malky snapped. He towered up, heaving like a bull, and pulled Christie in close by a fistful of jersey. Christie could hear teeth grind. He’d got to him.
‘That’s enough,’ Malky growled. ‘Stop feeling fuckin sorry for yersel. Jesus, when ye think o aw the folk in the world wi – wi nuthin. You’re awright. D’ye hear me? Ye’re awright.’
He let go, and Christie, looking down at his chest, saw the clump of jersey spring open. He found that strangely more interesting than looking at Malky.
‘And ye dinna hae a shotgun,’ Malky was saying, more gently, as if to a forgetful child. ‘We took it away fae ye, mind?’
Christie did not answer. ‘Suit yersel,’ Malky said after a minute. He banged out of the house. As he got into the car he shouted, ‘I’ll be back the morn, see if ye’re mair fuckin sociable.’
Christie grinned and punched a fist into his palm. He loved it when he put one over on Malky. Fact was, he had another shotgun. Up in the loft. And a full cartridge belt. And a whole box of grenades. And an AK-47 and an automatic pistol. He had the lot. Keeping them for when he needed them. But because he was just a school janitor – had once been a school janitor – nobody took him seriously when it came to that kind of stuff. Nobody believed him. And the international guys wouldn’t believe him either, not just him on his own. He needed more witnesses. He needed Gillian. Gillian must have seen the state of Malky’s clothes. She must have washed and dried them. Maybe she’d burnt them. But she knew. She had to know.
The only thing anybody’d ever believed him about was the way the bairns behaved in school. The other bairns. In the corridors and in the playground. They liked to hear him go on about that. The wee tykes. The dirty wee shites. The thieving, treacherous wee bastards. And they’d laugh and come up with their own stories. Everybody had them, it only took someone to start it off and you were all away. The teachers were the same. Our kids and their kids. You could tell them apart just by looking at them. By their names. By the state of their clothes and the food they ate. Some teachers claimed they could pick them out by smell if they were blindfolded. It was probably true. Christie didn’t like them any more than anyone else. And that was just the bairns. The bairns grew into adults and then the trouble really started.
He went to the window and looked across at the field. There were twenty or thirty sheep in it right enough. He might have mistaken them in the half-light of early morning. But that didn’t mean the ghosts weren’t there. He’d seen them, crawling away from where the shed had been. MacTaggart’s brick shed with the corrugated iron roof where he’d once kept an old tractor and trailer. All gone now. Malky had made MacTaggart pull it down. ‘Take away the shed,’ he’d said, ‘and it’ll be like nothing happened.’ You had to have a scene for something to have happened. Now there was just Brussels sprouts, getting eaten by sheep.
MacTaggart was a nasty piece of work, Christie thought. He used to claim that Auld Sammy only went to the farm to steal tatties. Sammy went up with his dog and an empty plastic poke and came back with enough tatties to feed his family for a fortnight, so MacTaggart said. Finally he’d threatened Sammy with his shotgun, told him not to show his dirty face near the farm again. A nicer old fellow than Sammy you couldn’t meet, even if he was a minker and a thief. Always passed the time of day. And the scabby dog was friendly too. Not that Christie would ever have had them in the house, because they weren’t his people, but that wasn’t the point.
When the fighting started, the school closed and Christie was laid off. It was only supposed to be temporary till the unrest died down, but it didn’t, it got worse. You didn’t realise till it started how many of the bastards there were. There had always been a kind of undercurrent that boiled up every so often in pub brawls, graffiti sprayed on shop fronts, vandalised cars, but then something changed, people stopped backing down or holding back and it all just escalated. Folk had always gone on about the numbers, how they were going to take over if something wasn’t done about it, but it wasn’t till you saw them with guns and your own people with guns that you got a real sense that it might actually happen. The bairns had mixed pretty well on the whole, forby a bit of name-calling and a few scraps among the boys, but when everybody retreated into their own houses that was the end of any mixing. Christie lay awake at night and heard pick-up trucks roar past that he knew were full of armed young men. He heard shots at three in the morning, explosions. He looked out into the darkness and saw the houses on the hillside ablaze. In order to sleep, he drank more and more whisky. But when he slept he dreamed. In his dreams he saw the bairns from the school playground running screaming down the road. He couldn’t tell which bairns they were. They were like the bairns in the old photographs from Vietnam, their naked skin burning with napalm. In order to stop dreaming, he sat up in his armchair and watched television, and drank till he did not so much fall asleep as fall unconscious.
Malky used to drop in at odd times of the day and night then. He’d wake Christie up if he was sleeping, and they’d sit drinking together: beer, whisky, wine, whatever Malky had with him. He always had drink and he always had money. He talked about the night rides, the gun battles in the towns. He talked about the women they took into the woods and what they did to them. Sometimes they didn’t even bother taking them into the woods. Christie listened and he imagined what it would be like. He’d brought his father’s old shotgun down from the attic when the fighting started, and kept it handy just in case, because you never knew when somebody was going to come to your door, and sometimes when Malky was talking Christie’d take the gun out of its case and oil it, clean the barrels and look down them as if he knew what he was aiming at. He’d just be cleaning the gun while Malky was talking, that was all. Like a couple of solid guys going about their business. Standing up for what was theirs, for their rights. Christie wasn’t stupid. He reckoned there were two reasons why Malky came, and why he talked. The first was that he needed to tell someone, and he couldn’t tell Gillian. The second was that he knew Christie wanted to hear.
‘I’d take ye,’ Malky said, ‘but they wouldna allow it. Ye kinda hae tae pass a test. They hae tae ken ye’re no gaun tae fuck up.’
‘I wouldna fuck up,’ Christie said. ‘Honest.’
‘I believe ye,’ Malky said. ‘But no everybody does.’
‘Who? Who d’ye mean? Folk in the village?’
‘Some. They ken what ye’re like. And then there’s the others, the boys runnin the show. They wouldna allow it.’
It was all shite really. Christie didn’t want to go and Malky didn’t want to take him. But it was okay talking about it, listening to what Malky was up to. Listening made Christie feel like he could do it if he had to. And it was good drinking with somebody instead of on your own, even if it was just Malky.
Then one morning – a morning when there had already been a lot of traffic up and down the road, which had got Christie out of his bed early – Malky rolled up in his coughing car with two other men in the back seat. Christie came out to meet him – in those days he still used to step outside. Malky said, ‘The bastards’ve done it this time. They’ve killt young Jock MacTaggart. They’re roundin them up noo.’ Somebody had tried to set fire to MacTaggart’s place in the night, and when the MacTaggarts came out fighting, whoever it was had shot the farmer’s son through the head. Whoever it was! They had fled the scene, but MacTaggart, the old bugger, he knew fine who they were.
‘So,’ Malky said, ‘are ye comin?’
‘Me?’ Christie said.
‘Aye. Come on. I’ve spoken for ye. This is Christie,’ Malky said to the men in the back seat. ‘My wife’s brither. Mind I said aboot him.’
The men in the back seat didn’t reply. They were wearing dark glasses and black leather jackets and they were very calm.
Malky seemed agitated. ‘Come on, then, Christie,’ he said. ‘We’re maybe ower late as it is.’
Christie went back into the house and got the old shotgun and slung the cartridge belt over his shoulder. He climbed into the front passenger seat and they drove off towards MacTaggart’s place. But they hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards before they saw a strange procession coming down the road towards them.
There was a pick-up at the front and MacTaggart, in his Massey Ferguson, was herding the procession from the back. MacTaggart’s face was like a concrete slab, hard and empty. There were men with guns on either side of the procession. They’d got twelve of them: six men, four women and a couple of bairns. The women were sobbing, and the bairns were sobbing because the women were. The six men, who were all at least fifty, looked quite calm, but it was a different kind of calm from the way the men in the back seat looked. More placid than calm. One of the men on the road was Auld Sammy. He had his dog on a lead, and he appeared to be humming a tune.
Malky reversed the car up onto the pavement and switched off the engine. Usually he left it running but this time he switched it off.
‘It canna hae been them. Can it?’ Christie said.
‘Fuckin right it can,’ one of the men in the back seat said. Christie turned round. The one who had spoken had a ring in his right ear. Neither of them was from the village.
‘But that’s Sammy,’ Christie said.
The car filled suddenly with silence.
‘Who are you?’ Christie asked after a few seconds.
‘Fucksake, Christie,’ Malky said. ‘Ye dinna need tae fuckin ken that.’
‘I’m just askin,’ Christie said. But he turned round and faced the front again.
‘Is he wi us or no?’ the man with the earring said.
‘He’s wi us,’ Malky said.
‘Cause if he’s no wi us, he’s wi them,’ the man said.
‘Christie?’ Malky said. He stared right into him.
‘I’m wi you,’ Christie told Malky.
‘Right,’ the man with the earring said. ‘Nae mair fuckin questions then.’
They all got out. The procession turned into the field and the pick-up pulled over. Now MacTaggart was revving his tractor, urging the people on across the drills towards the shed. Some of them stumbled and the women cried louder. Malky said, ‘Aye, ye can greet noo, ye thievin hoors,’ and he sounded bolder than he was looking and Christie laughed. Auld Sammy must have heard them because he turned to say something and one of the armed men beside him prodded him in the side with his rifle and he fell to the wet earth. The man kicked him to make him stand up and Christie wanted Sammy to get to his feet and he wanted him to stay where he was. Sammy’s dog was running round in small circles trailing its lead, barking and snapping at the legs of the man standing over Sammy. The man pointed his rifle at it and Sammy raised his head and called to the dog and it came and sat beside him. The man pointed his rifle back at Sammy.
There seemed to be a moment when everything might be different. Everybody – the men with guns, their prisoners, MacTaggart in his tractor – stopped and watched Sammy. Even the two men in leather jackets and dark glasses hesitated. It was as if somebody, with some brave, simple gesture, could change whatever was going to happen. And Christie thought, I can dae something here, I can really dae something.
Then Sammy caught sight of Christie and seemed to recognise him for the first time. His eyes flickered with uncertainty. He looked at Christie’s face and then he looked at Christie’s shotgun. There was a long streak of mud down Sammy’s clothes where he had fallen on the ground. It made him look even more of a minker than usual. Christie kept his eye on the streak of mud. That way he thought he could do what he was going to do.
‘Wait!’ he shouted. He was calling to the man pointing his rifle at Sammy’s chest. Christie walked over with the shotgun cradled in his arm, right past the man with the rifle, and helped Sammy to his feet. He felt big and powerful, like a man in a film.
‘It’s awright, Sammy,’ he said.
He took the end of the lead and together Sammy and he started walking towards the shed with the dog between them, and everybody else started moving too. Sammy started to hum again. Up close it was a completely tuneless sound, more of a moan or a whine than a hum. Christie hated it, he wanted Sammy to shut up so he could concentrate. Something big was coming, something so big you needed to focus all your thoughts on it and not be distracted. Christie felt as though by being there some great mystery was about to be revealed to him. It was like a Bible story from when you were a bairn, a story that you believed but didn’t understand, and now suddenly, years later, you were about to understand it. And these people, these miserable people moaning and girning the way they always did, they were the key to the mystery. And the mystery was in MacTaggart’s shed.
But when they got to the shed Christie didn’t go in. MacTaggart stopped his tractor and got down and pulled open the sliding door with a blank expression on his face, as if he might be going to fetch a couple of sacks of fertiliser or something but didn’t really care one way or the other if there was none there. They ushered the prisoners towards the door. Auld Sammy looked at Christie and he started to shout, he was shouting, ‘Help us! Help us! Why are ye just standin there? Help us!’ The man with the earring was watching intently. He didn’t seem to see Sammy anymore: he was staring at Christie to see what he would do. To see if he would fuck up.
Christie was still holding the dog’s lead. He said, ‘I’ll tak care o yer dog.’ Sammy shook his head. Christie said, ‘Sit!’ and the dog sat down beside him. Then they pushed Sammy and the rest of them inside the shed and the other men, including Malky and MacTaggart, went in too. The only ones who were left outside were Christie and the man with the earring.
There was a sudden clatter of gunfire from inside the shed, and then nothing.
The man with the earring said, ‘Nice work, Christie. But ye canna keep the dog.’
‘How no?’ Christie said. He searched for the man’s eyes behind the glasses, but he couldn’t see them.
Malky came out of the shed. His clothes were spotted with blood and so were his hands. His face was very white.
‘He canna keep the dog,’ the man with the earring said. ‘Tell him.’
‘But I said I would,’ Christie began, and Malky’s face flushed up red and he bore down on him so close he could smell the blood on his shirt. ‘Ye canna keep the fuckin dog!’ Malky said. He flicked his eyes indicating the shed behind him. Christie could hear teeth grind. Auld Sammy’s dog was sitting patiently waiting for Auld Sammy to come out. Christie realised that what they were saying was right. He couldn’t keep the dog. He pushed the barrels of the shotgun gently against the back of its head, shut his eyes and pulled both triggers.
‘Put it inside,’ Christie heard the man with the earring say. ‘Ye can clear up later.’ He kept his eyes closed and stood absolutely still, and he heard heavy breathing around him and wondered what would happen next. He knew with absolute certainty that he could not go into the shed. The only way they’d get him in there would be if they carried him.
A few seconds went by, and each one felt like a minute. Then he heard someone bend down next to him, and give a groan with the effort of lifting something heavy, and when he opened his eyes he saw Malky’s gun on the ground and Malky’s back as he carried the dead dog into the shed.
Malky came into the house later that day and the first thing he did was punch Christie in the face, sending him crashing into his armchair. Christie sat rubbing his jaw but he didn’t get back up, he knew why Malky had done it. Malky took a new bottle of whisky out of a plastic bag and cracked the top open.
‘Ye stupit fuckin eejit,’ Malky said. ‘Ye’re lucky tae be alive. Ye dinna mess aroond wi thae guys. Get us some glesses.’
So they sat drinking, and Christie rubbed his jaw and started to talk about what had happened, just the way Malky used to talk about his night rides, but Malky interrupted him. ‘Forget it, Christie,’ he said. ‘Forget it all. Forget aboot Sammy and the dog and everything ye fuckin saw. It didna happen. Awright? It didna fuckin happen.’
And that was the way it had gone on. MacTaggart pulled down the shed and there was nothing inside it and then he planted Brussels sprouts all over the field. Malky would come round and make sure Christie had food and drink, and Christie would try to talk about what had happened and Malky would tell him to forget it. ‘Ye’re imaginin it, Christie. Ye’ve been watchin too much shite on the telly. Aw thae news programmes ye watch, the documentaries and aw that. That aw happens somewhere else. Other countries. No here. Ye’re away wi the fairies.’
‘But I seen ye comin oot the shed,’ Christie would say. ‘We took Auld Sammy and them inside and ye came oot wi blood on yer claes. I was there, I’m a witness. And I killt thon dog wi my faither’s shotgun,’ he would say.
‘Christie, Christie, ye’re makin it up. Ye’re no right in the heid. That’s why we took the gun aff ye. That stuff’s aw aff the telly, Christie. It’s got inside yer heid fae the telly.’
‘Ye didna tak the telly aff me, though, did ye?’ Christie said. He kept quiet about the stash of weapons in the attic. Let them have the shotgun if it made them feel safe. He had another. Plus the other stuff. A whole bloody arsenal.
‘Didna need tae,’ Malky said. ‘Ye knackered it wi leavin it on aw the time. But I can get ye another ane if ye want. Ye ken that.’
‘Naw,’ Christie said. ‘That ane suits me fine.’
The truth was, he didn’t need the television. He looked at the stuff Malky had brought, still sitting on the carpet in front of the fire. He didn’t need the bread – the starlings could have it. He didn’t need the eggs or the bacon or the baked beans. He looked at the whisky. He didn’t even need the whisky, but he needed to think, and the whisky would help him to think. He needed to make a plan. He had to get in touch with Gillian somehow. He had to get in touch with the international boys, tell them about what had happened in the shed. He was a witness. All right, he had shot the dog, but only the dog, and he’d had no choice, they’d have killed him if he hadn’t. He picked up the coal-hod and shoved more coals on the fire. He remembered the houses burning on the hillside. Terrible, terrible things had happened. He felt numb with the thought of all that hurt. He went to the window and looked out. It would be getting dark again soon. He wondered if he would see the ghosts again, and how many there would be. He reached for the first bottle of whisky, and started to plan what he would do in the morning.