Stark placed his phone on the dashboard, and used the navigation to get to the address. Eaglesham moor was a large sweep of land, with little in it, save patches of dense woodland, a windfarm, and the occasional farmhouse.
His head pounded, his throat was dry. The effects of the whisky the previous evening. It occurred to him he was surely over the limit. A small worry in the scale of things.
He got to Eaglesham, on the periphery of the moors, to the village he knew so well, though he hadn’t returned in years. Nothing had changed. The same row of shops. The park in the centre, running up a steep incline, where once a mill had thrived, now a scattering of stones hidden in the long grass. He drove past a quaint ivy-patterned hotel, to a crossroads, turned right, headed to the moors.
According to the map on his phone, he was to drive in a straight direction, using the main road for approximately eight miles. Then a turn-off, a further mile, at which stage, his destination would be reached.
The road was wide enough, just, for two cars. Each side was marked off as cycle lanes. Stark kept his speed as high as his car allowed, the chassis shuddering and rattling. The landscape was bare and bleak. Low hills, gorse and rock. In the far distance, the shimmer of lochs, green woodland, the horizon punctured by the stick silhouettes of white wind turbines, the great rotor blades making their ponderous revolutions.
He passed some cyclists. They gestured for him to slow down. He ignored them, kept the speed up. His mind was focused. He might be wrong. He might be heading to the wrong place. But it was all he had, and he clung to it, because if he didn’t, he would drown in despair.
He reached the turn-off, went on to a narrow lane – more a track, than a road. The car lurched and bounced. He slowed. There was a real danger the suspension might cave.
He was close. Maybe a quarter of a mile. The land undulated. There was no sign of the house, though it could have been hidden behind a hill. He pulled onto the muddy grass verge, got out. He would walk from this point. No need to advertise his presence.
It was chilly here, in the open plains, where the wind was constant. He jogged forward, following the line of the road, senses heightened. He went round a curve, through a small cluster of bushes. There, at the bottom of a slight decline, a building – a white-walled cottage with a high-peaked slate roof, and a separate garage, sheltered by low conifers, presumably planted to create a break from the wind.
Parked at the garage, a blue Mondeo. He recognised it immediately. His stomach rose to his throat. He felt a strange combination of terror and euphoria. The address had proved to be correct. Only yards away dwelt the serial killer known worldwide as The Surgeon. Which meant his sister was there too. Alive, he hoped. Prayed.
In a low crouching run, he made his way to the side of the building, nerves sharpened to a point. Here, the wind lessened to barely a breeze. He pressed close to the stone. Next to him, a small window. On his tiptoes, with exquisite care, he edged closer, listening, straining for the slightest sound.
Silence.
He crouched low, and crab-like, he moved under and past the window. He straightened. He sidled further along, got to the front door, waited. With held breath, he remained motionless, consumed with indecision. Still, nothing. Now, a new sound – his racing heart.
He took a slow breath, tried to straighten his thoughts, calm his nerves. There was no other way. He reached over, gently turned the door handle, and pushed.
The door opened.
He pushed further. The door creaked. He stopped, stayed still. Now, time was measured in heartbeats. Three… four… five. He pushed again, with the tips of his fingers, inch by inch. Enough now for a gap to form. He crept through. He was in a hallway. It smelled damp. The wallpaper was old and faded, as was the carpet. Along one wall, on the floor, rows of polythene bags.
A noise from another room. He froze. A man’s voice. It was soft and deep, almost melodic. He strained to listen, but the walls were thick.
He kept going, one step at a time, towards a door at the end, half-open. He reached it, slipped through, into a living room. It was poorly furnished. A worn two-seater couch, an armchair, the arms burst, its foamy innards bulging. Newspapers and magazines scattered on a threadbare carpet. At a window, a small, round dining table, upon which, cups and unwashed plates. The walls had the same faded wallpaper – some floral design, perhaps nice fifty years ago. In a corner, a portable three-bar electric heater. A small ancient television on a pile of books.
The voice of the man came again, a little clearer. On the chair was a heavy torch, maybe twelve inches long. Stark picked it up, its weight and solidity providing some reassurance. He grasped it in his right hand, ready.
At the far end, another door, ajar. He made his way towards it, quiet as a whisper, pushed gently. He went in. A kitchen. The same state of disrepair. Cracked lime-green linoleum, a standalone cooker, its silver handles rusted. A small fridge. Attached to the ceiling, an old-fashioned pulley, from which draped clothing.
There! On the worktop, something moved. His heart leapt to his mouth. A tabby cat. It stretched, and in a languid motion, leapt to the ground, and slinked back through to the living room Stark had just left.
Stark paused, blinked sweat from his eyes, calmed himself. He gripped the torch tighter, summoned his courage.
The door on the other side of the kitchen was closed. The man’s voice was near, but low. Too low to make out clearly. The talking stopped. Now, silence, heavy and brooding. Stark stood, riveted. He heard the floor creak, the rustle of movement.
And then… a scream. It cut the air, a shrill sharp sound. Stark moved, without realising it. Instinct. He strode forward, barged open the door.
The scene he confronted was both vivid and surreal. On a bed, arms bent above her, hands tied to a rail, his sister, her face a contortion of terror and surprise. Hunched over the bed, wearing a black cowl, a man. In his hand, a strange-looking object, resembling a futuristic gun. It was poised by the side of her head. The man’s face, white as death, was caught in a frozen moment, startled by Stark’s entrance.
He stared at Stark. Stark stared back at the man in his dream. The Surgeon.
Mags screamed again. The man dropped the implement, drew a knife from his pocket, hurtled forward, swift and purposeful, uttering a wild screech. Stark stepped back, fended aside the rush, catching the other off-balance. The knife raked his arm, bringing sudden searing pain. He brought the torch down, landed a heavy blow to the man’s shoulder. The man gasped, jerked back. Stark used the advantage, followed through, struck the man under the ear. The man staggered, then, teeth bared in snarling rage, launched himself again on Stark. Stark grappled him, the man’s body all tense muscle and gristle. Stark tried to hack the larynx, missed. They fell to the floor. The man attempted to stab Stark’s neck, but the angle was wrong, the movement awkward. The knife slipped from his grasp. Stark freed his arms, and using the hard rubber heft of the torch, dealt a sweeping blow to the head – once, twice. The man went limp, momentarily. Stark rolled on top, arched his back, and clutching the torch, raised his hands, struck down, a ferocious blow. The man sagged, went still. Stark struck again. And then a third time.
He got to his feet, heaving and gasping. He felt light-headed. The sleeve of his jacket was warm with blood. He focused. He heard a noise – his sister, shouting.
He bent down, got the fallen knife, tottered to the bed, cut Mags loose. She instantly embraced him, a tight squeezing hug.
“You came,” she whispered.
“I have to look after my big sister.”
She sobbed into his chest. He held her, stroking her hair, the back of her head.
“We’ve got to go,” he said.
She nodded. The man on the floor groaned. His eyelids fluttered. They stepped over him, made their way into the kitchen.
And stopped.
A person stood at the opposite doorway to the living room, barring their way, pointing a pistol.
A person Stark knew.