Vengeance

By Mike O'Donnell

The deadly acts of two snipers from different eras are connected.

 

1914 - Sixteen year old orphan JOB, falsely accused of murder, runs from his Scottish village and enlists in the Stirling Highlanders. DUNCAN, the brother of the murdered man pursues him to France to exact revenge. JOB's unique stalking experience compels him to become a sniper but it conflicts with his religious background. His Reverend uncle's letters give fierce justification for his inner struggle.

 

Present Day - Abused GASTON seeks a reckoning in bodies for his grandfather's family executed by the Nazis and for the loss of their ancestral Lorraine home. He sets out on his ten-for-one killing retribution after the old man dies.
Unexpected love brings a turmoil of emotions in his crusade when his idolised BERTHA is not what she seems.

 

Both find solace in powerful, written exhortation for their actions but they each pay a price.

• Language: English
• Publisher: FaulknerBooks
• Release date: Jul 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201861636

Mike O'Donnell

Mike was a slow starter at the writing game. For the first two years of his life he seemed intent on eating and sleeping. Once these skills were mastered he did begin to make his mark, mostly with dirty fingers, lumps of mud and soft crayon. His father was in the RAF (as was his Sergeant Mum during the war) which meant that every so often the family moved on. He was therefore very nearly educated at a lot of schools; two weeks and three days at one lucky establishment. He did eventually learn to wield a pen, but mostly for activities other than writing. As all his forebears, he entered the Armed Forces. Three grandparents in the Army, both parents in the RAF, so he joined the RN. (Historical note: Great uncle George Rowe survived the Titanic and surprisingly he wasn't to blame. He was ex-RN.) The RN was extremely educational. Mike learned how to get blisters on his feet from marching and tabbing across Dartmoor, the Brecon Beacons, and a variety of parade grounds; and on his hands from sawing, chipping and filing cast iron and lumps of steel. He was professionally sick in the Atlantic, the North Sea, and up in the ice during the contretemps with Icelandic fishermen. And, because he was young he wasn't too well in a couple of ports like Hamburg and Amsterdam - water wasn't involved. He left the Navy, tried as many jobs as possible to see what made the world work, and sold a few pathetic stories. After four years servicing the Sultan of Oman's Navy and ten years trying to keep some of the Royal Army of Oman's radio equipment going he had a BA(Hons) and an MBA and sold about fifty stories.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE  Present day

The densely packed trees added to the blackness of the night but the man with the rifle knew exactly where he was heading. He had already made two practise forays in preparation for this moonless, killing night, and had no fear of straying. The Lord’s guiding light blazed in his head.

The weight of the rifle in the slender green tartan travelling bag, designed for carrying half a set of golf irons, pulled comfortingly on its shoulder strap. His body was honed and he breathed easily. He took care placing his feet noiselessly although no one lived within two miles. His father had taught him to hunt in Lorraine as a boy although his prey then had been smaller and four-legged.

Away to his right the Southampton road curved up the steep hill through a tunnel of trees. The man, his senses alert, could hear a distant car grind up the slope and catch the glimmer of the diffused headlights. He could not see the road below; he had no need, he was not yet in position.

Now and then he would pause and test the quiet around him. From the far distance came the surf-like roar of the motorway, the sounds carrying in the clear night air. When he stood motionless, ears straining, he could hear small creatures scuttling through the fallen leaves of the thin undergrowth. No breath of wind rustled the branches above him. The man had chosen a still night. When you were confronting the forces of evil it was prudent to optimise your chances and be confident in your mission. There was a harvest to glean.

The shot was not difficult, but he had taken heed of what was written in the remnants of the holy papers.

You must prepare yourself with utmost diligence, not only to do your duty in your new task, but to carry on the good fight until the job is done. I have great faith; you are your father’s son. The work is necessary, and be sure the Lord will guide your aim. You must punish the ungodly.

Nothing in the night sounds caused the Gleaner anxiety and he moved on, his commando-soled boots leaving no trace in the thick leaf mould.

Even if the moon had been full the man would be difficult to spot; the Disruptive Pattern Material combats and ski mask blended perfectly with the background: the computer-generated shapes and colours optimal for invisibility in European woodland. The black leather gloves were skin supple but when the time came to squeeze the trigger he could have worn furry mittens and still made the shot.

He reached the outcrop of rocks rounded and smoothed by the water tumbling down in the aeons before the Victorian authorities diverted the flow to feed a reservoir. The hide had been chosen with care, the polished rocks would retain no evidence of his presence. He had shaved his whole body even though he wore close-fitting long john underwear and the ski mask. Not a hair would be left behind. No DNA evidence. His clothing including his boots, socks and underwear would later be dumped in the incinerator.

The road meandered round the rocky prominence in a wide arc below him. He would identify the vehicle coming up the hill and then strike as the windscreen was presented to him around the curve. At the bend the road dipped sharply and as the driver slumped forward the vehicle would plummet down the steep hillside smashing a path through the young trees. It wouldn’t matter if it didn’t, the driver would be dead anyway but it would be more satisfactory if the van burst into flames. The cleansing fire of the Lord was a delight to see.

The Gleaner lay in the rocky trough and pulled the travelling bag up beside him. He had covered the tartan fabric with a layer of polythene. Nothing was traceable since the polythene was sold in every D-I-Y centre, builders’ merchants, and packaging firm in the country. Caution was his watchword.

The bolt action Steyr SSG 69 rifle had a night-sight. The rotary magazine held five rounds but he would need no more than a single shot to dispose of the devil’s spawn.

The Gleaner had been reared on stories of destruction, eviction, looting and the terrible outrages perpetrated on the womenfolk. His great-grandfather had learnt to hate all Germans after the family had forfeited their East Lorraine estate following the Franco-Prussian war. The family had also paid a price in defying the pagan Nazis in 1939. Seven of the family members had been shot. His grandfather had regularly thumped the message of hate into Gaston’s young flesh. The old man had recently died after ninety bitter years.

The rifle felt utterly right in his hands, as it should when he was about the Lord’s work. It was a fine tool. He raised the weapon to look through the green night-sight. He cuddled the stock into his shoulder and experienced a shiver of pleasure at the smooth thermoplastic Cycolac on his cheek and the firm feel of the weapon’s furniture in his left hand. He sensed the power surge in his veins.

Five miles away Berndt Schmardt locked up the workshop. He often worked late assembling the components for the following day’s installation. In the morning he would methodically tick off each item on his list as he loaded the van. He had once left behind a flexible connector that entailed an eighty-mile round trip to pick it up before he could connect the boiler. It had only happened that once. Margins were always tight and now petrol was so expensive Berndt wasn’t about to make any more unnecessary journeys.

The second-hand Transit van’s bodywork was well polished. Berndt understood the value of positive first impressions. This was no cowboy outfit. The oven-baked scroll-worked, Berndt Schmardt, Heating installation Engineer, blocked in red, black and yellow looked neat on the white sides of the van. He’d written his name in block capitals for the painting firm. People often spelled his name wrongly; he didn’t want any mistakes. He wished his father had christened him Bernard and kept the anglicised ‘Smart’, adopted after the sinking of the Lusitania in 1915 when anti-German sentiment was running at fever pitch. Berndt understood the old man’s motives of pride in restoring the family name after the war. When his father started the heating business Germans had been lauded as expert engineers and any edge like a German name, was a bonus although both of them had been born in Winchester

The big white van pulled onto the main Southampton Road and Berndt pushed in the battered ‘Dire Straits’ cassette. He liked to drive with the music from his youth playing at full belt.

The van handled slightly differently with the tank full of petrol ready for the morning run but Berndt had been driving for thirty years and any adjustments were instinctive. His lusty off-key voice accompanied Mark Knofler.

The Gleaner lay motionless among the rocks, the rifle cradled across his forearms. From a few feet away he was invisible, his outline lost in the jumble of round shapes of the water-smoothed boulders. His mouth moved soundlessly in one of his mantras. The repetitive hypnotic rhythm in his head focused his eyes on the dark ribbon of road to his right. The trees were inky black, but shortly with luck, the branches on his left would light up with the joyous fire of righteousness. The idea of putting a second shot into the petrol tank of the van was short-lived, there was no guarantee it would explode. That only happened in the movies with any certainty. As always he would lay his trust in the Lord.

He saw the Transit’s headlights long before he saw the white van come out of the tunnel of trees and begin the short, sharp ascent. The note of the engine changed as the driver shifted down to third. The Gleaner slowly swung the rifle up. The rhythm of his mantra quickened in anticipation. He wriggled, settling himself flatter on the rock and the rifle more perfectly into his shoulder. He felt uplifted and supremely powerful at this moment.

Berndt Schmardt saw, heard, and knew nothing. The transition from life to death was virtually instantaneous. The high-velocity round smashed through the windscreen striking almost square-on, and went through Berndt’s heart and the seat as if they consisted of nothing substantial. He was flung back by the impact, but rocked forward as he bounced off the seat back and folded over the steering wheel. His slack feet twisted as the legs flopped loosely, but even as the right one eased on the accelerator, the downward slope gave the Transit added impetus. It careered on in a straight line and as predicted failed to take the gentle left-hand curve and went off the road gathering speed. Only a thin three-stranded wire looping between white-painted concrete posts protected the roadside property. The Transit burst through effortlessly, the sheered wire whipping behind it. For a second the van was completely airborne before it smashed into the first sapling, then everything seemed to fold and distort. The engine noise surged as the tyres left the road but the sound of the impact was muted. The hillside was steep and the Transit carried a hundred litres of petrol. Its momentum was barely reduced by the few thin saplings.

The Gleaner watched as the white twisting mass destroyed the first few pines, but before he could be disappointed, a shower of sparks blossomed as the chassis hit rock. A brief orange flame flared and then the split fuel tank ignited with a loud ‘poof’. Burning petrol erupted into the black night.

The man smiled as the bright flames covered the wreck. The shrubbery and trees started burning as the wreckage continued downward sowing a line of orange and blue flame as it went. Dark smoke swirled away heavenwards and the Gleaner nodded contentedly before carefully pulling the carrying bag towards him.

The count was ‘one’.

CHAPTER TWO  April 1914 

Job Morrison was normally more careful but on this day he made two mistakes. He stayed too long helping Laurie with the lame horse and then he tried to make up the time by taking a short cut back to the Manse through the copse. Job had been moving  through the heather as Tam MacDougall had taught him, but hadn’t been taking any  precautions until he heard voices and remembered that the copse was now Lennox property.

The previous year Jim Douglas had lost his herd of Anguses to a mysterious illness and sold the copse to raise money. Old Man Lennox seemed only too eager, and had the cash ready, to buy at an attractive price. Attractive to Lennox that was.

The Lennoxes were no friends of the Morrisons. This had nothing to do with Job but everything to do with his uncle. The Reverend Robert Morrison was an inspired minister who saw his duty simply and clearly. Evil in all its forms had to be trampled out before God could enter into a man’s soul. The ways of grasping Lennox and his family were anathema to the Reverend Robert Morrison and he was not slow in making his views felt from the pulpit.

Old Man Lennox of course was not at all pleased that his business methods and life were the thinly disguised subjects of repeated sermons on the ways of the devil. As dutiful offspring, his three sons, Malcolm, Bruce, and Duncan, had made Job’s life unpleasant whenever they came into contact. Luckily, now that Duncan Lennox and Job had quit school over a year ago when Job was fourteen, that contact was less frequent. Duncan had been kept back for two years because he was a slow learner, and Old Man Lennox had been far from pleased; the disappointment over retarded Malcolm, his eldest son, had been bad enough.

Although two years older, the slyly vicious Duncan had been no more than an irritation to Job. He weighed-in several stones lighter than the broad, fit Job and looked a lot older. The look came from the blearing effects of his early-acquired drinking habit and the perpetual cigarette dangling from his damp lips. He had sought solace in drink from his father’s disappointment and ready fist.

Job stopped when he heard voices coming through the trees. He recognised Bruce Lennox’s carping tones. Bruce had assumed the role of elder brother. Malcolm was the eldest of the sons but his brain, unlike his huge body, had been imperfectly formed.  Bruce possessed a low cunning and had the ability to control the powerfully built Malcolm.

Job dropped into a crouch in the heather to assess the position. He had not yet reached the main stand of trees through which the path led. He could easily retrace his steps and by-pass the possibility of trouble, but although no one would know of his faint-heartedness, he could not retreat. The Reverend Morrison had instilled in his nephew an understanding of the ways of the devil and the forms he could take in this naughty world. A good man confronted wrong and the purveyors of iniquity whenever they were found. To do nothing was an error, to retreat in the face of evil merely to avoid trouble, was sinful. Job knew the Lennoxes were not on the side of the angels. On the other hand Job was no fool, and three to one were not odds that a wise man would sensibly court. God had endowed Job with brains that should be used, not ignored. He wouldn’t turn back, but he might avoid confrontation.

He wondered what the brothers were doing here anyway. The copse was remote from the big granite house called Shehahn, which was their home. A fresh-water spring ran down from Ben Dhu, but up here there were no fish to be caught in the clear, fast-running brook. The only building within a mile was the mill on the knoll near the road Job was heading towards. The miller, Neville Coates, was not the type who welcomed social calls. He was a surly, private man who had inherited his life’s work from a father who died early. Neville had found himself milling oats before he had got round to sowing his own wild variety. It had left him with a grudge and he shunned anyone not involved with grain or flour. The Lennoxes would not be on the way to visit Neville.

The Lennox brothers had no obvious reason to be in the woods, and instinctively Job assumed they were up to no good. Since it was their own property it was entirely a matter for them, and he had no wish to encounter them on his passage through.

Keeping low and his eyes alert, he moved crabwise to the timber edge. A faint breeze rustled the tops of the trees and covered any noise his kilt made as it rasped through the gorse and heather. The Morrison tartan was predominantly green and dark blue with a thin red stripe, so, unlike the fancier yellows of MacLeod or Macmillan it did not stand out against the darkness of the heather. His jacket was grey. Job reached the trees without being seen or seeing anyone. The voices were quiet now. The wind blew across him but he caught the faint tang of wood smoke in the stiller air among the trees.

He was curious to know why the Lennoxes should light a fire here at this time of day, their own hearth at Shehahn was only an hour away. He stood for a moment undecided. He had thought to skirt the copse keeping in the cover of the first rows of trees, but now he was intrigued, especially when he heard an excited cry from Duncan.

Moving on light feet he threaded his way through the young growth. Every few yards he stopped behind a convenient trunk and listened for any change in the sounds about him. He sensed a difference in the air and knew the men were not far even though he could neither hear nor see anything.

Towards the head of the tiny glen was a large hollow ringed by the dark woods. The locals called it‘The Witches’ Cauldron'. It was invisible from the narrow hard beaten path running alongside the burn. The path led out towards the miller’s knoll with its neat windmill, before arriving at the road to the village. Job knew the men were in the hollow even before the sound of Bruce’s commanding voice confirmed it. He heard Duncan answer. The smell of wood smoke was strong and after a few more yards Job could see the faint blue-grey wisp rising out of the Cauldron.

He crawled the last twenty yards up the moss-covered rocky slope between tree trunks which seemed to grow out of great cracks in the granite. He had no fear of being seen. He had successfully stalked nervous deer with only heather for cover and come near enough to touch them with his stick; the Lennox brothers were a lot less sensitive than deer.

A fair bit less handsome as well, he thought as he looked down on the two men slapping turf on top of a large wooden frame set back in a rift in the rocky wall. A ratty-looking man scuttled out of the construction and Job recognised Billy Dewar. He immediately knew what they were up to. Dewar made whisky. Maybe he thought his name entitled him to make his living distilling illicit grain liquor, and although Billy Dewar’s end product did not bear comparison with its acclaimed namesake, it was still considered‘a guid drap' by those who bought it. They were in a sufficient number because Dewar had never had a job as far as Job knew. He only dressed like a wandering ragged tinker because he preferred to.

The Witches’ Cauldron had much to recommend it as a site for a still: the copse was relatively remote from the village; there was a spring of fresh highland water running nearby, and any casual passers-by along the path, fewer now the Lennoxes owned the wood, would see nothing. Even the smoke would go unremarked. In the years before, Jim Douglas had burned charcoal there. Job did not know about the smell of the mash but presumed Dewar would be familiar with plenty of tricks to mask any heady aromas.

Whisky making had a noble tradition, and this way of avoiding the English taxes had for long been smiled upon by most highlanders. Even the Reverend Morrison who preached against the evils of excessive drink, enjoyed an occasional tot of the golden miracle. Nevertheless, Job realised that he did not want to be watching this. Distilling was illegal. To Job that meant nothing, so the Lennoxes’ secret was safe, but they would not be happy with his knowing. The Lennoxes were secretive by nature and were sure to react violently. Job slipped backwards and made his way quietly to the path. Once he was out of earshot he moved more quickly, grateful to have so easily circumvented the problem.

The tiny glen came out of the trees and descended past the tumbled rocks which aeons ago had been brought down by raging torrents. The path snaked round boulders the size of small cottages. Job could almost see the road when he turned a corner and tripped over the sack.

He had been so eager to get away from the Lennoxes that he hadn’t been paying attention and as he recovered his balance he saw the third Lennox son, Malcolm, sitting on a second sack with his back against the boulder. One of the grain sacks would have made an adequate load going up the brae, but the giant Malcolm had obviously been carrying two and had paused to catch his breath. For a second, Job’s heart leapt in his chest.

A long pause was necessary before recognition arrived on slow Malcolm’s dark face.

'Morrison.' It wasn’t a question or a greeting but merely a verbal confirmation at managing to fit the face with a name.

Job was torn between sprinting off, certain that he could reach Aberdeen before Malcolm even got to the nearby village, or pretend a nonchalance he didn’t feel in the hope that Malcolm would forget him by the time he got back to the still. You could never be sure with Malcolm, sometimes his brain functioned almost normally, and sometimes he gave the impression that breathing and walking at the same time was a challenge. Unluckily for Job this seemed to be one of his brighter days.

‘Wit are you doin’ here? This is Lennox land. Bruce says no one is to come here.’ Bruce’s word was law despite the fact that Malcolm was the elder brother.

He stood up, and as always on the rare occasions when he was this close, Job was amazed at the size of him. Job was five feet ten inches tall but his head barely came chest high to Malcolm. Job was instantly reminded of the picture of Goliath in his book of illustrated stories from the Old Testament.

His agile brain came to his assistance.

‘Bruce is waitin' on these,’ Job kicked the sack at his feet. ‘And you’re sittin' enjoyin’ the weather?’ His voice held an element of astonished surprise.

Instant confusion covered Malcolm’s face, and part of Job felt ashamed, but the sense of self-preservation was strong in the presence of this huge man.

‘Do you need a hand gettin’ them up on yer back? Here, it’s best to be on your way.’ Job bent down and pulled the sack vertical. ‘Get the ither one and I’ll set this one on top.’

Malcolm was used to taking orders and he lifted the sack he’d been sitting on with one hand and laid it across his vast shoulders. Job struggled with both hands to deposit his sack on top of the other one. And then, because this was a Lennox and had caused Job’s heart to race, his hand slipped to the skean dhu in his sock, and on the pretext of patting the grain bags into place he slit a small hole in the seam so that the grain began slowly trickling out.

‘I woudna stop again, Malcolm,’ he called out. ‘Bruce’ll be in a fair frennisin.’ He smiled at the thin trail Malcolm was leaving behind. By the time he got to the Witches’ Cauldron the bag would be near empty.

He’d turned to carry on down the hill feeling guilty at the mean trick. Besides, Malcolm might mention meeting Job, and Bruce would suspect a link between the hole in the sack and Job’s unlikely offer of help. Bruce would not forget the matter if that happened. All the Lennoxes had longer memories than a wronged woman.

Job often acted before thinking but it was a double-edged sword, the consequences were as often regrettable as they were successful. But he had the sense not to worry about what was done and he set off again for the Manse. By the time he reached the road he was whistling.

The Manse lay at the far end of the village of Garrymore, separated from the dwellings by two stonewalled fields, as if the spiritual and the temporal aspects of the small congregation should be kept apart. The little kirk was down by the river midway between the village and the Manse. Job avoided the main street of the village and cut across the heather-covered hillside to the back of the Manse and the large vegetable garden, which was his responsibility. Robert Morrison liked a garden because it gave him opportunities of bringing in metaphor and parable when he and Job ate the garden’s offerings together in the dark wood-panelled dining room.

Job’s mother and father had died when Job was small and now Mrs Brown cleaned and cooked for him and his uncle. She never partook either of the food or the Reverend’s homilies.

‘You’ve been in Jim Douglas’s copse,’ Robert said as he met Job at the back door of the Manse.

It was a statement not a question. Robert had an eagle eye not only for sin but also for small detail. The direction of his glance showed Job that his slide down the rocks at the Witches’ Cauldron had left a mossy stain on his right sleeve. Robert’s eagle eye was allied to a comprehensive knowledge of the flora of his native land.

‘It’s Lennox land now,’ Job said, as he tried to brush off the clinging moss.

‘So it is. And another reason fer keeping away fra the lair of the beast. A black family who spread their stain in order to pollute the innocent and defile the spotless.’

Robert Morrison always spoke and wrote as if employing phrases from Holy Scripture.

‘I’d forgotten for the minute it was theirs, and by then it was too late.’

‘But you didna get that followin’ the path.’ Robert’s finger lifted from the leather-bound bible and flicked towards Job’s sleeve. He made it sound as if the path was the one of righteousness.

‘I smelt smoke. They’re buildin’ a still in the Cauldron, with Billy Dewar’s help.’

‘And you wandered from the straight and narrow to confront the sin?’ There was no doubt from the intense look in the Reverend Morrison’s dark eyes that he would have stood single handed against the Devil’s hosts.

Job shook his head. ‘Naw. There was the three of them. I thought it better not.’ He lowered his eyes, accepting his failure.

The Reverend nodded. He lifted the bible. ‘The apostle James says, Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. But I’m no sure the Lennoxes wud do much fleeing where their whisky was concerned.’ He nodded again. ‘Yer parents did not bring a fool into the world. Even with right on yer side three to one are long odds. Let us go in and thank the Lord and Mrs Brown for our supper.’ He turned to the door and put his arm on Job’s shoulder. ‘I’m thinking either yer curiosity or the devilish Lennoxes will cause you a sea o’ trouble.’

The Reverend Morrison would not have considered himself cast in the prophetic mould, but in this case he was entirely correct, although he would have been dismayed at the amount and endurance of the trouble.

CHAPTER THREE

‘What have you been doing, Job Morrison?’ Fiona MacDougall opened the door at his knock.

Job immediately felt guilty. Fiona invariably elicited this response when he looked at her, even when he was blameless. He thought she was the most perfect thing he had ever seen.

‘Why? Wit’s the matter?’

‘Dad says that Bruce Lennox was in the Dun Cow saying you had to be taught a lesson.’

She led the way into the kitchen. Tam was often busy with some messy task and never  contemplated sullying the front room that Vera had kept so neat. It lay undisturbed like a musty shrine.

‘Bruce was aye a big one with the words,’ Tam said smiling as Job came in. ‘But I said nothin’.’ Tam was nearer fifty than forty, although it was impossible to tell by looking at him. He was also not a man to suffer fools gladly, and he considered all of the Lennox offspring in that category. ‘I thought you should have the pleasure of setting Bruce’s feet on the paths of righteousness, as the Reverend would say.’

‘So what was it you did?’ Fiona was intrigued that Job, who was always shy and diffident around her, should be a thorn in the side of much older Bruce Lennox.

Job told them what had happened with Malcolm and his sack of grain, although he never mentioned the still.

‘He’ll want to settle that,’ Tam said.

‘You’re a fool. Why didn’t you just skidaddle when you had the chance?’ Fiona could not believe that anyone would want to stay around the mentally slow giant Malcolm if they could get away. Like Tam, Fiona was impatient with fools. Besides, Malcolm would be the stuff of nightmares, if she had them, particularly when he gave her his slobbering grin on the few occasions she encountered the Lennoxes in Garrymore.

‘I suppose I was hopin’ Malcolm would no remember he met me.’

‘Ya ken that Malcolm canna be relied on to do anythin’ you expect,’ Tam finished reassembling the hunting rifle.

‘Ah, well. It’ll be a strange day when anythin’ Bruce Lennox threatens keeps me awake o’ nights.’

Fiona snorted. Men were always the same with their boasting. But she felt some concern for Job. She knew the skulking way Bruce and his young brother Duncan operated. They were born back-stabbers, even though they would get someone to perform the dirty work while they were miles away when it happened. Her father said the family had no honour, and Job’s uncle, the Reverend Morrison, believed they were instruments of the devil, and she knew the consensus of most of the village of Garrymore was somewhere in between.

‘Anyway, we’ll be away to Loch Whillit, and by Saturday they’ll have forgotten,’ Job said.

‘I’ve got business in Cullanin on Monday, we’ll go to the mountains there, instead.’

Tam MacDougall had not mentioned to Fiona that Bruce Lennox’s drinking companions had been the two Campbell brothers who, according to the Dun Cow’s barman Jamie, were helping their father clear wood round Loch Whillit. Ever a cautious man Tam had decided that the trip with Job would be none the worse for being in the opposite direction. Tam feared no man, but the Campbell’s made his flesh creep.

Tam had no son of his own and although Fiona was his treasure, she was not a lad, and she drew the line now at sleeping out on the mountains or culling the deer. Job was the best shot Tam had ever seen and he had a patience that was rare for a boy of his age. Tam often had to force himself to remember that Job had just turned sixteen despite the fact that he looked and acted like an eighteen year old. His early mental maturity had come with the death of his parents and the fact that Robert Morrison had never treated him like a child. His physical forwardness was a product of nature.

Tam’s minor change of plans regarding the mountains altered Job’s life, but on the other hand it was possible that taking a trip to Loch Whillit might well have ended it. Shug Campbell, hired by Bruce Lennox with the intention of giving Job a thrashing, was a man whose self-control was minimal. He had killed his wife in her native Glasgow and had scuttled north before her battered bloody body was found in the tenement in a part of the city the police only entered in threes.

During the next two days, Job and Tam climbed five mountains, although little mountaineering skill was required for the soft, heather-covered slopes. Early on Monday morning they separated on the hill overlooking the town of Cullanin. The road back would take Job along a winding glen and it was likely he would meet a cart to give him a