Текст книги "Trail of Greed"

Автор книги: John Dysart

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter 16

Waking is a strange process – or I should say “returning to consciousness”.

I had thought that perhaps dreaming would become less prevalent as one aged but this is not the case.

I was being chased for some completely illogical reason in some place that was totally strange to me. I rushed into a tall building. People were looking strangely at me. I dashed for the lift and flung myself in it as soon as the door opened. I hit a button – any damn button and the lift started to move just as my attackers were running into the lobby, guns out and, for some reason, they were wearing masks.

I noticed that I had hit the button for the fourteenth floor. The lift started to accelerate, passing floor seven, eight, nine. It showed thirteen on the LED display above the door but I could feel no sense of it slowing down. It accelerated past fourteen and carried on upwards. At twenty-five it suddenly stopped and immediately proceeded to go back down again, picking up speed as it went. I started to panic as it plunged earthwards, past fourteen again. It arrived at zero and restarted its climb upwards. I was scared rigid, sweating with fear as the bloody thing went up and down several times. Nothing I could do would stop it. I hit every button I could see but it continued inexorably doing its imitation of a yoyo, getting faster and faster while I felt more and more claustrophobic.

Through the glass doors of each floor I could see faces in a kind of a blur. Faces pressed to the glass jeering. As the lift passed every floor there they were – hands, noses, chins pressed to the glass, laughing at me.

Then I woke up. I was shaking and sweating and my heart was definitely pounding, yet I had been asleep. I realised this as soon as I was aware of my real surroundings, lying on my own bed in my own house.

That had been a few weeks ago. However, on this particular occasion, the awakening was different. It was gradual. Consciousness came to me slowly. First my brain started to operate. I lay totally still because it was telling me that something was unusual. I was not lying in my own bed in my own house. I was somewhere else but I had no idea where.

It was cold. That was the first sensation. My mind then did a quick inventory. It flicked round my body. Everything seemed to be in the right place. Feet, legs, arms, hands, head. No pain. No obvious disorders.

I was outside. That was for sure. I was lying uncomfortably and definitely not on a bed.

The whole process of coming to my senses must have only taken a split second but there is no sense of time when you crawl out into the real world.

The five senses kicked in immediately. Touch. I was lying on my front, face resting on something uncomfortable, my right arm and hand stretched out above my head. My hand was resting on a hard, uneven surface. It felt like rock. I moved my fingers gently and this confirmed the impression.

Sight. I wasn’t about to open my eyes. I don’t think I wanted to see where I was.

Sound. All I could hear was the wind. I must be outside my brain told me. Then there was the sound of a seagull, cawing raucously. Was I by the sea? Perhaps, but not for sure. Seagulls do fly a long way inland in Scotland.

Taste. Nothing. My mouth was dry. Smell. Again the smell was of the outdoors – a musty earthy smell, mixed with a slight trace of chloroform in my nostrils.

I flicked my eyes open, not daring, as yet, to move any other muscles in my body. I looked and listened. I could only see about a foot in front of my face. There was dirt and rock just in front of my eyes and some kind of foliage was obstructing my view.

Slowly I raised my head. My field of vision was limited but it was enough to observe a rolling expanse of heather and rocks with the sight of blue grey mountains in the distance.

I checked that my feet and legs were functioning. I could feel that they were there and was relieved to find that I could move them. The same with my arms and hands.

Being now more or less fully conscious, I levered myself up into a kneeling position on all fours and moved my head slowly around the horizon.

I was out in the wilds, apparently in the middle of nowhere. Was I, in fact, dreaming?

I manoeuvered myself into a sitting position for a second and, as no one or nothing seemed to be around to prevent me, I slowly clambered to my feet, completely at a loss. So far there was no sense of fear – rather one of total bewilderment.

I felt no particular pain anywhere but I seemed to ache all over. Once on my feet the effect of the wind was greatly increased and I shivered violently. I realised how cold I was. Where the hell was I? I looked around for shelter. There was none. Only shallow dips in the ground or the customary boulders that you find out on the mountains in the wilder parts of the country.

I decided to risk the cold for a minute or two on the grounds that it was more important to try and establish where I was. I stepped over to the nearest rock and sat down and did a three hundred and sixty degree survey.

I learned nothing. All I could tell was that I was somewhere high up in the mountains and there were no obvious signs of civilization. Not a house or a road of any description.

Still no fear. More curiosity. How the hell did I get here? Because here was definitely where I was.

My memory brought back the last picture I had in my mind which was of being in my garden that afternoon where I had been pruning my roses. Or was it that afternoon? I had no sense of time. Then it came back. I had been kneeling down at the edge of the flower bed, secateurs in hand, when I had suddenly been grabbed from behind. Someone had grabbed me by both ankles and a hand had seized me by the back of my neck and forced my face down into the soil.

I touched my face. It was still covered in dirt. It had happened so quickly that there had been nothing I could do. It must have been two people. I had been completely immobilised and then a cloth covered in some chemical had been thrust over my nose and mouth. That was all I could recall.

Who and why? I would have to work that out later. My immediately problem was to get out of these mountains and get home. I considered my position. It was not very encouraging. Even in summer, Scotland’s mountains can be very dangerous places. Practically every year there were one or two people who lost their lives up here. The weather can change in an instant and it is very easy to lose all sense of orientation. The rain can come on suddenly. The wind can get up and also the mist can appear from nowhere. Hypothermia is the big danger. I knew this and reviewed the state of my belongings. I was still dressed as I had been when I had gone out into the garden. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might need a survival kit just to prune the roses. This meant thin cotton trousers, ordinary shoes and a denim shirt. Not much protection if the weather turned nasty.

I checked my pockets. Not much there either, apart from a handkerchief, some loose change and piece of string that I had taken for tying up any plants that needed it. The only positive thing was that I still had my cap which would at least keep my head warm.

Ever the optimist, I got up and tried to work out which way I should go, because the only way I was going to get out of here was by walking.

Don’t blunder off in any old direction I told myself. Think it out first. First work out where north was. That was easy because the sun was right in front of me low on the horizon. I looked at my watch. Eight o’clock. The sun sets in the west. Let’s watch it for a while to check that it is indeed going down. Then I can determine the points of the compass.

Observing that the sun was indeed setting enabled me to establish direction but it also meant that I was probably facing a night up here. What the temperature drop would be I had no idea but with the wind and the damp it wasn’t going to be funny.

In all directions I was surrounded by mountains. Great, craggy, grey forbidding chunks of rock. They look lovely on the postcards but, right then, it felt to me that I was surrounded by enormous evil monsters, implacable, immovable, laughing at me.

What could I see in the landscape that might help me? For a start there were no trees visible. A stick therefore was unlikely to be available.

Not a house in sight. No smoke on the horizon. There were no roads or paths that I could see, which made me wonder how they had got me up here. The only thing I could think of was that they had dumped me from a helicopter. Even two strong men couldn’t have lugged me up here and then wandered off.

I figured I was not likely to be more than ten miles from somewhere – but in which direction? If I picked the wrong one and had to trek for twenty miles then I knew I was going to be in trouble. There was also the problem of food and water. Maybe there was a burn but I couldn’t see one.

I had to decide – and quickly. I had to get as far as I could before dark set in.

No matter which direction I chose I was going to have to do a bit of climbing. I didn’t much look forward to this but I reckoned that, at least from higher up, I might be able to have a wider view.

I decided on east. The mountains looked slightly less forbidding and I’d be walking towards the rising sun. That seemed to have some kind of sense. Whichever half of Scotland I was in there was either the coast or the A9 which sliced the country in two. A maximum of twenty miles ought to see me safe. At this point I was more angry than frightened.

It wasn’t going to be long before that changed. Disaster struck after about an hour and a half of laboriously trudging through the heather. It had been slow going because I was walking carefully. The last thing I wanted was to turn an ankle and be immobilised. The sun behind me was down on the horizon by now and dusk was setting in. But far worse than that the wind had died down and an infamous Scottish mist was descending on the whole landscape. The mountain tops had disappeared and visibility was down to about fifty yards. How was I going to be sure I was progressing in a straight line? I had heard of people getting lost in the mist and ending up walking round and round in circles.

And with the mist came that damp cold which cuts right through to the bone.

I was slowly starting to realise that this mess was not going to be as easy to get out of as I had initially thought. Hunger set in. I could handle that. Thirst was also a problem. I then started to seriously curse the bastards that had done this.

I first thought it must be revenge on the part of Purdy but, thinking a bit more about it I came to the conclusion that it was unlikely to be him. He was a bully and a coward, but I doubted he would have the guts get rid of me completely. He hadn’t done so with the car bomb. But the man who instilled such fear in Purdy might. Dewar? He was an unknown quantity as far as I was concerned. As far as I knew I had upset no one else to such an extent that they wanted me dead. Because clearly that was the intention. I could see the headlines.

“Man Found Dead on Mountain. Another walker has been claimed by our inhospitable mountains. When will people learn to take survival gear with them when they go walking in the Highlands?”

It would be written off as an accident and nobody would imagine that a murder had been committed. Dewar must still consider me as a danger. Purdy would have been explaining to him what had happened to him when they were observed by Mac in the squash club. Getting rid of me would make him feel quite safe.

These thoughts actually gave me added strength. I was damned if I was going to let him get away with it.

I decided that as long as I had fifty yards visibility I would carry on up towards the cleft that I had been heading for. With a bit of luck I might get up and over and who knows what might be on the other side. I had started to climb now, occasionally having to use my hands to clamber over rocks. My bad back was giving me hell. My hands were soon scratched and bleeding. My feet ached and I had developed blisters. It required tremendous willpower to keep going.

It didn’t last much longer. The mist descended inexorably until soon I could see no more than twenty yards ahead. I couldn’t carry on. It was too much of a risk. I was confronted with, not only the problem of direction, but also the possibility of falling off some cliff. It wouldn’t need to be a massive drop to finish me off. Falling twenty feet off a rock would probably do the trick.

There was no alternative. I was going to have to stop for the night until the sun rose and burned off the mist.

With no experience of survival techniques I only had my own common sense to rely on. The key was going to be keeping warm. A cave? A small shelter under a rock face? Anything that I could find that I could somehow turn into a makeshift cocoon to protect me.

As far as I could work out the only source of warmth was the little that my own body generated. How could I harness that? When I was younger I had done a fair amount of windsurfing so I knew the principle of the wet suit. The thin film of water next to your body warms up and acts as insulation against the colder water outside the suit. Was there any way I could use this principle?

The only thing that I could have access to were stones, earth and an abundance of heather.

I found a crack in a facing of rock which would be just large enough to take me and where the ground was dry. I started to gather heather, ripping it up with my already damaged hands. I tore at it until it was in as small pieces as possible and covered the ground where I intended to sit and doze.

By ripping strands of the heather through the open buckle of my belt I managed to create a pile of tiny bits of the plant, a bit like the lavender you might find sitting in a bowl in someone’s hallway. The pile grew. There was enough of the stuff around me. The exercise also kept me moving and kept my body warm. I wanted as much as I could possibly get. This was going to be my salvation, I decided. Next to my body it would help to trap air which would be kept warm by my body heat and act as insulation. I had no idea if it would work but I couldn’t think of a better idea.

The pile grew slowly. My hands got more and more scratched and my anger at Dewar more and more intense.

Finally I could go on no longer. I could just make out the time on my watch. It was nearly midnight. I knew that sunrise was only five or six hours away. I hoped I could survive until then.

I managed to cut the piece of string from my pocket into four short lengths by rubbing it against a rock. I tied each of the four pieces tightly around the ankles of my trousers and the wrists of my shirt and then proceeded to stuff my insulating material into them. I quickly filled up the legs of my trousers so that they were packed tight. The shirt was more difficult. Filling up the body was relatively easy. I was then able to fill up one arm but had to give up on the second one. I guessed that it wouldn’t matter too much. It was the body that I had to keep warm. I also managed to cram the remains of my magic product into my cap and thrust it firmly down on my head.

Looking a bit like a Michelin Man with a withered arm I crawled into my crack in the rock and curled up, hoping that I would manage to see the next morning.

Before I dozed off I cursed Dewar again.

Chapter 17

The coming of the dawn after my first night in the mountains gave me hope. I was still alive, if not exactly kicking.

The sky was slowly lightening in the east and I crawled out of my shelter intending to get going as soon as possible. If nothing else the movement would bring me some warmth. Walking was not going to be easy in the state I was in. My back was aching. My feet and hands were in a mess and I decided to keep my suit of heather on in case I had to try to survive another night out. If it had actually done any good or not I had no idea. It had at least occupied me and kept the blood circulating the evening before and it had, perhaps more importantly, helped to keep my mind positive.

Count your blessings, I said to myself. You’re still alive. I managed to get into a sitting position on a rock and proceeded to slowly loosen up my muscles. Hands, arms, legs were, one by one, stretched and contracted until I felt they were reasonably operational.

While I was doing this I was searching the horizon. It was still mountain after mountain. None of them had miraculously disappeared during the night. I forced myself to stick with the direction plan I had decided on last night. I would continue east in the direction of the lightening of the sky.

The next ridge seemed miles away. I observed that I had passed the night in a rock cleft at the top of a shoulder between two peaks so the first part of my journey would be either flat or descending slightly.

Progress was more of a waddle than a walk and the movement created the added problem of the scratching on my skin. I ploughed on, head down, one foot in front of the other, a glance up every ten paces to check my direction. It was the kind of hell I had never experienced before. I imagined how Napoleon’s soldiers must have felt on their long disastrous march back from Moscow.

Distance can be misleading in the hills. So can horizons. You trudge up to the ridge for an hour or two only to discover that there is hidden ground for another couple of miles before you get to that peak you wanted to climb.

It can also be deceiving on the way down. I trudged on until mid-morning.

It was an enormous struggle not to give up. What was the point of carrying on? I had had a reasonably long life. Sixty-five wasn’t that bad. It had been satisfying. Why not just accept it and go and see Liz? Memories flashed through my head – all jumbled up on top of each other. My eyes wanted to close. I had to force myself to keep them open, not that I could see much as my vision was starting to become blurred. My body was telling my mind that it was suffering and didn’t want to go on. Why not just sit down and rest? I didn’t dare. How the hell would I get up again?

I was hungry. I had a raging thirst. I worked as hard as I could to generate saliva to keep my mouth moist but that was becoming more and more difficult.

It must have been around midday, judging from the height of the sun (thank God there had been no more mist) when the ground suddenly started to fall away. Below me was a wide valley stretching across to the beginnings of the ascent to the next ridge. It looked as if I had about five miles to cross and then a horrendous climb up the other side. Heather and rocks – desolation.

That was the lowest point of my ordeal. I very nearly gave in to it all. Bugger Bill Dewar, bugger Purdy. Just chuck it in. I risked sitting down for a minute or two on a rock and tried to pluck up the courage to carry on.

It was then that I saw the flash. It was only for a second and was far away towards the foothills of the next range. Then I saw it again. But this time it seemed to be further south. And then a third time, even further over to the right.

Suddenly I was alert. There must be a road down there even if I couldn’t see it. That could only have been the sun flashing off the windows of a moving vehicle. Immediately I had hope of rescue.

I sat there for another half hour, continually keeping my legs and arms moving gently so that they would not seize up.

Then I saw the same phenomenon again – something moving flashed twice.

I stood up, groaning at the pains all over my body but light-headed and more positive again. Come on, Bob. You’ve only got to make it down to that road and you’re safe.

“Down to that road” meant three or four miles of heather on blistered feet, picking my way around great chunks of granite and being careful not to find myself in a bog. I could see two areas of bog cotton between me and my target which would have to be circumvented, probably adding another mile onto my journey.

I made it, but God knows how. It took me three hours and when I got to the road I collapsed.

I crawled on hands and knees along the grass verge until I came to a black and white post – one of these posts which help a driver to know how deep the snow is in winter. I had absolutely no idea where I was. I could be in Ross-shire or Sutherland – anywhere in the vast landmass that makes up the Highlands.

I could at least lean against the post, sitting down facing the road. I stretched my legs out in a V in front of me. I had to pray that a vehicle of some sort would come along. I was prepared for a wait as this was a single-track road with passing places – not one which would be likely to have a lot of traffic.

I also had to hope that a driver would see me. I could wave but I certainly couldn’t get up from my sitting position. I wondered about actually lying in the road to stop a car but my brain was still agile enough to tell me that such an option would be dangerous. I was only about fifty yards from a bend and a car could easily come round so fast that they might not see me and stop in time.

All I could manage was to take out my handkerchief and tie it on to the remaining piece of string that I had and throw it out onto the middle of the road. It was white. A driver should see that, I figured.

Totally exhausted, both physically and mentally I prepared to wait. I managed to stay awake for about half an hour then I dozed off.

How long I lay there, dozing, I have no idea, but when I was awakened by a hand on my shoulder it was already heading towards dusk.

“Are you alright mate?” said a soft Highland voice. I opened my eyes to see a kindly and concerned weather-beaten face peering at me.

I tried to answer but could do no more than croak. I had had nothing to drink during my trek down off the mountain and my throat was completely dry. I could only just clutch at his hand and give him a beseeching look.

“Christ, you’re in a mess,” he said. “We’d better get you to some help.”

I could only nod. “Come on then, up you get. Let’s get you in the car.” I could do almost nothing myself. He managed to haul me to my feet and with my legs buckling under me he dragged me to the car. He lent me against the side while he opened the rear door, keeping a hold of me in case I toppled over. I fell any old way onto the back seat. He pushed my legs in after me and closed the door. He then got behind the wheel.

“There’s a hotel at the edge of the village about four miles down the road,” he said as he drove off. “I know Mrs MacDonald who owns it. She’ll take you in, I’m sure.”

I tried to thank him but could only manage a rough rasping noise.

When we arrived getting me out of the car proved more difficult than getting me in. “Hold on a minute,” he said. “I’ll be back.” True to his word he was back in a couple of minutes accompanied by a woman who turned out to be the aforesaid Mrs MacDonald.

She looked at me, at first with horror, and then with concern.

“Right, Jim, you take one arm and I’ll get the other. We’ve got to get this poor man inside.”

They manipulated me out of the car and lent me across the bonnet. Jim undid the strings around my ankles and did his best to get rid of all my insulation. I was vaguely aware of Mrs MacDonald undoing the front and the sleeve of my shirt for the same purpose. They then hiked me across to the front door of the hotel and inside, leaving scatterings of heather in my wake. Once inside, I was carefully lowered into an armchair in the reception area and they both stood back to look at me properly.

I hate to think what I looked like but Mrs MacDonald was up to the task. I made signs with my hands that what I needed desperately was something to drink. I was also shivering with the cold and the shock of my ordeal.

“Jim, there’s a blanket in that cupboard over there. You get it round him while I get him a cup of tea.”

I did manage to convert my rasping voice into a semblance of the word “whisky” which Jim immediately understood. He nipped into the bar and came back with the life-saving nectar and helped me to take a sip, before my cup of tea arrived.

“Take your time,” said Mrs MacDonald “Get your strength back. Whatever happened to you you’re safe now.”

I tried to smile but that was almost beyond me as well. “Can I leave him with you, Maggie?” asked Jim. “I need to be getting back. Or is there anything more I can do?”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll look after him. I’ve got no one here tonight and I’ll get the doctor to him in the morning.”

I tried to thank Jim by means of signs and he left. I continued to sit there taking alternate sips of whisky and tea until at last my mouth moistened up and I was more or less able to speak. During this time Maggie sat opposite me. I was now able to take her in properly. She looked about fifty. She had neat short black hair and a kind sympathetic face. Her nice comfortable-looking figure was clad in a tartan shirt and a pair of black trousers. Her whole demeanour radiated competence.

Her brown eyes smiled at me and I managed a halfhearted smile in return. I told her how sorry I was to put her to all this bother.

“It’s not a problem,” she said. “What you need is a bath and a good night’s sleep. We’ll phone the doctor tomorrow. Do you want anything to eat?”

“No thanks, but another cup of tea would be wonderful.” My voice box was operating again.

“OK, don’t move. I’ll fix it.” While she was gone I looked around the reception area where I was sitting. It was clearly a small Highland hotel. The board behind the reception desk showed ten hooks, all with keys hanging on them. There were a couple of prints of Highland scenes on the wall, a slightly worn grey carpet, a door half-open leading off to a room where I could just make out a couple of tables and a few chairs – obviously the breakfast room. Whether the hotel ran to evening meals I couldn’t tell. The reception desk had the usual display of tourist brochures and an old-fashioned bell for summoning the management. In front there was a narrow staircase. No lift.

While I finished my second cup of tea I started to realise that my nightmare was over. I was alive and well. I confess that this realisation brought tears to my eyes. No one would ever know how close to death I had been. There had been several occasions up there when I had very nearly given up. I had had to call up all my reserves to keep going and not to simply lie down, curl up in a ball and let nature take its course.

I brushed away the beginning of tears with the back of my hand. Maggie got up and came over to me and put an arm round my shoulders.

“It’s alright. You’re safe now. Come on let’s get you up stairs.”

I nodded dumbly and tried to get up. With Maggie holding one arm and me clutching desperately at the hand rail, we managed to make it up the stairs where she piloted me into the first bedroom we came to and there was the most wonderful sight you could imagine – a large bed with a thick inviting eiderdown. There was a door in the corner through which I could see a bathroom.

“Now you’re not getting into one of my beds in the state you’re in,” said Maggie. “Sit there a minute.”

She went into the bathroom and proceeded to run a bath. The sound of the running water was music to my ears.

“Now let’s get these clothes off you.” I must have looked embarrassed because she went on. “No need to worry. You won’t be the first man I’ve seen naked and there’s no way you can take a bath on your own.”

She then proceeded to help me get undressed in a perfectly matter-of-fact way which quickly dispelled any sense of embarrassment. “God, look at the state of your hands – not just your hands but the rest of you,” she said.

I looked down. My feet were blistered and bloody. My hands were lacerated and the rest of my body was scratched from the heather which was now strewn all over the floor.

“Come on, in you get,” she said in a kindly voice. “You can tell me tomorrow what happened to you.”

With her help I lowered myself gingerly into the warm water, gave a great sigh and lay back with my eyes closed. The next thing I was aware of was a pair of gentle hands carefully soaping my body. Maggie’s hands glided smoothly over me rubbing in the soap.

She then let the water run out so that she could attack the rest of me which had been under the surface. She didn’t miss a corner. It was the most relaxing feeling I had had in a long time. I abandoned myself to her ministrations and said nothing. I didn’t move a muscle. Even “him down there” was beyond reacting.

She then turned on the shower head that was attached to the taps and, after testing the temperature, she showered the soap off me, helped me out and dabbed me dry with a large soft towel.

I did nothing, said nothing. She was totally in charge. She helped me across to the bed and said, “Sorry I don’t have any pyjamas for you but you should be warm enough.”

I gratefully slid in under the covers, totally exhausted from my ordeal.

“Maggie, I don’t know how to thank you.” “We’ll worry about that in the morning,” she said. She looked at me kindly and thoughtfully. “Is there anything else you need?” “Not really,” I replied. I was half propped on the pillow looking up at the ceiling. My mind was coming to terms with my escape. It was running round in circles. I knew that, despite my exhaustion, it wasn’t going to be easy to get to sleep.

She was sitting down on the end of the bed. She leant forward and patted the back of my hand.

“I’ll leave the door open. Just shout if you need anything.”

And she got up, switched off the light and left the room. I lay there in the dark, thanking God that I had got back to civilization and vowing revenge on bloody Bill Dewar. But it didn’t take long for the effects of the warm bath, cleanliness, exhaustion and feeling safe to lull me to sleep.

Soon I was dreaming. It was a while since I had dreamed of Liz, but somehow she was there. We were lying on a rug in a grassy field. It was a warm sunny afternoon. I was frightened and exhausted from running away from someone. Liz was smiling and holding out her arms to me. I rolled over into her arms and she pulled my face down and pressed it to her breasts. The warmth, the softness, the smell soothed away my fear. Soon I was calm and warm. I tried to murmur my appreciation.