Simon Beckett - Written in Bone

I knew I couldn’t be far from the road, but I had no way of telling which way it was. I looked up, hoping for some glimpse of stars. But land and sky merged into one single, impenetrable darkness. The wind and rain gusted first one way then another, as though trying to confuse me further.

I’d started shivering, from shock as well as cold. Even in my weatherproof outer clothes I knew I could sink into hypothermia if I didn’t find shelter. Come on, think! Which way? I made my decision and started walking. Even if it was the wrong direction, the exertion would help keep me warm. Staying still now would kill me.

It was hard going. The ground was a treacherous mix of heather and grass, threatening to turn or break an ankle at every step. I stopped dead as something rustled nearby, straining to hear against the gusting of the wind and the rain on my hood. I couldn’t see anything except darkness. My heart was racing. It’s nothing. Just a sheep.

But even as I tried to convince myself, I was recalling the scuff I’d heard behind me on the road. I knew I was being irrational, that even if there was someone else out here, they wouldn’t be able to see me any more than I could see them. It didn’t help. I was lost and injured, and the dark released all the primitive fears that daylight and the modern world have allowed us to bury.

They weren’t buried now.

I carried on walking. The turf underfoot became wetter and more broken as I blundered into a peat bog. My teeth were chattering as I splashed noisily across. Either it had grown colder or my core temperature was dropping despite my efforts. Both, probably.

My shoulder was on fire, lancing me with white heat at every step. I’d lost track of time but I was tiring quickly, becoming careless with fatigue. Another noise came from off to one side, the sound of something moving through the grass. I spun towards it and went crashing down. Agony flared through my injured shoulder as it bore the full brunt of my weight.

I must have passed out. When I came round I was lying face down, the rain pattering hypnotically on my hood. I could taste the loamy stink of peat in my mouth. Still only semi-conscious, I found myself thinking about all the countless dead animals, insects and vegetation it was made from: millennia of rot compressed into a petrochemical sludge. I spat it out and tried to push myself up, but the effort was too much. Water had seeped inside my coat, chilling me to the bone. I was shuddering from the cold, my strength gone. I collapsed back into the mud. Of all the bloody stupid ways to die. It was so absurd it was almost funny. I’m sorry, Jenny. She’d been mad enough just because I came out here. She was going to be furious when she found out I’d let it kill me.

But the attempt at gallows humour failed miserably. Lying there, I felt anger as well as sadness. So that’s it, is it? I goaded myself. You’re just going to give up?

It was then, when it could have gone either way, that I saw the light.

At first I thought I was imagining it. It was only a spark of yellow, dancing in the blackness ahead of me. But when I moved my head the light remained in the same place. I shut my eyes, opened them. The light was still there. I felt a surge of hope as I remembered Strachan’s house. That was closer than the village. Perhaps I’d wandered in the right direction after all.

Part of me knew even then that the light was too high to be coming from the house, but I didn’t care. It was something to aim for. Without even thinking about it, I crawled to my feet and began to stagger towards it.

The light hung above me, but how far away I couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. The yellow glow was the only thing in the universe, drawing me towards it like a moth. It steadily grew larger. Now I could see that it wasn’t constant, but flickered to some unheard rhythm. I was barely aware of the ground starting to rise towards it. It climbed still more, became steeper. I was using my one good arm to help pull me uphill, sometimes sinking to a crawl on my knees before stumbling upright again. But the light was closer. I fixed on it, shutting out everything else.

Then it was right in front of me. Not a car, not a house. Just a small, untended fire in front of a ruined stone hut. As disappointment started to filter through my daze, I began to take in what the firelight revealed. All around me were untidy mounds of rocks, and the sight of them stirred some dim connection. They weren’t natural formations, I realized.

They were burial cairns.

I could remember both Brody and Strachan mentioning them. And, remembering that, I knew I was even more lost than I’d thought.

I’d wandered all the way out to the mountain.

I swayed on my feet, the last of my reserves gone. As my vision swam, I became aware of movement in the mouth of the ruined hut. I stared, too numb and exhausted to move, as a hooded figure slowly emerged from inside. It stepped into the firelight, eyes reflecting the flames as they stared at me from beneath its hood.

Then the fire seemed to grow dark, and the night spun me off into darkness.

THERE WAS NO wind. That was the first thought that came to me. No wind, no drumming of rain.

Just silence.

I opened my eyes. I was in a bed. Muted daylight filtered through pale curtains, revealing a large, white room. White walls, white ceiling, white sheets. My first thought was that it was a hospital, but then I realized most hospitals didn’t run to duvets and double beds. Or en suite glass shower rooms, come to that. And the raffia bedside table looked as if it had come straight from the pages of an interiors magazine.

But just then the fact that I didn’t know where I was didn’t bother me. The bed was warm and soft. I lay there for a while, my mind running over the last events I could remember. They came back to me surprisingly easily. The cottage. Abandoning the car. Falling in the dark, then heading for the distant fire.

That was where it grew hazy. The memories of stumbling up the mountainside and finding myself at the ancient burial cairns, and of the figure that had emerged from the ruined hut, had the surreal quality of a dream. I had disjointed images of being carried along in pitch blackness, crying out as my shoulder was jolted.

My shoulder…

I drew back the duvet, registering that I was naked but more concerned with the sling that strapped my left arm to my chest. A professional job, by the look of it. I cautiously flexed the shoulder and winced as bruised ligaments protested. It hurt like hell, but I could tell it was no longer dislocated. Someone must have put it back, although I’d no memory of it. Which was odd, because having a dislocated shoulder shot back into joint isn’t the sort of experience you’re likely to forget.

I looked at my wrist and saw that my watch was missing. I’d no idea what time it was, but it was daylight outside. I felt a growing sense of alarm. Christ, how long had I been out? I’d still not told Wallace-or anyone-that we were dealing with a murder. And I’d promised Jenny I’d call her the night before. She’d be going frantic wondering what had happened to me.

I had to get back. I threw aside the duvet and was looking round for my clothes when the door opened and Grace Strachan came in.

She was even more striking than I remembered, dark hair tied back to reveal the perfect oval of her face, fitted black trousers and cream sweater revealing a figure that was slim but sensuous. When she saw me she smiled.

‘Hello, Dr Hunter. I was just coming to check if you were awake.’

At least now I knew where I was. It was only when her eyes flicked down that I remembered that I was naked. I hurriedly covered myself with the duvet.

The dark eyes were amused. ‘How are you feeling?’