S Bolton - Sacrifice

Boys born into the Trow community would face a stark choice – accept what they were, enjoy the enormous advantages and deal with the horrific reality of how they were made; or leave and risk the destruction of everything and everyone they'd been taught to value. I knew now that Duncan had no desire to leave me; it was the life he wanted out of. I knew why he'd been so depressed about the move back to Shetland, in spite of the huge advantages it had offered him; why our relationship had been under such strain. Duncan was fighting the forces that had drawn him back to the islands. My heart went out to him, but it was a battle he'd have to fight alone for now. I had problems of my own to deal with and, in any event, I sensed he wasn't winning.

A mass of darkness ahead of me was growing blacker, taking a shape more solid than the night around it. I thought I could even see small lights. I was nearing Tronal. I furled the jib and the boat slowed by a couple of knots. I could make out bumps and ridges in the cliffs and see a lighter area that must be the sand of the beach. The depth gauge was working now. Fifteen metres, fourteen, thirteen…

Waves were breaking on the shore. Ten metres, nine… I was about to turn the boat so that it was heading directly into wind to allow me to drop the sails when I spotted rocks off the port side. The starboard side looked clear but I'd have to turn the boat round nearly 300 degrees and I wasn't sure I had the speed any more. I looked again to port: more rocks. I was in five metres of water, four, three… As fast as I could, I reached forward, pulled up the keel and released the mainsail. Then I closed my eyes and held on tight to the stick. The wind was behind us and the boat continued forward until a scraping sound under the hull and a massive jerk forward told me we'd hit the beach. We travelled another yard or so, then stopped.

I collected what I needed from the cabin and then came up top again. I stood on the narrow deck, staring at Tronal, the geographical fortress I was about to storm. Since the dawn of time, people have surrounded themselves by water to protect against invasion. But it wasn't just the island I was facing; it was the fortress of the Trows – an invisible but complex structure run by very powerful men. They were strong, they could hypnotize people. It was little use telling myself that they were, after all, only men. For generations past they'd convinced themselves that they were different.

At the end of the day, if you believe something deeply enough, it becomes a kind of truth.

THE BEACH WAS NARROW, SLOPING UPWARDS, SCATTERED with boulders that gleamed black in the darkness. On all sides, low jagged cliffs reared above me. They seemed to be moving and I almost cried out, then relaxed. The cliffs were home to hundreds of nesting sea birds – gulls or fulmars, I couldn't tell – white bellies squirming, wings fluttering, heads nodding against the black of the granite cliffs.

I pulled the anchor from its locker and walked several paces up the beach until I could wedge it behind a small rock. Assuming I made it back to the beach, the boat would be waiting for me. I tugged on a small backpack I'd brought with me and set off.

I started towards the lowest point on the cliff. It was far too dark to see clearly and every few seconds I tripped or slid. At the edge of the beach I began to climb. After a few yards the pebbles gave way to thin soil, some scattered clumps of grass and coarse, springy heather. It wasn't steep but I was breathing heavily when I reached the top. A barbed-wire fence ringed the upper part of the island but I was prepared for it. With the aid of a small pair of pliers from the boat I'd soon cut a way through. After that there was a stone wall, about waist high. I climbed over, taking care not to dislodge any of the loose stones. I looked round, found a stone that had fallen and placed it on top of the wall as a rough marker of where I'd cut the wire.

Keeping low, I looked around me. Tronal is a small island, oval in shape, roughly a mile long and a third of a mile wide, with three stubby promontories at its south-eastern edge. It is fifty metres above sea level at its highest point, pretty much the place where I was crouching. Looking north I could see the lights of Uyeasound on Unst and also several down on Tronal's tiny marina. A single pier, new and solidly built, jutted out from the small natural harbour. Several boats, including a large white cruiser, were moored there. A Land-Rover was parked near the jetty. I thought I could see movement around it.

From the harbour a rough, single-track road led across the island to the only buildings that were visible. Almost in the centre of the island, the terrain rose and then dipped, forming a natural hollow in which the buildings nestled. I dropped lower and started making my way towards them.

Instinct told me to stay close to the hillside, to move as quickly as the rough ground allowed. At one point I thought I heard voices, ten minutes later the sound of a boat engine, but the wind was still strong and I couldn't be sure.

After about fifteen minutes of ducking and scrambling, I could see lights not too far away from me. I climbed the hill to its summit and lay down on the coarse, prickly grass. Below me, not fifteen metres away, was the clinic.

It was a one-storey building, made of local stone with a high slate roof, built around a square and with a central courtyard. A gated archway in the north-western elevation permitted vehicular access to the courtyard. The gates stood open. Dormer windows appeared at regular intervals along the roof, six to a side. Only a few lights shone from the building itself, but the area surrounding it was dimly lit by a series of small lights set along the gravel pathways. I set off again, keeping a good distance away, to inspect the building from all angles before deciding whether it was safe to approach.

Moving south away from the gate I found a whole row of dark rooms. Blinds weren't drawn but I could make out nothing inside them.

The south-eastern side was busy. Several windows had blinds up and lights on. I sank back into the shadows and watched. There were men inside. I managed to count half a dozen, but couldn't be sure there weren't more. Three, maybe four, were in some sort of common room; I could see easy chairs and a TV on the wall. Another two were in a large kitchen that gleamed with stainless steel. Some of the men wore jeans and sweaters; a couple were dressed in white surgical scrubs. They stood around, chatting, drinking from mugs. One of the men in the kitchen was smoking, his cigarette held out of an open window. My watch told me it was just after ten o'clock. A normal hospital would be quietening down for the night. No sign of that here.

I crouched low, thinking about video surveillance, security lights, alarms. If this building were the prison I believed it to be, it would surely have all of those. Turning another corner, I found a row of eight windows, all of which had blinds drawn. I moved on. There was a row of outbuildings about ten metres away from the house. I planned to hide behind them.

I must have been about six metres away from the sheds when there came a terrifying explosion of sound: the manic barking of several large dogs. I dropped to the ground, curling instinctively into the tightest ball I could manage, tucking my hands into my chest.

The barking grew in intensity, claws scratched against wood, animals yelped, hurting each other in their urgency to reach me, to be the first to tear me apart.

Nothing happened: I didn't hear the pounding of large paws, jagged teeth didn't clamp down on to my flesh. But the cacophonous din continued, the dogs getting more and more furious with themselves, with me, with the situation. With a relief that almost made me pass out, I realized they couldn't reach me. They were locked up.