Кит Мори - Deathly Wind

He had no time to deflect the blow. He felt a thump on the side of his head, a searing pain in his face – and then he was falling backwards, the rifle slipping from his hands as he clawed futilely at space. His scream rang out and died upon the moment of impact on the rocks below.

The other stared down, only dimly conscious of the flap of retreating wings.

Megan Munro’s libido was always at its best in the early morning. As a self-styled neo-pagan, she believed that it was because she felt closest to the earth when her mother-earth force awakened and demanded satiation. Regardless of morning breath, overnight perspiration or flattened hair, the need was there, like a powerful itch. And the means of assuaging it was also there in the form of Nial Urquart her partner, always eager to please, and to be pleasured by her.

Afterwards they lay side by side, heart rates gradually recovering, thoughts turning from the carnal to the more mundane business of the day ahead. And as usual it was Megan who threw back the duvet and ran naked to the bathroom to brush teeth and perform ablutions before hitting the kitchen to make that first post-coital cup of tea.

Nial took a few sips then lay back dozing contentedly. Morning sex with Megan had been a revelation. It lifted him to heights of delirium then plummeted him into pleasant somnolence. She was like an enchantress, he mused, as he rolled over and burrowed further under the duvet. In many ways she liked to project a simple persona. She eschewed make-up, avoided alcohol, tobacco and drugs. She dressed simply and made no secret of her beliefs and opinions. She was vegetarian – on moral grounds – a former animal rights campaigner – as was he – and a paid up member of the Green Party. Yet in the bedroom, or any other room where the fancy took her for that matter, she was primal passion itself. Yes, that was it, he thought, passion was the key to her personality. She was passionate in everything that she thought or did.

Animals seemed to come first with her, even more so than they did with himself. But especially those blasted hedgehogs of hers. He grinned through his semi-conscious haze as he pictured her now, buff naked, running through the dew, to check the runs of her ‘Mistress Prickleback Sanctuary’. The islanders all thought that she was a nutter of course, with her New Age ideas, her views on animal rights and her obsession with the West Uist hedgehog population. To him she was more than that. She was a wonderful, eccentric nymphomaniac that he was happy to live with – for now. As to whether he would want to spend the rest of his life with her, however, was another matter. But, as he inhaled the scent of her body on the bedding, he felt the stirring of a fresh erection. And because she was not physically there his mind spiralled off in another direction, conjuring up an image of that other woman whom he found so attractive. He grinned as he thought how wonderful it would be …

Megan’s scream broke through his reverie and he shot out of bed, stopping only long enough to pull on a pair of underpants. The kitchen door was open and through it he saw her slowly walking up the path, as naked as she was born, her face contorted in horror as she stared at her outstretched, bloodstained hands.

Her eyes slowly rose to meet his and she screamed again.

The Padre was busily stirring a porridge pot on the Aga while a couple of herrings in oatmeal sizzled in a pan when Torquil slinked into the kitchen in a towelling dressing-gown and bare feet.

He was a tall, dark-haired young man of twenty-eight, handsome in the opinion of many an island lass, albeit with a slightly hawk-like profile that he himself disliked. Despite his exhaustion after all his recent travel, he had slept poorly, because his mind refused to stop thinking about Ewan McPhee, his friend as well as his constable. He had showered and shaved off his accumulated stubble, much to his uncle, the Padre’s approval.

‘That’s better, laddie,’ he said, lifting the porridge pot and taking it over to the table. ‘You look more like an inspector now and less like a tramp.’

Torquil grinned and ran the back of his hand over his freshly shaved chin. ‘And there was me toying with the idea of letting the beard grow.’ He took his seat and sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘I must say, I had dreams about having a good West Uist herring while I was away.’

‘Porridge first though, eh,’ said Lachlan, ladling out two bowls. He smiled at his nephew, then, ‘It is good to be having you home, laddie. I just wish it could be under happier circumstances.’

‘Like it was before we lost Ewan?’

The Padre nodded. ‘And before we lost Fiona.’

Torquil sighed. ‘It was losing Fiona that made me take time off. I thought I had it all sussed. That’s why I am thinking of leaving the force.’ He sprinkled a little salt on his porridge. ‘But I’ll have to put my plans on hold for a while. The Procurator Fiscal will need to be consulted, and a Fatal Accident Enquiry is likely.’

‘I keep hoping that we’ll find the lad’s body. There’s nothing worse than knowing somebody’s drowned, but not being able to pay your respects properly. I’ve been praying every day that we’ll find him washed up on some shore.’

Torquil shivered despite himself and reached for the previous day’s copy of the West Uist Chronicle that his uncle had been reading as he prepared the breakfast.

‘Calum Steele has written a fine piece about Ewan,’ Lachlan said. ‘He’s written a review of all of Ewan’s sporting achievements since he was a boy at the school. I doubt if his hammer record will ever be beaten.’

Torquil scanned the two-page article, then jabbed a photograph of a row of windmills. ‘Calum is taking up cudgels about windmills, I see. A regular Don Quixote, eh?’

The Padre raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Windmills indeed! Here on West Uist.’

‘But there has been talk of wind power in the Hebrides for years. Why are you against it, Lachlan?’

‘I’m not, in principle. I don’t much like the new laird of Dunshiffin though.’

‘That’s not like you. You usually give everyone the benefit of the doubt. What have you got against the man?

The Padre shook his head disdainfully. ‘He cheats at golf for one thing. You can tell a lot about someone’s character by the way they play golf.’

‘Ah, the hallowed game,’ Torquil said with a grin.

‘Aye, laddie, you may laugh, but it takes a lot—’ Then seeing his nephew’s grin growing wider he shook his head. ‘Suffice it to say that despite his cheating I took a fiver off him and put it straight into the “ Say No to Wind Farms Group ”’s kitty.’

Torquil finished his porridge and sat back. ‘So what exactly is the laird proposing?’

‘We don’t know precisely yet, beyond the fact that he’s already ordered the first one and is having it set up on Wind’s Eye, Gordon MacDonald’s croft on the Wee Kingdom. From what he said the other day I don’t think he’s planning to let anyone work the croft in the future.’

‘But I thought the crofters had a right to transfer their crofts to family or close friends if they had no offspring.’

‘That’s what everyone thought, but it doesn’t look to be the case. The laird has looked into it.’ Lachlan finished his own porridge then stood up and went over to the Aga where he had left the herrings at the side of the simmering plate. Transferring them to plates he returned to the table. ‘Och! And I don’t like the way he’s taken on the title of “laird.” He’s a puffed up Glaswegian—’

‘A Glaswegian what, Uncle?’

‘I don’t know exactly, Torquil. But I suspect that he’s a bully as well as a cheat. And I cannot abide a cheat.’ He sighed as he poured tea for them both. ‘The trouble is that I have seen his like before and I fear what may happen in the future. I am concerned about Rhona McIvor and the other crofters. I don’t like to take issue with the Good Book, but the fact is that the meek do not seem to inherit the earth. It is the bully-boys who do, and they are the ones who seem to know how to hang on to things.’ He started on his herring with gusto.