Duncan Kyle - Terror's Cradle

`What now?'

`We wait.'

Tor instructions?'

He frowned. 'You are a nuisance. Anderson will return. We will be here. But for the moment you must be taken away.'

He was sending for reinforcements and I began to ask myself where they could be. To the west lay the Atlantic. A ship, then? One of the inevitable Russian trawlers that swarm round the world's seas. But there were no hills to the west so no need to climb. The high ground lay near the middle of the long island; I'd driven up and down the spine of hills on the way here. So with luck it would take time. I wished I knew more about the topography of the place. Those inlets I'd passed could probably shelter a ship, particularly a small one like a trawler. How near was the nearest? What kind of transport had they?

He didn't move his eyes from me, after that; but he didn't talk either. I was standing, he was seated, and we were both listening to the wind buffeting the windows. Somewhere up the hill the big man was struggling higher, swearing, seeking a spot from which the cross-country line was clear. I said, 'Speaking of incompetence, you haven't searched me.

'

Tor What?' You are no danger to me. You are carrying nothing to interest me. What you have of value is inside your head.'

`You don't know that. '

Ì know I can kill you before you move a foot. So be still.'

Somewhere upstairs, a loose-fitting window kept rattling, and once or twice his eyes moved irritably towards the sound. `May I sit down?'

`No.'

He was listening, his head slightly to one side, awaiting the big man's return. Upstairs the window rattled again and he 'frowned.

I was assembling saliva in my mouth, stockpiling it, consciously suppressing the reflex that demanded I swallow, tilting my head back to allow the fluid to flow into my throat. Was there enough? Could I make myself choke? Would the choking immobilize me? I opened my mouth, breathing in hard and tried to kill the swallowing movement halfway. I managed to inhale a tiny amount. Then other bodily reflexes took over and I began to cough and splutter, magnifying the effect deliberately and reaching for my handkerchief. He watched me carefully, his eyes above the unwavering pistol following the movement.

I got a coin out with the handkerchief and concealed it in my hand as I blew my nose and hawked and spluttered for a moment or two. Then I returned the handkerchief to my pocket.

`Fear,' he said, 'Sometimes affects the membranes.'

I nodded, the coin concealed in my right hand. I moved it slowly through my fingers until it rested over my thumbnail, wedged against my index finger. Ànderson's an ornithologist,' I said. 'A bird-watcher. They spend their time in isolated places with cameras and binoculars. It could be days before he's back.'

He gave me a contemptuous smile. 'It is winter npw, Mr Sellers. The migrations are over. The breeding season has not begun. I am not an idiot.'

I said, 'I understand he found a pair of snowy owls.' `So?'

Not migratory. Very rare.' I didn't know whether they migrated or not. Or care.

`Since you do not know him, how do you know this?' Àlsa – Alison Hay, did a story,' I lied. 'It was among the newspaper cuttings.'

Ì see. Let us hope these owls do not detain him long: `That's one,' I said.

'What?'

À snowy owl. Up there.' I nodded in the direction of one of Anderson's wall charts and his head turned involuntarily towards it. For about two seconds. He was saying, 'So elementa –' when the coin I'd flicked up over his head landed on the stone floor beside the door.

I shouted, 'Run, Anderson!' and he swung round. quickly to look at the door. The low armchair inhibited his movement. 'Run!' I called again at the top of my voice, then I flung myself towards the Tilley lamp and swept it in one movement from the the table into his lap.

Paraffin spilled and caught. Not much, but it was quick and there were little flames on his clothes and he lurched forward to try to control them. I got him once, with desperate violence slamming my fist at his neck, before the pistol went off. The bullet flicked my jacket, but I'd got him again before he could fire a second time, this time with all my strength, and on the nose. He grunted and then whimpered and I hit him again, smashing him back into the chair before I hurled myself to the door and off down the hill towards the car.

Nothing to interest him in my pockets! I had the Mini keys in my pockets and I went down the rough slope like a greyhound, climbed into the car and got it away fast, without lights, accelerating down the track towards the road.

I'd gone maybe sixty yards when something slammed into the car. The big man had a rifle, but even so it must be a lucky shot, and I knew it. I kept my foot hard down and the gear low as I bucketed towards the road, then swung out on to the metalled surface without stopping.

Seconds later I was accelerating fast away from the place. I turned my head as I went and saw a small glow from the cottage. Maybe the Tilley lamp had crashed to the floor as he struggled to rise. Good! Maybe he was frying in his own oil. Also good! I switched on the headlights, needing them badly. I. hadn't seen any wheeled transport, but they might have a car hidden somewhere. Again I was thankful for the Mini; on narrow winding roads, that little car's stability is worth a lot of engine power. I realized how much I was trembling and tried to control it, to switch my mind away from what had just happened, and began to take risks to force my mind to concentrate on driving, to concentrate on the road and on where the road would take me. There was noone to help, no friends on the islands. I knew no-one here except the Dennetts, who couldn't conceivably help. But, hang on! Who was the office stringer here? Newspapers use freelances in every corner of the country and there was certainly one here; I'd seen his name a few times, on copy. What was the name, damn it? I tried to visualize the sheets of copy paper. Lerwick. Something, Lerwick. But what was the something? If I'd been in the Daily News office, I'd have called the news desk and got the answer pat. But I wasn't in the office; I was driving like a madman. across lonely peat moors with armed men not far back who would be very anxious indeed to get their hairy paws on me again. The name, what was it? It was an odd name, I knew that. Something incongruous, something that didn't fit. I could remember the names of whole masses of correspondents, but

not the one that mattered. I started to go through the ones I remembered, hoping to roll it out of my memory in a list. MacGregor, Kirkcaldy, I remembered him. His name fitted; Onslow, Brighton; the splendidly-named Brown, Windsor; somebody at Lincoln. Why Lincoln? Of course, damn it, Lincoln was it — the man's name here! Lincoln, Lerwick!

That was why it was incongruous : two place names. And a very English name in the far, far north.

Lincoln. I must speak to Lincoln. He'd know the islands like the back of his hand; freelances have to if they're to make a living, especially in a place like the Shetlands where the story has to 'be very good indeed if it's to interest the London-orientated noses of news editors.

I was going through the minute roadside hamlets like a frantic flea and a couple of times a lighted phone box was past almost before I saw it. Well, I'd wait until I reached Lerwick. There I could keep the car out of sight in case the big man had made radio contact and others were on the lookout for a purple Mini.

This time I did the trip in a minute or two over the hour, not without giving the local sheep and myself a fright or two. The only real danger was that somebody might be driving to meet me, but that was to assume good organization on land and somehow I didn't really believe they'd have things as well set up as that. Anderson was the target. I'd just come blundering in.