'Hello, sonny.' He was a great burly man in a tweed bonnet. A familiar sort of person. Not a stranger. As well, Henry's legs were beginning to feel wobbly, like cooked spaghetti, and he was not certain whether he was going to be able to make that last bit of the road to Strathcroy.
'Hello.'
'Where are you off to?'
'Strathcroy.'
'Did you miss the bus?'
This seemed a good excuse. 'Yes,' fibbed Henry.
'Want a ride?'
'Yes, please.'
'Up you come, then.'
The man reached down a horny hand. Henry put his own hand into it and was heaved upwards, as though he weighed no more than a fly, onto the big man's knee, and then over and onto the other seat. The cab was warm and snug and very dirty. It smelt fuggy, of old cigarettes and sheep, and there were sweetie papers and match-ends littered around the floor, but Henry didn't mind this, because it was good to be there, with another person for company, and to know that he didn't have to walk any farther.
The driver slammed his door shut, shoved his engine into gear, and they moved forward.
'Where have you walked from?'
'Caple Bridge.'
'That's a long walk on a wet night.'
'Yes.'
'Do you live in Strathcroy?'
'I'm going to see someone there.' Before he could be asked any more questions, Henry decided to ask one himself. 'Where have you been?'
'To the market in Relkirk.'
'Did you have a lot of sheep?'
'Aye.'
'Were they your own?'
'No, I've no sheep. I'm just the driver.'
'Where do you live?'
'Inverness.'
'Are you going there tonight?'
'Oh, aye.'
'It's a long way.'
'Maybe so, but I like to sleep in my own bed.'
The windscreen wipers swung to and fro. Through the clean fan of glass, Henry watched as the lights of Strathcroy came closer. Then they passed the thirty-miles-an-hour sign, and then the War Memorial. Around the last curve of the road, and the long main street of the village stretched ahead into the darkness.
'Where do you want me to drop you off?'
'Just here will do very nicely, thank you.'
Once more, the sheep-float ground to a juddering halt.
'You'll be all right, now?' The man reached over to open Henry's door.
'Yes, of course. Thank you very much indeed. You've been very kind.'
'You mind yourself, now.'
'I will.' He clambered down the great height to the road. 'Goodbye.'
'Goodbye, sonny.'
The door slammed shut. The massive vehicle went on its way, and Henry stood and watched it go, its red tail- light winking like a friendly eye. The sound of the engine faded into the darkness, and after it was gone, everything seemed very quiet.
He started off again, walking down the middle of the deserted street. He felt extremely tired, but that didn't matter, because he was almost there. He knew exactly where he was going and what he was going to do, because he had laid his secret plans with the greatest possible thought and care. He'd mulled over every eventuality, and left nothing to chance. He was not going to Balnaid, nor Pennyburn, but to Edie's. He was not going to Balnaid because there would be nobody there. His mother, his father, Alexa and her friend were all at Croy, having dinner with the Balmerinos before going to Mrs. Steynton's party. And he was not going to Pennyburn because Vi was at Croy too. And even if they had all been at home, he would still have made for Edie's cottage because Edie would be there.
Without Lottie. Horrible Lottie was back in hospital. The news had been relayed to Henry by Mr. Henderson, and the relief of knowing that Edie was safely on her own again had filled Henry with courage and finally precipitated his illegal flight. It made all the difference, knowing that he had somewhere safe to go. Edie would take him in her arms, ask no questions, make him hot cocoa. Edie would listen to him. She would understand. She would be on his side. And with Edie on his side, surely everybody else would take notice of what she had to say and would not be angry with him.
The lights still burned in Mrs. Ishak's supermarket, but he kept to the far side of the road, so that Mrs. Ishak, by chance, would not see him as he passed by. The rest of the street was dark, lit only by the curtained windows of the wayside houses. From behind these windows Henry could hear muffled voices or music from people's television sets. Edie would be sitting in her armchair, watching television, busy with her knitting.
' He came to her little cottage with its thatch, crouched down between its neighbours. The window of her sitting-room was dark, which meant she wasn't watching television. But from her bedroom window, light streamed brightly out, and it seemed that she had forgotten to draw her curtains.
She had other curtains, lace ones, for privacy, but it was perfectly possible to see through these. Henry went close to the window and peered inside, cupping his hands to the sides of his face as he had seen grown-ups do. The lace curtains veiled the interior a bit, but he saw Edie at once. She was standing at her dressing-table, with her back to him. She was wearing her new lilac cardigan and looked as though she was putting powder on her face. Perhaps she was going out. Dressed in her best lilac cardigan…
He balled his fist and rapped on the glass to catch her attention. She turned from the mirror with a start and came towards him. The overhead light shone down on her face, and his heart leaped in a spasm of horror, because something dreadful had happened to her. She had got a different face, with staring black eyes and a mouth red with lipstick, all smeared as though it were blood. And her hair was wrong, and her cheeks pale as paper…
It was Lottie.
Those staring eyes. A revulsion, stronger than fear, jerked him away from the window. He backed off across the street, out of the patch of yellow light that lay across the wet pavement. Every exhausted limb in his body was shaking, and his heart thumped against his chest as though it were trying to fight its way out. Petrified with terror, he thought he would probably never be able to move again. The terror was for himself, but mostly it was for Edie.
Lottie had done something to her. His very worst nightmare was true, was happening. Somehow, Lottie had come creeping secretly back to Strathcroy and burst in on Edie when Edie wasn't looking.
Somewhere in the cottage Edie lay. On the kitchen floor perhaps, with a meat chopper in the back of her neck and blood all over the place.
He opened his mouth to scream for help, but the only sound that emerged was a trembling, faint whisper.
And now Lottie was there, at the window, raising the lace curtain to peer out into the street, her horrible face pressed against the glass. In a moment, she would go to the door, she would be after him.
He forced his legs to move, backed away up the road, and then turned and ran. It was like running in a dreadful, treacly dream, but this time he knew that he would never wake up. His ears were filled with the thud of his own footsteps and the rasping of his breath. It was difficult to breathe. He tore the Balaclava helmet from his head, and the cold air streamed down on his head and cheeks. His brain cleared, and ahead, he saw his refuge. The bright windows of Mrs. Ishak's shop, stacked with the usual colourful display of soap powders and cereal packets and cut-price bargains.
He ran to Mrs. Ishak.
