The Distant Echo
Chapter 1
1978: St Andrews,
Scotland
Four
in the morning, the dead of December. Four bleary outlines wavered
in the snow flurries that drifted at the beck and call of the snell
north-easterly wind whipping across the North Sea from the Urals.
The eight stumbling feet of the self-styled Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy
traced the familiar path of their short cut over Hallow Hill to Fife
Park, the most modern of the halls of residence attached to St Andrews
University, where their perpetually unmade beds yawned a welcome,
lolling tongues of sheets and blankets trailing to the floors.
The conversation
staggered along lines as habitual as their route. 'I'm telling
you, Bowie is the king,' Sigmund Malkiewicz slurred loudly, his
normally impassive face loosened with drink. A few steps behind him,
Alex Gilbey yanked the hood of his parka closer to his face and giggled
inwardly as he silently mouthed the reply he knew would come.
'Bollocks,'
said Davey Kerr. 'Bowie's just a big jessie. Pink Floyd
can run rings round Bowie any day of the week. Dark Side of the Moon,
that's an epic. Bowie's done nothing to touch that.'
His long dark curls were loosening under the weight of melted snowflakes
and he pushed them back impatiently from his waif-like face.
And they
were off. Like wizards casting combative spells at each other, Sigmund
and Davey threw song titles, lyrics and guitar riffs back and forth
in the ritual dance of an argument they'd been having for the
past six or seven years. It didn't matter that, these days, the
music rattling the windows of their student rooms was more likely
to come from the Clash, the Jam or the Skids. Even their nicknames
spoke of their early passions. From the very first afternoon they'd
congregated in Alex's bedroom after school to listen to his purchase
of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, it had been inevitable
that the charismatic Sigmund would be Ziggy, the leper messiah, for
eternity. And the others would have to settle for being the Spiders.
Alex had become Gilly, in spite of his protestations that it was a
jessie nickname for someone who aspired to the burly build of a rugby
player. But there was no arguing with the accident of his surname.
And none of them had a moment’s doubt about the appropriateness
of christening the fourth member of their quartet Weird. Because Tom
Mackie was weird, make no mistake about it. The tallest in their year,
his long gangling limbs even looked like a mutation, matching a personality
that delighted in being perverse.
That
left Davey, loyal to the cause of the Floyd, steadfastly refusing
to accept any nickname from the Bowie canon. For a while, he'd
been known half-heartedly as Pink, but from the first time they'd
all heard 'Shine on, You Crazy Diamond' there had been no
further debate; Davey was a crazy diamond, right enough, flashing
fire in unpredictable directions, edgy and uncomfortable out of the
right setting. Diamond soon became Mondo, and Mondo Davey Kerr had
remained through the remaining year of high school and on to university.
Alex shook
his head in quiet amazement. Even through the blur of far too much
beer, he wondered at the glue that had held the four of them fast
all those years. The very thought provoked a warm glow that kept the
vicious cold at bay as he tripped over a raised root smothered under
the soft blanket of snow. 'Bugger,' he grumbled, cannoning
into Weird, who gave him a friendly shove that sent Alex sprawling.
Flailing to keep his balance, he let his momentum carry him forward
and stumbled up the short slope, suddenly exhilarated with the feel
of the snow against his flushed skin. As he reached the summit, he
hit an unexpected dip that pulled the feet from under him. Alex found
himself crashing head over heels to the ground.
His fall was
broken by something soft. Alex struggled to sit up, pushing against
whatever it was he had landed on. Spluttering snow, he wiped his eyes
with his tingling fingers, breathing hard through his nose in a bid
to clear it of the freezing melt. He glanced around to see what had
cushioned his landing just as the heads of his three companions appeared
on the hillside to gloat over his farcical calamity.
Even in
the eerie dimness of snow light, he could see that the bulwark against
his fall was no botanical feature. The outline of a human form was
unmistakable. The heavy white flakes began to melt as soon as they
landed, allowing Alex to see it was a woman, the wet tendrils of her
dark hair spread against the snow in Medusa locks. Her skirt was pushed
up to her waist, her knee-length black boots looking all the more
incongruous against her pale legs. Strange dark patches stained her
flesh and the pale blouse that clung to her chest. Alex stared uncomprehendingly
for a long moment, then he looked at his hands and saw the same darkness
contaminating his own skin.
Blood.
The realization dawned at the same instant that the snow in his ears
melted and allowed him to hear the faint but stertorous wheeze of
her breath.
'Jesus
Christ,' Alex stuttered, trying to scramble away from the horror
that he had stumbled into. But he kept banging into what felt like
little stone walls as he squirmed backwards. 'Jesus Christ.'
He looked up desperately, as if the sight of his companions would
break this spell and make it all go away. He glanced back at the nightmare
vision in the snow. It was no drunken hallucination. It was the real
thing. He turned again to his friends. 'There’s a lassie
up here,' he shouted.
Weird
Mackie's voice floated back eerily. 'Lucky bastard.'
'No,
stop messing, she's bleeding.'
Weird's
laughter split the night. 'No' so lucky after all, Gilly.'
Alex felt
sudden rage well up in him. 'I'm not fucking joking. Get
up here. Ziggy, come on, man.'
Now they
could hear the urgency in Alex's voice. Ziggy in the lead as
always, they wallowed through the snow to the crest of the hill. Ziggy
took the slope at a jerky run, Weird plunged headlong towards Alex,
and Mondo brought up the rear, cautiously planting one foot in front
of the other.
Weird
ended up diving head over heels, landing on top of Alex and driving
them both on top of the woman's body. They thrashed around, trying
to free themselves, Weird giggling inanely. 'Hey, Gilly, this
must be the closest you've ever got to a woman.'
'You’ve
had too much fucking dope,' Ziggy said angrily, pulling him away
and crouching down beside the woman, feeling for a pulse in her neck.
It was there, but it was terrifyingly weak. Apprehension turned him
instantly sober as he took in what he was seeing in the dim light.
He was only a final-year medical student, but he knew life-threatening
injury when he saw it.
Weird leaned
back on his haunches and frowned. 'Hey, man, you know where this
is?' Nobody was paying him any attention, but he continued anyway.
'It's the Pictish cemetery. These humps in the snow, like
wee walls? That's the stones they used like coffins. Fuck, Alex
found a body in the cemetery.' And he began to giggle, an uncanny
sound in the snow-muffled air.
'Shut
the fuck up, Weird.' Ziggy continued to run his hands over her
torso, feeling the unnerving give of a deep wound under his searching
fingers. He cocked his head to one side, trying to examine her more
clearly. ‘Mondo, got your lighter?’
Mondo
moved forward reluctantly and produced his Zippo. He flicked the wheel
and moved the feeble light at arm’s length over the woman’s
body and up towards her face. His free hand covered his mouth, ineffectually
stifling a groan. His blue eyes widened in horror and the flame trembled
in his grasp.
Ziggy
inhaled sharply, the planes of his face eerie in the shivering light.
'Shit,' he gasped. 'It's Rosie from the Lammas
Bar.'
Alex didn't
think it was possible to feel worse. But Ziggy's words were like
a punch to his heart. With a soft moan, he turned away and vomited
a mess of beer, crisps and garlic bread into the snow.
'We've
got to get help,' Ziggy said firmly. 'She's still alive,
but she won't be for long in this state. Weird, Mondo - get your coats off.' As he spoke, he was stripping off his own
sheepskin jacket and wrapping it gently round Rosie's shoulders.
'Gilly, you're the fastest. Go and get help. Get a phone.
Get somebody out of their bed if you have to. Just get them here,
right? Alex?'
Dazed,
Alex forced himself to his feet. He scrambled back down the slope,
churning the snow beneath his boots as he fought for purchase. He
emerged from the straggle of trees into the streetlights that marked
the newest cul-de-sac in the new housing estate that had sprung up
over the past half-dozen years. Back the way they'd come, that
was the quickest route.
Alex tucked
his head down and set off at a slithering run up the middle of the
road, trying to lose the image of what he'd just witnessed. It
was as impossible as maintaining a steady pace on the powdery snow.
How could that grievous thing among the Pictish graves be Rosie from
the Lammas Bar? They'd been in there drinking that very evening,
cheery and boisterous in the warm yellow glow of the public bar, knocking
back pints of Tennent's, making the most of the last of their
university freedom before they had to return to the stifling constraints
of family Christmases thirty miles down the road.
He'd
been speaking to Rosie himself, flirting with her in the clumsy way
of twenty-one-year-olds uncertain whether they're still daft
boys or mature men of the world. Not for the first time, he'd
asked her what time she was due to finish. He'd even told her
whose party they were going on to. He'd scribbled the address
down on the back of a beer mat and pushed it across the damp wooden
bar towards her. She'd given him a pitying smile and picked it
up. He suspected it had probably gone straight in the bucket. What
would a woman like Rosie want with a callow lad like him, after all?
With her looks and her figure, she could take her pick, go for somebody
who could show her a good time, not some penniless student trying
to eke his grant out till his holiday job stacking supermarket shelves.
So how
could that be Rosie lying bleeding in the snow on Hallow Hill? Ziggy
must have got it wrong, Alex insisted to himself as he veered left,
heading for the main road. Anybody could get confused in the flickering
glow of Mondo's Zippo. And it wasn’t as if Ziggy had ever
paid much attention to the dark-haired barmaid. He’d left that
to Alex himself and Mondo. It must just be some poor lassie that looked
like Rosie. That would be it, he reassured himself. A mistake, that's
what it was.
Alex hesitated
for a moment, catching his breath and wondering where to run. There
were plenty of houses nearby, but none of them was showing a light.
Even if he could rouse someone, Alex doubted whether anyone would
be inclined to open their door to a sweaty youth smelling of drink
in the middle of a blizzard.
Then he
remembered. This time of night, there was regularly a police car parked
up by the main entrance to the Botanic Gardens a mere quarter of a
mile away. They'd seen it often enough when they'd been
staggering home in the small hours of the morning, aware of the car's
single occupant giving them the once-over as they attempted to act
sober for his benefit. It was a sight that always set Weird off on
one of his rants about how corrupt and idle the police were. 'Should
be out catching the real villains, nailing the grey men in suits that
rip the rest of us off, not sitting there all night with a flask of
tea and a bag of scones, hoping to score some drunk peeing in a hedge
or some eejit driving home too fast. Idle bastards.' Well, maybe
tonight Weird would get part of his wish. Because it looked like tonight
the idle bastard in the car would get more than he bargained for.
Alex turned
towards the Canongate and began to run again, the fresh snow creaking
beneath his boots. He wished he'd kept up his rugby training
as a stitch seized his side, turning his rhythm into a lopsided hop
and skip as he fought to pull enough air into his lungs. Only a few
dozen more yards, he told himself. He couldn't stop now, when
Rosie's life might depend on his speed. He peered ahead, but
the snow was falling more heavily now and he could barely see further
than a couple of yards.
He was
almost upon the police car before he saw it. Even as relief flooded
his perspiring body, apprehension clawed at his heart. Sobered by
shock and exertion, Alex realized he bore no resemblance to the sort
of respectable citizen who normally reported a crime. He was dishevelled
and sweaty, bloodstained and staggering like a half-shut knife. Somehow,
he had to convince the policeman who was already halfway out of his
panda car that he was neither imagining things nor playing some kind
of prank. He slowed to a halt a couple of feet from the car, trying
not to look like a threat, waiting for the driver to emerge.
The policeman
set his cap straight on his short dark hair. His head was cocked to
one side as he eyed Alex warily. Even masked by the heavy uniform
anorak, Alex could see the tension in his body. 'What's
going on, son?' he asked. In spite of the diminutive form of
address, he didn't look much older than Alex himself, and he
possessed an air of unease that sat ill with his uniform.
Alex tried
to control his breathing, but failed. 'There's a lassie
on Hallow Hill,' he blurted out. 'She's been attacked.
She's bleeding really badly. She needs help.'
The policeman
narrowed his eyes against the snow, frowning. 'She's been
attacked, you say. How do you know that?'
'She's
got blood all over her. And ...' Alex paused for thought.
'She's not dressed for the weather. She's not got a
coat on. Look, can you get an ambulance or a doctor or something?
She's really hurt, man.'
'And
you just happened to find her in the middle of a blizzard, eh? Have
you been drinking, son?' The words were patronizing, but the
voice betrayed anxiety.
Alex didn't
imagine this was the kind of thing that happened often in the middle
of the night in douce, suburban St Andrews. Somehow he had to convince
this plod that he was serious. 'Of course I've been drinking,'
he said, his frustration spilling over. 'Why else would I be
out at this time in the morning? Look, me and my pals, we were taking
a short cut back to halls and we were messing about and I ran up the
top of the hill and tripped and landed right on top of her.'
His voice rose in a plea. 'Please. You've got to help. She
could die out there.'
The policeman
studied him for what felt like minutes, then leaned into his car and
launched into an unintelligible conversation over the radio. He stuck
his head out of the door. 'Get in. We'll drive up to Trinity
Place. You better not be playing the goat, son,' he said grimly.
The car
fishtailed up the street, tyres inadequate for the conditions. The
few cars that had travelled the road earlier had left tracks that
were now only faint depressions in the smooth white surface, testament
to the heaviness of the snowfall. The policeman swore under his breath
as he avoided skidding into a lamppost at the turning. At the end
of Trinity Place, he turned to Alex. 'Come on then, show me where
she is.'
Alex set
off at a trot, following his own rapidly disappearing tracks in the
snow. He kept glancing back to check the policeman was still in his
wake. He nearly went headlong at one point, his eyes taking a few
moments to adjust to the greater darkness where the streetlights were
cut off by the tree trunks. The snow seemed to cast its own strange
light over the landscape, exaggerating the bulk of bushes and turning
the path into a narrower ribbon than it normally appeared. 'It's
this way,' Alex said, swerving off to the left. A quick look
over his shoulder reassured him that his companion was right behind
him.
The policeman
hung back. 'Are you sure you're no' on drugs, son?'
he said suspiciously.
'Come
on,' Alex shouted urgently as he caught sight of the dark shapes
above him. Without waiting to see if the policeman was following,
Alex hurried up the slope. He was almost there when the young officer
overtook him, brushing past and stopping abruptly a few feet short
of the small group.
Ziggy
was still hunkered down beside the woman's body, his shirt plastered
to his slim torso with a mixture of snow and sweat. Weird and Mondo
stood behind him, arms folded across their chests, hands tucked in
their armpits, heads thrust down between their raised shoulders. They
were only trying to stay warm in the absence of coats, but they presented
an unfortunate image of arrogance.
'What's
going on here, then, lads?' the policeman asked, his voice an
aggressive attempt to stamp authority in spite of the greater weight
of numbers arrayed against him.
Ziggy
pushed himself wearily to his feet and shoved his wet hair out of
his eyes. 'You're too late. She's dead.'
