CHAPTER THREE
If there was a bleaker, more godforsaken part of the world than Kulsay Island, John Harrison had yet to visit it. Lying three miles off the east coast of Scotland and subject to a ferocious battering by the North Sea, the island was a hard, desolate place, hunched and compact and resolutely self-contained.
As he flew the helicopter in from the mainland he could see the band of empty crofters’ cottages on the south of the island, decaying and rotten, their gray slate roofs gaping with holes, the stone walls, moss covered and crumbling, a testament to the harsh, ripping winds that blew in from the sea, and to the years of neglect. They were falling apart, tumbling down, as if the wretched landscape of the island was reclaiming them as its own. In a field to the right of the cottages were handfuls of scraggy sheep. They looked thin and unkempt, their fleeces matted and tangled, caked with mud. They had defied the odds (and the gods) to survive at all, but Harrison imagined that it was a cruel, grinding existence, trying to find ready grazing in such harsh and unforgiving circumstances.
He was heading to the north end of the island. A group of people had been stranded here as some sort of initiative course. No one had heard anything from the island in two days and the company the group worked for, Waincraft Software, was in a state of panic. The owners of the island had been contacted and Harrison had been dispatched by them to investigate, and if necessary, airlift the group off.
As he left the crofters’ cottages behind he stared down at the gradually changing landscape. The further north he flew the harder and more extreme the conditions. There was a wooded area at the heart of the island, mostly larch and spruce, but the trees seemed stunted and tortured, their crowns sorry affairs, sparse and spare, home to the ragbag nests of huge black crows who took flight in a cacophony of flapping wings and throaty cries as he passed overhead.
Harrison had been flying charters for the best part of ten years since his demob from the U.S. Air Force. Flying gun ships during the Gulf War had prepared him for any hazards he might encounter. But as he stared down at the gnarled and twisted trees he couldn’t suppress a shudder. There was something decidedly unpleasant about Kulsay: the hostile landscape certainly, but it was more than that. Experience had taught him that you get a feel for places, something deep-seated, instinctive. And Kulsay Island was working on him at this deepest level, making him feel uneasy and anxious to complete his mission and get the hell out of there again as soon as possible.
Beyond the trees the land was more uneven, with rocky crags and verdant peat bogs jostling for space within the island’s confines. There were the ruins of a small church, evidence that the community of Kulsay had once spread across the entire island, and half a mile away stood the old Manse, a great gray edifice of Aberdeen granite, imposing and austere. It was here the group was meant to be based, but as he flew over the building there was precious little evidence of habitation.
He decided to circle the island one more time before setting down. He increased throttle and the Bell AP139 bucked in the air before climbing higher into the dull, overcast sky.
Harrison had been told he could set down in the Manse’s sprawling garden, but he was concerned there were no signs of life below. If, as he had been told, the group had run into difficulties, then the sound of the helicopter should have provoked at least one of them to come out into the open. Unless something was stopping them.
As he came in for the landing his eyes searched the stand of trees surrounding the grounds, looking for any sign of life. Below him the scrubby grass of the lawn was flattened by the downdraft from the blades as he took the machine in. As the wheels settled on the grass he switched off the engines, unstrapped himself from his seat and climbed out of the aircraft, instinctively ducking his head as the blades slowed above him.
Several feet beneath the grass something stirred; something ancient and malign that sensed a new presence on the island.
In the cellar of the Manse, Eddie Farrant listened to the chopping sound as the helicopter flew over the building. His eyes widened in terror and he buried himself still further under the mildewed sacks that had been his refuge for the past twelve hours. They stank now, and were wet with urine, but this was his sanctuary and Farrant wasn’t moving, despite the hunger pangs gnawing at his stomach. He’d eaten a Mars bar shortly after secreting himself down here, but nothing since.
If he truly believed it was a real helicopter, coming to rescue him, he might have come out of hiding. He might have run all the way up to the roof and stood there waving his arms to attract attention, screaming for help. But he didn’t believe it was real. It was just another trick, another illusion, and he wasn’t going to reveal his hiding place that easily. So he wormed down deeper into the pile of sacks until they covered his head, with just enough of a gap for him to breathe in the rancid air of the cellar.
Before the helicopter there had been nothing to listen to but the screams of the others coming from the rooms above as one by one they were taken. Sounds so wretched and desperate they forced him to clap his hands over his ears to block them out.
Now, as he lay there in his own filth and squalor, his mind drifted back over the past few days, remembering the people with whom he had come to the island—their faces, their idiosyncrasies, snatches of conversation, things they had done to irritate him. They were people he had worked with every day. Some he got on with, some he didn’t, but he had been surprised how different they had all been out of the work environment.
Michael Bennett, Andrew Johnson, Casey Faraday, Sheila Thomas and Jo Madley. He repeated the names over and over in his head like a mantra, hoping the repetition would block out some of the images of horror that were crowding into his mind.
He let his thoughts drift back in time to the day of their arrival when the launch brought them across from the mainland. He’d looked around the small boat at the excited and apprehensive faces of his work colleagues and wondered how he was going to cope living with them all for an extended period of time. Nine to five was one thing, but this was something entirely different.
The launch was piloted by a hulking brute of a man called Scart; ex-SAS, or so he said. He’d introduced himself gruffly and told them he was taking them across because he was being paid for the job and not because he wanted to make friends with them.
‘Right,’ he said, handing out seasickness pills with a barely concealed smile. ‘The crossing’s going to be choppy. Who’s the senior member of staff here?’
Michael Bennett raised his hand.
‘Okay. You’re Group Leader. It’s your responsibility to look after the others.’ He turned to the rest of the group. ‘You all clear about that? Any problems, don’t come whining to me. Tell…’ He glanced back at Bennett. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Bennett. Michael Bennett.’
‘Right. You tell Bennett here first. He’ll then have to decide whether to bring your problems to me.’
‘I really must obje…’ Bennett began, but Scart silenced him with a scowl.
‘As I said, the crossing’s going to be choppy. Some of you will throw up. Inevitable. Just make sure the wind’s behind you, otherwise you’ll get a face full of vomit.’
Casey Faraday’s face turned a pale shade of green in anticipation.
Casey worked with Sheila in Farrant’s department, pushing paper for the most part; a small step above the secretaries who occupied the floor below. Andrew Johnson worked alongside them, but spent most of his time trying to cement his reputation as the office Romeo, spilling lurid tales of bedroom conquests and easy lays. Michael Bennett was Farrant’s supervisor and had his own office at the end of the corridor. Eddie Farrant hated him with a passion, resenting his senior position, knowing he could do Bennett’s job without breaking a sweat, but knowing also that the directors had no intention of letting him try. At least not while Michael Bennett remained with the company. Michael Bennett looked around the small boat at the excited faces of his colleagues and wondered how he was going to cope with leading them over the week. They were such a diverse group, united only by their employment at Waincraft. Why they had all volunteered for the grueling management Outward Bound course he had no idea. He could guess a few reasons.
Johnson would be hoping he could improve his rather sad reputation as the company ladies’ man, and probably had a few moves planned on the three women members of the group. Two of them were married, not that Andrew would find that a barrier, but Bennett thought he knew Casey Faraday and Sheila Thomas well enough to know they wouldn’t fall for Johnson’s oily charm. The new girl, Jo Madley, was different; something about her defiant profile and firm manner told Bennett that maybe Johnson would have met his match if he tried it on her.
It was Jo Madley with whom Johnson was least familiar. She was about his age, blonde and lithe and he fancied her quite badly, but there was something about her self-confident style and brusque manner that told him she was out of his class, but he hadn’t quite ruled himself out of the running. Andrew Johnson, however, was crass enough to make a pass at her on the launch and lived to regret it. Her rebuff was short and acidic and he’d withered in front of their eyes.
Jo Madley had been the first of the group to disappear.