Ten – part 9.

‘Don’t move. Not an inch.’ The voice is familiar. ‘Walk towards me. Slowly.’

I stumble forward. Cold stone passing across my palm as I steady myself. I can see nothing.

‘Keep walking.’

I find my voice. ‘What the hell.’

‘A little payback for a trespasser.’ Headlights wash over the scene picking out the gun man. Fat, bearded – now in a Driza-Bone ankle length coat. Voice still in the upper octave and no use to a big man. The double barreled end of the gun is pointing right at my gut. The light flicks out and we are in dark-again land.

‘Follow my voice.’

I should run. He can’t see me but my busted ankle would make more than a slow walk impossible. At this range he couldn’t miss. But would he risk a shot? There could be a dozen people hiding behind the windows and doors. And why would he shoot? Because I’d accidentally trampled on his precious sod? Who kills for that?

Nutters.

That’s who.

Real long term matured nutters.

That’s who.

I take another step. My feet trying to ignore the order from my head. Stomach churning and spitting hot fat I take a small heel to toe.

‘Quicker.’ His voice dances up a notch. This is exciting him. I lift my leg to plant it a little further forward and I feel air move and the smell of old cigars drifts past me.

Then there are two bores of gunmetal in the small of my back.

Ten – part 8.

The moon finds a small button hole in the clouds to peak through and I see the outline of a cat at my feet and shake my head, trying to kick out at the beast. I begin to hobble down a small hill and I’m deep in distillery land. Ancient, small windowed buildings rise on either side and the smell of distilling is strong. High on my right there’s the shadow what looks like small pagoda – a familiar sight to distillery visitors. My limited knowledge of the industry knows it is some form of ventilator but as to how it works or why is beyond me. The road opens out and light from ahead gives me some more vision. A car cruises by and I realise that there is a road a hundred yards further on. The doorways around me are shuttered on either side and light leaks from a few.

I spin on my good foot, convinced someone is right behind me. I even raise my hand to protect my face but there is no one there. Only a puddle of light from an upstairs window.

There must be someone around.

A click.

My eyes give up nothing. The moon has gone. Beyond the puddle is pitch.

Another click and a scrape.

I step away. Dragging my bad foot and leaning on the rough wall for support.

The snap of metal finding a home with metal pings around the walls.

The sound of a shot gun snapping closed.

Ten – part 7

I awaken lying on a sofa with a blanket wrapped round me. It’s dark outside and I can’t sense anyone nearby. I sit up and my chest informs me that it’s not happy at the fall down the waterfall and I bite my lip to stop screaming at the pain. I’ve no idea of the time and given I never wear a watch I search the room for a clock but come up empty. I swing my legs out from the blanket and wait for the rush of blood to pass before standing up. I’m sure someone must be nearby. After all you don’t leave strangers alone in the heart of a distillery.

The clothes I have on are all but dry but my coat, shoes, waterproof trousers and back pack were taken away when Arthur brought me in. I check a few doors but they are locked and the whisky tasting room is dark. I try the front door and it opens. Bare footed I limp onto the small path and down onto the road that winds through the distillery.  The sound of water from the stream behind is carried by the wind and I can see no lights from that direction. Above the clouds are thick as a wet duffle coat and the dark is almost total.

I grab at the wall for comfort and wait for my eyes to adjust. Where is everyone? Why leave me on my own? Something rubs at my leg and I yelp.

Ten – part 6

A jovial man with a black jumper stretched over a well fed gut is looking down on me. Words are embroidered on his left breast. ‘You won’t get much swimming done in four inches of water.’ He smiles as he talks. ‘Need a hand out?’

I nod and he reaches down and I struggle to lift myself out of the stream. The water I‘ve soaked up adds pounds to my clothes.

‘Daniel’s the name, ‘ says the jovial man as I flop on the ground. ‘And there’s a entrance with a gate, path and everything if you ever want to come in the way most visitors do.’

I’m still checking for the busted parts of my frame but apart from the howling ankle and some nasty pains around my chest I seem remarkably free of consequences.

‘I’m one of the tour guides around here,’ says Arthur.

‘Around where?’ I ask.

‘The distillery.’

I smile. ‘Well the distillery’s on my list of ‘to do’s and a dram wouldn’t do any harm.’

He smiles back at me.

Twenty minutes later I’m sitting in a comfortable front room of a small  house that the distillery uses for visitors. The room next door is an Aladdin’s cave of malt whisky and the table that sits in the middle is set out for a whisky master class – or so Daniel tells me. A small dram of malt whisky is nestled in my hand and the worst of my wet clothes are drying somewhere.

Then darkness.

Ten – part 5

My back pack bounces of rocks and I tumble forward. Beneath me a waterfall drops away. A narrow twisting hose of high pressure water sliding into a small glen. I try to grab at something to stop my fall but the rocks are worn smooth and when my head smacks on an outcrop I curl up and try and ride out the fall. I pinball down the slope and hit the bottom with a wet slap and an injection of pain. Water pours into my jacket as I lie in the stream at the foot of the waterfall. I let the water wash over me as I try and unscramble my head. I force myself to sit up and water pours either side of me, crashing over my legs. I have pain registering in three or four places. The worst in my left ankle which feels like someone is pumping it full of hot lead. I need to get out of the water. It may be late summer but the ice cold of the water is draining heat and my cheap walking clothes are proving about effective as a cotton hanky in keeping me warm and dry.

The stream channels into an artificial race about twenty yards down stream from where I’m sitting and beyond I can see a glass framed balcony sitting above a small lake with white buildings beyond. Whisky barrels lie scattered on a path to my right.

‘Do you want me to phone an ambulance son?’

Ten – part 4.

‘Now get off my land.’

‘But,’ I say.

‘Right now you idiot.’

‘Now there’s no need…’

‘Get of my land NOW.’ His teeth are badly stained and the words are spat at me with breath that smells like a mix of garlic and Stilton. I climb over the fence. All the time he holds the gun in his left hand. Swinging it back and forth. As if waiting for an excuse to use it.

‘One of you nearly shot me.’ I shout as I retreat.

‘Pity we missed,’ he shouts back before turning away to join his buddies. I’m left seething. I want to go back and square up but a shotgun has a way of drowning your machismo. Instead I turn my attention to the walk ahead.

If I’ve got my bearings right I’m on track to make a short climb up a twelve hundred foot plug of forty million year old volcanic rock the hill sits above a couple of distilleries. It’s on my list of must do’s for this trip. That and a tour of one of the distilleries. I try and forget the man with the gun and get back to enjoying the scenery, my own company and the anticipation of the dram that will conclude the distillery tour.

I dismiss the man with the gun, cross a muddy patch in the field and hop another fence. My feet plunge into water before the rush of a stream takes them from under me and I’m airborne.

Ten – part 3.

I drop to the ground as the sound of the gun shot echoes in my ears. A second shot sounds and I hug the earth. I wait for more. Nothing. Then the birds, silenced by the report, begin to sing and a dog howls in the distance. I raise my head from the dirt and scan the horizon. Nothing. I work my arms under my chest and push up; ready to drop back down at the slightest noise. I hear the sound of people talking being carried on the breeze. Twist round on the ground. A line of men carrying shotguns are walking towards me. I begin to stand up. Holding my hands high and waving. The chatter stops when they spot me. One man breaks from the line and strides towards me.

He is north of twenty stone with a thick beard that rests on his chest. He has a deerstalker on his head and is clad in plaid shooting gear. For his size he moves easily and eats up the ground between us.

‘’What in the hell are you doing her?’ His voice is a touch high for the bulk he carries.

‘Trying not to get killed,’ I say.

‘Well why in the hell would you walk onto a shooting range?’

He points at a sign next to the fence I just climbed. ‘Danger. Do not enter.’ Below it is the symbol of shotgun.

As he points his left eye twitches and he raises his gun an inch.

Ten – part 2

I’m not a seasoned veteran when it comes to hill walking but I get by and I’m long in the tooth enough to be dressed for a Scottish autumn. Waterproof and warm being the dress code.  My only concession to the expensive end of the hikers wardrobe is a pair of Brasher Supalite GTX walking boots. A gift from my wife. A hint that I should get out of the house more often.  Everything else comes from the bargain bins of half a dozen shops at the height of the January sales.

Last night I slept in my tent but tonight I’m determined to snooze in some comfort. With the exception of a brief tour round a nearby distillery I want to press on and get as close as I can to Stirling. Hoping to find a hotel on the way. The fact that I have no idea what hostelry might be near by reflects the way I chose to hike. I have no plan.

This is my first break in nearly two years. Work has been tough. Seven day weeks the norm. Last year I had a ninety three day stretch without a break. The manufacturing plant that I’m in charge of building is now back on track but at one point my company was on the line for late delivery. The penalty clauses would have sunk us. And sunk me.

The bark on the tree next to me explodes followed by the single crack of a gun shot.

Ten – part 1

The door to the cellar lies open. A hand draped across the threshold. Dull light leaks from a single window high up, but not enough to penetrate to the cellar floor. Darkness swallowing the arm. The ring finger is missing. Severed. Wet slabs of stone are spotted with blood.

The smell in the room is rich. A familiar scent. Bakeries, wet dog and freshly mown grass familiar. It hangs in the cold air. A sour note mixed to perfection with sweet. Promising bitter and smooth on the tongue. As if the cellar door were the door to the local pub. The smell is embedded in the wood and stone. One hundred and eighty years to do so. And now it’s joined by tang of copper. The smell of blood.

The storm outside is a distant thing. The peak passing more than an hour ago. Rain smacks the window and, hidden by shadows, a hole in the roof lets a steady stream of water flow down one wall. A heavy set man, more fat than muscle, kicks the arm into the dark and slams the door shut.

The cry of a land locked seagull bounces around the room. Then the storm spits out one last breath and the wind rattles the window. The man stretches out his arms and sighs, as if rising from a chair after watching a long movie. He rubs his distended stomach and glides to the room’s other door and locks it behind him as he leaves.

I’ve just finished the short story for Glengoyne to be published in their web site in daily ’250 word.’ chunks. When it goes live I’ll place a link.