Read Online Dead in the Water by Aline Templeton - Free Book Online
Authors: Aline Templeton
Tags: Scotland
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was rising: she could hear it rattling the windows and whistling through the gaps, penetrating even her woolly swathes. She wasn’t going to decide anything tonight; she’d sleep on it, and see how things looked in the morning. She got up to close the curtains.
There were still lights on downstairs, throwing patches of gold on to the overgrown garden below. It was a spooky sort of place even in daylight, and tonight the waving branches of trees and shrubs cast dancing shadows. There were still shadows too, cast by the angle of the house, but there was another shadow, one Jaki couldn’t quite work out. She stared down at it, frowning.
It was still too. You could almost imagine it was a man there in among the trees and bushes of the shrubbery, standing motionless, watching. It gave her a creepy feeling.
Don’t be daft, she told herself. Watching what? And what on earth would anyone be doing away out here in the middle of the night, apart from freezing to death? The atmosphere in this house was getting to her, that was all.
It still hadn’t moved. It was a shrub, of course it was. She’d only make a fool of herself if she went downstairs and wittered to Marcus about men lurking in the shrubbery. She drew the curtains firmly and got into bed.
In the centre of Kirkluce, it was a normal Saturday night. The pubs and takeaways were doing good business; it was a bit noisy, with groups of young people milling about and a few staggering a bit, but when the police patrol car drove through on one of its usual rounds there was nothing to demand attention.
The men who emerged from the Horseshoe Tavern weren’t noisy. In almost total silence they split left and right, into two groups of perhaps ten or twelve, locals and Polish incomers, then crossed the road separately, heading for the square opposite. As they confronted one another at the foot of the War Memorial scuffles broke out, punches were thrown and the shouting started.
The skinny young man who was moving round the edge of the fray, eyes narrowed, spotted his quarry at last. Slipping through, quick as an eel, he confronted the tall, dark young Pole. He was holding a knife in one hand, the other extended for balance.
‘Here, you and me – we’ve stuff to settle. Remember?’
The Pole’s reaction was immediate. As he turned, the streetlamp glinted on the blade which had appeared in his own hand. Eyes locked, the two men performed their almost balletic movements, circling each other, feinting, gaining ground, retreating.
But the Pole was gradually, inexorably, being driven back. The other man’s teeth were bared in a grin of savage delight and the lightning slashes of his knife, first to one side then the other, were becoming more difficult to dodge.
At last, the Pole found himself with his back to the plinth of the War Memorial, and with no room to retreat. The blade flickering in front of his eyes seemed almost to be mesmerizing him. His own thrusts had become wild and there were beads of sweat appearing on his face.
In a movement as swift and deadly as a snake striking, the other’s blade came in under his guard and ripped up his right arm from wrist to elbow.
With a cry of pain the Pole dropped his knife. His assailant gave an animal snarl of satisfaction, then menacingly closed in. He raised his knife again—
‘Polis! Polis!’ The warning cry froze his hand. The patrol car was coming back along the High Street and seeing the gathering of men, turned into the square.
A moment later, the square was empty.
Karolina Cisek looked at the clock, frowning. It was almost eleven, and Rafael with his early start was usually in bed at half past ten. He had gone to the pub in disgust when she told him she must spend the evening preparing the Flemings’ evening meals for the days when she would be working in the film canteen.
It was quarter past eleven when she heard their elderly Honda returning, and Rafael came in. He was a big, solidly built man,
There were still lights on downstairs, throwing patches of gold on to the overgrown garden below. It was a spooky sort of place even in daylight, and tonight the waving branches of trees and shrubs cast dancing shadows. There were still shadows too, cast by the angle of the house, but there was another shadow, one Jaki couldn’t quite work out. She stared down at it, frowning.
It was still too. You could almost imagine it was a man there in among the trees and bushes of the shrubbery, standing motionless, watching. It gave her a creepy feeling.
Don’t be daft, she told herself. Watching what? And what on earth would anyone be doing away out here in the middle of the night, apart from freezing to death? The atmosphere in this house was getting to her, that was all.
It still hadn’t moved. It was a shrub, of course it was. She’d only make a fool of herself if she went downstairs and wittered to Marcus about men lurking in the shrubbery. She drew the curtains firmly and got into bed.
In the centre of Kirkluce, it was a normal Saturday night. The pubs and takeaways were doing good business; it was a bit noisy, with groups of young people milling about and a few staggering a bit, but when the police patrol car drove through on one of its usual rounds there was nothing to demand attention.
The men who emerged from the Horseshoe Tavern weren’t noisy. In almost total silence they split left and right, into two groups of perhaps ten or twelve, locals and Polish incomers, then crossed the road separately, heading for the square opposite. As they confronted one another at the foot of the War Memorial scuffles broke out, punches were thrown and the shouting started.
The skinny young man who was moving round the edge of the fray, eyes narrowed, spotted his quarry at last. Slipping through, quick as an eel, he confronted the tall, dark young Pole. He was holding a knife in one hand, the other extended for balance.
‘Here, you and me – we’ve stuff to settle. Remember?’
The Pole’s reaction was immediate. As he turned, the streetlamp glinted on the blade which had appeared in his own hand. Eyes locked, the two men performed their almost balletic movements, circling each other, feinting, gaining ground, retreating.
But the Pole was gradually, inexorably, being driven back. The other man’s teeth were bared in a grin of savage delight and the lightning slashes of his knife, first to one side then the other, were becoming more difficult to dodge.
At last, the Pole found himself with his back to the plinth of the War Memorial, and with no room to retreat. The blade flickering in front of his eyes seemed almost to be mesmerizing him. His own thrusts had become wild and there were beads of sweat appearing on his face.
In a movement as swift and deadly as a snake striking, the other’s blade came in under his guard and ripped up his right arm from wrist to elbow.
With a cry of pain the Pole dropped his knife. His assailant gave an animal snarl of satisfaction, then menacingly closed in. He raised his knife again—
‘Polis! Polis!’ The warning cry froze his hand. The patrol car was coming back along the High Street and seeing the gathering of men, turned into the square.
A moment later, the square was empty.
Karolina Cisek looked at the clock, frowning. It was almost eleven, and Rafael with his early start was usually in bed at half past ten. He had gone to the pub in disgust when she told him she must spend the evening preparing the Flemings’ evening meals for the days when she would be working in the film canteen.
It was quarter past eleven when she heard their elderly Honda returning, and Rafael came in. He was a big, solidly built man,
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