In the Devil's Name Page 3

  Cairnsey took a step forward himself so he was right in Jannets’ pale, haggard face, their noses nearly touching.

  "Fuck off Jannets, ya junky bastard. There's no smokes for the likes of you, and you're sure as shit no goin' in ma pockets, so just do one."

  Eddie Jannets wasn't used to this kind of reaction. His skag ravaged brain was confused for a second, and he inadvertently took a step back.

  "Don't get fuckin' wide wi' me ya wee knob, or ah'll cut ye up,” he snarled. His glazed eyes took on a hint of recognition as he stared at Cairnsey. “Ah know you. You're that poofy Grant Cairns' wee brother int' ye?"

  "Call my brother poofy again and I'll shove yer cookin’ spoon up yer arse sideways, ya no mark wank," Cairnsey said calmly.

  Jannets was again momentarily taken aback by the smoothly delivered affront, and then decided he could under no circumstances let this little cunt rip the piss out of him in such a way. He swung a sloppy right hook at Cairnsey’s face.

  Cairnsey was expecting the attack and ducked under the punch, simultaneously driving the heel of his palm hard into Jannets’ solar plexus, knowing that a well placed blow here was usually much more effective than going for the face of an assailant. His kickboxing instructor had shown him just how to deliver this and many other strikes, and as a result of five years hard training in martial arts, Cairnsey, who wasn't the biggest of guys, was known by most people in the village as an individual not to be trifled with.

  Unfortunately for Eddie Jannets, he had missed this information.

  Jannets’ breath exploded out of him as Cairnsey’s precise blow connected at the bundle of nerves just beneath his breastbone where the ribs met. He doubled over and staggered back, wheezing and trying to recover his breath as Cairnsey readied himself for another attack. He knew Jannets didn’t have the sense to leave it at that, and knew there was a good possibility he had a weapon on him. He was proved correct in this estimation, for when he straightened up again, Jannets held a Stanley knife in his right hand and pointed it at him.

  "You're gettin' chibbed, cunt," he snarled and started forward.

  Jannets swung the blade in a high wide arc from the right, aiming at Cairnsey’s face. Cairnsey simply put up his left hand, grabbed Jannets wrist, shifted his feet slightly, and delivered a low, stomping kick to the inside of Jannets right knee which bent outwards, just slightly, but grotesquely.

  Jannets bellowed in pain and went down like a sack of spuds. He dropped the Stanley knife and lay on his side holding the damaged knee with both hands

  Cairnsey stood over his inert body and flicked his smoke at Jannets’ face, seeing with satisfaction that it hit his cheek glowing end first, sending up a shower of sparks and causing his attacker to flinch and yelp.

  "There's yer smoke, arsehole," he said and turned to walk away.

  He'd gone about thirty meters when he heard a sound behind him and turned.

  Jannets was rushing him, Stanley blade in hand and glinting in the rain. The loping berserker charge was almost comical due to the heavy limp caused by the blow to his knee. He must have taken a hit of smack fairly recently or the pain would have made him unable to use his right leg at all, Cairnsey assumed.

  He held his ground till Jannets was about two meters away, lunging with the chib again, then he ducked, side-stepped and turned in a single movement every bit as fluid as the rain that drifted down around them, sending Jannets rushing past without even touching him. Jannets hit the brakes and turned, and was met with Cairnsey’s elbow which smashed into his face, breaking his nose with an clearly audible crunch. Jannets let out a surprised "Ugh!" and blood immediately flooded the lower half of his face as if a dam had been breached in his nostrils. He dropped the knife again and held both hands to his nose. Cairnsey kicked at the knee again, sending Jannets down for the second time. He didn’t expect the junkie would want to continue in his efforts, but amazingly, on his hands and knees, Jannets groped for his blade once more, not yet giving up the fight, although surely he must know he was facing a far superior opponent. Cairnsey kicked the weapon away from his searching fingers and knew he had to put an end to it.

  He grabbed Jannets greasy hair with his left hand, pulling him onto his knees, and screamed into his face, punctuating each syllable with a hard right fist into his now impossibly angled nose;

  "DON’T, (punch) YOU, (punch) PULL, (punch) A, (punch) FU- (punch) -CKIN’, (punch) BLADE, (punch) ON, (punch) ME, (punch) EVER, (punch) EVER, (punch) EVER, (punch) EVER, (punch) A- (punch) -GAIN! (punch)"

  He let Jannets go and watched coldly as he collapsed to the side and sprawled in a puddle of rainwater, his face a bloody misshapen mess.

  "Now you've gone and fucked up ma good mood, ya dick," Cairnsey told him, shaking with anger and the rush of adrenaline. Another thing Jannets was ignorant of was Cairnsey’s temper, which when aroused could spell dire consequences, as he had just found out.

  Jannets lay there wheezing as blood and small pieces of cartilage flowing freely from his pulped nose.

  "Ah told you to leave it Jannets, but you had to come ahead, didn't you? Now look at you, lyin' in a puddle with yer coupon all burst tae fuck."

  Cairnsey was feeling a strange mix of emotions vying for dominance in his body. There was the satisfaction of the victor, relief that he had come through unscathed, but also there was a part of him that was appalled at the damage he had wrought on Jannets, even if he had pulled a knife. He was just glad that he'd had enough control to pull his punches, or he may well have killed him.

  "You'll….get….yours…" Jannets somehow managed to say, although it was barely recognisable as speech. There was a wet rattle and rasp to his words.

  More bits of nose in his throat, Cairnsey thought, and his pity faded and died. He drew back a leg to deliver the coup de grace …and stopped. He gritted his teeth and had to make a conscious effort to stop himself from letting his boot slam into his attacker’s bloody head.

  Fuck him, part of him said. Just let that kick go and cave this junky prick's fuckin’ face in. No more than he deserves. He’d do it to you if it was you on the deck. It’s so easy. Just let that foot go, catch him sweet on the temple and watch that ugly fuckin’ mug crumple. Do it.

  He took a deep breath, counted to five and relaxed his leg again. Not worth it, the rational part of his brain said.

  "Come after me again and you'll end up where you are now, or worse," Cairnsey said, trying to keep the tremble from his voice. He walked away wiping blood from his knuckles, leaving Jannets lying on the pavement behind him, gasping for breath.

  "Seriously, mum," Sam said, "That dick was trying to chib Cairnsey. Got what he deserved if you ask me."

  "Well, maybe so, but did he have to pulp the boys face?" Maria asked.

  Her son shrugged. "Cairnsey's got a temper, and Jannets should have known better anyway," he replied simply.

  Sam continued to demolish the plate of tacos before him, secretly wishing he'd been there when it had happened. Jannets had bullied Sam mercilessly on a regular basis in the few years they’d both attended the high school, and he would have paid handsomely to have witnessed Cairnsey’s demolition of the guy who’d laughingly slapped him around and humiliated him for no other reason than that he could.

  There’d been no police involvement after the incident. Cairnsey considered the matter hopefully settled, and the thought of Jannets going to the police was almost laughable. He had a police record which included arrests for robbery, assault, drugs, drunk and disorderly, car theft and even public exposure and lewd behaviour, which had come about in an incident legendary in the local folklore.

  Jannets had been found by the police frantically masturbating in some bushes, not far away from where one Leanne McPherson (a girl Jannets had fancied), had had some underwear stolen from the washing line in her garden about half an hour beforehand. The two officers had found him there, beating away happily with the black lacy g-string on his head. Better yet, one of the officers had arrested J
annets only a week before for punching an eight year old boy, so had no qualms about throwing him in the back of the panda, once he'd managed to stop laughing, that is. A lot of people would wonder, some time after, if Jannets name and address would have been included in the story, which was on the front page of the local evening paper, had the editor of the paper not been Peter McPherson, Leanne’s father. The whole episode had earned Jannets the nickname Jannets Jostlin'. He'd left school a week later and never returned.

  Now remembering the episode, Sam laughed out loud, spraying a decent mouthful of semi chewed up Mexican cuisine across the kitchen table.

  His mother frowned at him disapprovingly. The airborne, half masticated food had barely missed her.

  "For God's sake, Sam,” she scolded. “Clean that up will you? What's so funny that you have to spray your tacos around my nice clean kitchen anyway?"

  "Aw, nothing, mum. Sorry," he said still chuckling. "By the way, can I borrow your Janis Joplin CD tonight? Something just reminded me of it there."

  "Sure you can. As long as you clean up that mess."

  "No bother," he promised, still chortling to himself as he picked up another taco.

  Maria gave her son a puzzled look.

  Chapter 7

  Griff lay on the bed in his room, trying to read the book he's swiped from Mr Galbraith’s history class earlier on that day.

  He'd attempted to get into it when he'd come stumbling home after his afternoon spent with Sam, Cairnsey and Phil, but the lager and hash he'd ingested had sent him to sleep halfway down the first page. He'd awoken a few hours later with a thumping headache and a hellish thirst.

  He checked his digital bedside clock. Two am.

  Griffiths Hall, the seat of his family for centuries, was deathly quiet. Not so much as the normal groans and creaks an old house normally makes as it settles and cools in the night could be heard. The only other people currently in the huge property were the two live in housekeepers. His father was away on business (as usual) and his mother was staying at their second home in Glasgow for the weekend, enjoying yet another of her frequent shopping trips.

  Griff put the book aside and got up from his bed. He walked across the bedroom, which was cluttered with piles of books on every subject from history and physics to philosophy and chaos theory, and stood gazing out over the expansive moonlit grounds of the house, the town of Ballantrae below and the darkling water beyond.

  During the day, the large bay window gave an excellent viewpoint out onto the Firth of Clyde, and on a clear night he could see scattered lights glimmering faintly on the isle of Arran, miles across the cold water. On other nights when the sky was cloudless, Griff would sometimes spend hours with one eye glued obsessively to the powerful telescope he now stood beside, studying the far off stars and planets and reluctantly stopping only when the coming of dawn caused the awesome light show of the cosmos to fade. Astronomy was another of his many fascinations.

  Tonight though, Griff gazed less skyward and more inland in the direction of Bennane Head, the series of tall cliffs a few miles north up the coastal road, and thought about the camping trip there that he, Sam, Cairnsey and Phil had planned for tomorrow to celebrate the end of classes.

  Everyone who lived in the area knew the local legend of Sawney Beane, the seventeenth century mass murderer and cannibal, who along with his inbred family, had supposedly inhabited the caves below Bennane Head and preyed on late night travellers. Some people said that over a thousand souls had perished at the hands of Beane and his diabolical brood.

  Cairnsey's elder brother Grant used to scare the crap out of them when they were kids with stories of him and mates of his encountering ghosts on the road at Bennane Head and in the haunted caves themselves, where some local youths would go for a drink or a smoke from time to time, and Grant wasn't the only one who had stories to tell.

  Griff’s descendants, the Earls of Ayrshire, had lived in the area for several generations, and were locally recognised as the authority on the Sawney Beane myth. His great grandfather had published a book on the subject, and the family did little to quell rumours and whispers that the Griffiths family had even been involved in the eventual capture of the monstrous Beane and his clan. They would just smile and wink if you ever asked them.

  His grandfather was especially legendary in the village for his storytelling. His most famous fable, and Griff's favourite, involved the man himself.

  Griff could still remember with clarity the first time his grandfather had told him the tale. Sitting on his lap in the library of Griffiths Hall one stormy night when he was five years old, the wind had been blowing a gale outside, and the big library had been lit only by the blazing logs in the large open fireplace in front of which they sat. His grandfather’s intense blue eyes, unfaded by age, regarding him piercingly through a haze of pleasant smelling pipe smoke, and his papery, rasping voice shutting out all other distractions lest the story be taken lightly or without dire warning.

  Returning home from an evening of debauchery in Girvan one cold winter’s eve in the year nineteen-forty-two, the story went, Alexander Griffiths, accompanied by a friend of his by the name of Joe Crawford, had stopped to rest in the Bennane Head area…

  So there we were Dean; me and auld Joe sitting on a boulder just above the cliffs at Bennane Head. It was late, way past midnight, dark and bitter cold. The snow’d been coming down in a howling blizzard earlier, and the ground was buried under a foot of powder all around us. We were having a woodbine, and to be honest with you, feeling the effects of a few drams.

  I turn to pass my hipflask to Joe, and there’s this young lassie coming towards us along the road maybe thirty yards away. She was walking in the same direction we’d just come before stopping.

  "Look at that lassie,” I said to Joe. “She shouldn't be wanderin’ about this time o’ night," and I start walking over to her, meaning to ask what she thought she was up to, going for a stroll in weather like that at one in the morning. I mean, the lassie looked like she couldn’t have been more than fifteen.

  Once I start walking over though, I realise there'd been nobody on the road behind me and auld Joe when we last stopped for a smoke. See, in those days it was a straight path between Girvan and Ballantrae, and there were no other roads joining on between the two towns, so she couldn't have joined the road me and Joe were on from another one. There were no other villages between the two towns either; just the big forest on one side of the road, and the sea on the other.

  I turns to mention this to Joe, but I saw from the look on his face that he might have been thinking the same thing. So I just stands there, watching as the girl gets closer to us.

  I could see that she looked scared. She kept glancing over to the side of the road at the cliff tops, as if she could hear or see something there, and then she starts to walk a bit faster, starts running towards us, and as she got closer, I could see she was dressed old fashioned like, with a heavy scarf over her head, a thick woollen shawl and a long sackcloth dress.

  By now, the young lassie was only about ten yards away, still hurrying towards us, but she hasn't so much as looked at me or Joe, as if she couldn't see us. And she's looking more scared than ever, as if the Devil himself were after her.

  I catch sight of something moving at the edge of the forest on the other side of the road just ahead of the lassie, and I look a bit closer there. At first I couldn't see much, just shadows and trees, but then I make out the shape of something coming out of the darkness there, heading straight for the girl.

  Like a flash, three men come screaming out onto the road are on her before I can so much as shout out to the lassie. I turns to auld Joe and see him looking at the cliff top, his face as pale as the snow and his mouth hanging open. There were another two men crawling over the ledge.

  They were all naked as they day they were born, skinny and filthy, covered in streaks of dirt and filth. They had long hair all the way down their backs, and tangled beards that covered their ches
ts. The worst thing though, was the daggers they had. It was a clear night, and the moon was full and reflecting off the snow, so we could see that the daggers weren't made of steel, but were white, as if they were made from bone.

  The two that came over the cliff joined the three from the trees and fell on the poor lassie like a pack of wolves. She didn't even get a chance to scream.

  I'll not tell you what they done to her then, Dean, 'cause you'd have nightmares, and your mother'd have my guts for garters. I wish I'd never seen it myself, because I still have bad dreams now and then.

  I'll never forget the one scream that lassie managed to get out before they dragged her over the edge of the cliff. It wasn't the scream of a woman who's had a mouse run over her toes, and not even the scream of a woman giving birth to a bairn. It was a scream like she'd caught a glimpse of hell and knew her very soul was lost. It was the scream you might make when you know you're about to be eaten by a monster.

  Then she was gone.

  The men that grabbed that poor girl hadn't even looked at me or Joe, just like the lassie, it was as if they didn't even see we were there.

  After a wee minute or so standing there shaking, I got my legs working again.

  I walks over to the spot where they’d fell on her, and there was nothing on the road there. No blood or bits of the lassie's dress, nothing. And besides, the snow on the ground hadn’t been disturbed.

  Save for the footprints me and auld Joe had made leading back the way we’d come, the foot of fresh snow on the ground was untouched.

  "Are we at Bennane Head, Alex?" Joe asks me.

  "I think so, Joe," I said back.

  Well, that was all it took, Dean. We ran like hares the rest of the way back to town without stopping, or even looking back over our shoulders for the fear of God of what we might see behind us.

  I've never walked past Bennane Head at night again, Dean, and heaven help you if you do.