and the beer to cover
his sudden attack of the vapours.
As he’d opened the fridge door, his eye had caught sight of a bottle of unopened Highland Park nearby on the worktop. What he would have given at that moment to pour himself a glass. The
fact that he had made it through the night on the settee only yards from the whisky was a cause for celebration, even if he’d had no sleep, he decided.
McNab rose with a groan for his cramped limbs and went in search of the bathroom. There were no sounds from either of the women’s rooms. He found himself impressed by the thought that they
might well have slept through the storm, unlike himself.
The howl of the wind had abated somewhat, but rain still lashed at the small windows and he could see the white-topped waves crashing onto the beach. As he stood, in awe of the edge-of-the-world
scene, a very large cat made its way past the window, pausing briefly to examine him on the way. It was, he’d learned last night, one of ten wild felines who called the outhouses home and
were fed by the farmer’s wife.
That’s all I need. Ten fucking cats.
He stripped off and turned on the shower, catching sight of the bullet scar on his back via a wall mirror. Being out of normal view, he usually managed to ignore the life-threatening injury
he’d acquired when Chrissy had been pregnant with baby Michael – until he’d met and bedded Freya, that was. She, he’d come to realize, was obsessed by it. She liked to trace
it when they made love. Often spoke of it. Interrogating him on what had happened when he’d died in the street in Rhona’s arms, then been brought back to life in the ambulance.
McNab held no beliefs in the afterlife and, if he was honest with himself, he had no desire to examine either his feelings about his death or what had happened in the interim between breathing
his last and his reappearance.
But Freya was a Wiccan who believed in resurrection, if not of the body, then of the spirit. McNab also suspected she’d been trying to resurrect the spirits of her murdered fellow Wiccans,
Leila and Shannon. He’d woken up in the middle of the night to find her in her temple, chanting. Listening through the door, he’d caught their names, discerning words in her spell that
caused him disquiet.
Then she’d brought Leila’s cat to live in the flat with her.
McNab turned the shower abruptly to cold. In his mind’s eye he saw the angry red of the scar pale as he forced his own anger to fade.
His feelings towards Freya he’d interpreted as love. He had risked his own life to save hers. Yet here he was, getting angry because of a bloody cat.
He forced himself to stay under the cold water longer than need be, then stepped out and rubbed himself dry.
Which is why I asked to come here. The man who’s more alarmed by wide open spaces than he is of a knife fight, or a bullet for that matter.
McNab glanced at his face in the mirror, surprised at the honesty of his thoughts.
Well, he was here now and there was a job to do. Including finding a bed more comfortable than that couch, preferably somewhere that didn’t have cats.
The scent of frying met him on entry to the sitting room. Through the open door to the small kitchen he could see Chrissy at work. Rhona was nowhere to be seen.
‘She’s gone to check on the grave,’ Chrissy informed him. ‘Although it’s not calm enough yet to start work again. What do you want in your fry-up?’
‘Everything,’ McNab told her.
Rhona walked the short distance along the sandy track, the sea beating the white shore on one side, empty fields on the other. The squalls of rain and wind had subsided from
last night, but according to Derek they were entering the eye of the storm and there was more to come.
Which meant she would spend today viewing the images she’d taken of the excavation so that McNab could see what they were dealing with. When McNab had surprised them with his appearance
last night, Rhona realized
his sudden attack of the vapours.
As he’d opened the fridge door, his eye had caught sight of a bottle of unopened Highland Park nearby on the worktop. What he would have given at that moment to pour himself a glass. The
fact that he had made it through the night on the settee only yards from the whisky was a cause for celebration, even if he’d had no sleep, he decided.
McNab rose with a groan for his cramped limbs and went in search of the bathroom. There were no sounds from either of the women’s rooms. He found himself impressed by the thought that they
might well have slept through the storm, unlike himself.
The howl of the wind had abated somewhat, but rain still lashed at the small windows and he could see the white-topped waves crashing onto the beach. As he stood, in awe of the edge-of-the-world
scene, a very large cat made its way past the window, pausing briefly to examine him on the way. It was, he’d learned last night, one of ten wild felines who called the outhouses home and
were fed by the farmer’s wife.
That’s all I need. Ten fucking cats.
He stripped off and turned on the shower, catching sight of the bullet scar on his back via a wall mirror. Being out of normal view, he usually managed to ignore the life-threatening injury
he’d acquired when Chrissy had been pregnant with baby Michael – until he’d met and bedded Freya, that was. She, he’d come to realize, was obsessed by it. She liked to trace
it when they made love. Often spoke of it. Interrogating him on what had happened when he’d died in the street in Rhona’s arms, then been brought back to life in the ambulance.
McNab held no beliefs in the afterlife and, if he was honest with himself, he had no desire to examine either his feelings about his death or what had happened in the interim between breathing
his last and his reappearance.
But Freya was a Wiccan who believed in resurrection, if not of the body, then of the spirit. McNab also suspected she’d been trying to resurrect the spirits of her murdered fellow Wiccans,
Leila and Shannon. He’d woken up in the middle of the night to find her in her temple, chanting. Listening through the door, he’d caught their names, discerning words in her spell that
caused him disquiet.
Then she’d brought Leila’s cat to live in the flat with her.
McNab turned the shower abruptly to cold. In his mind’s eye he saw the angry red of the scar pale as he forced his own anger to fade.
His feelings towards Freya he’d interpreted as love. He had risked his own life to save hers. Yet here he was, getting angry because of a bloody cat.
He forced himself to stay under the cold water longer than need be, then stepped out and rubbed himself dry.
Which is why I asked to come here. The man who’s more alarmed by wide open spaces than he is of a knife fight, or a bullet for that matter.
McNab glanced at his face in the mirror, surprised at the honesty of his thoughts.
Well, he was here now and there was a job to do. Including finding a bed more comfortable than that couch, preferably somewhere that didn’t have cats.
The scent of frying met him on entry to the sitting room. Through the open door to the small kitchen he could see Chrissy at work. Rhona was nowhere to be seen.
‘She’s gone to check on the grave,’ Chrissy informed him. ‘Although it’s not calm enough yet to start work again. What do you want in your fry-up?’
‘Everything,’ McNab told her.
Rhona walked the short distance along the sandy track, the sea beating the white shore on one side, empty fields on the other. The squalls of rain and wind had subsided from
last night, but according to Derek they were entering the eye of the storm and there was more to come.
Which meant she would spend today viewing the images she’d taken of the excavation so that McNab could see what they were dealing with. When McNab had surprised them with his appearance
last night, Rhona realized
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