The Blackhouse by Peter May

cigarette.
    â€œWhatdya mean?” Murdo glowered at him. “It’s downhill from here to the Crobost turnoff.”
    â€œExactly. Gravity’s going to increase the weight of that thing and we’re going to have a job keeping it from running away from us. We’ll need the biggest, strongest boys at the front to keep it under control.”
    And so the Macritchie brothers, Acne Boy, and his pal were delegated to control the tyre from the front, walking backward down the hill. Me and Artair were at one side, Iain and Seonaidh at the other. And Donald and Calum took a rim each at the rear.
    We had just wheeled it out into the main road when car headlights appeared suddenly over a blind bend at the top of the hill. None of us had even heard it coming. There was panic. There wasn’t time to get the tyre back into the shadow of the building, and so Donald put his shoulder to it and pushed it over into the ditch. It took Murdo Ruadh with it. We heard the crack of thin ice breaking and, as we dived for cover, the muted cursing of the younger Macritchie. “Ya fucking bastard!”
    The car flew past, and its lights receded toward the distant turnoff to Fivepenny and the Butt of Lewis. A dripping Murdo Ruadh, his face streaked with mud and God knew what else, staggered out of the ditch, spluttering in the cold and still cursing. Of course, the rest of us were in stitches, until Murdo strode angrily across the metalled road and smacked me on the side of the head, making my ears ring. He’d never liked me much, Murdo Ruadh. “Think that’s fucking funny, ya wee shite?” He glared around the other faces, their owners trying desperately to keep them straight. “Anyone else think it’s funny?” No one else was willing to admit that they did.
    â€œLet’s get on with it,” Donald Murray said.
    It took us a full five minutes to get the tyre out of the ditch and upright again, my face stinging all the while. I was going to have a big bruise on my cheek tomorrow, I knew. We took up our positions again and began slowly and carefully rolling the tyre down the hill toward the Crobost road end. At first it seemed easier than it had pushing it up the slope. Then, gradually, as the angle of descent increased, the tyre began to get heavier and gain a momentum of its own.
    â€œFor Christ’s sake,” Donald hissed, “slow it down!”
    â€œWhat d’you think we’re fucking trying to do?” You could hear the beginnings of panic in Angel’s voice.
    The tyre got heavier and faster, our hands burning on the rubber as we tried to hold it, trotting now alongside it as it gathered pace all the time. The Macritchie gang couldn’t hold it back any longer. Acne Boy fell, and the tyre bumped over his leg. Calum tripped over Acne Boy and went sprawling in the road.
    â€œWe can’t hold it! We can’t hold it!” Murdo Ruadh was almost shouting.
    â€œFor Christ’s sake keep the volume down,” Donald hissed. There were houses on either side of the road. But, in truth, volume was the least of our problems. The tyre was already out of our control. Angel and Murdo leaped out of the way, and it finally ripped itself free of Donald’s last desperate attempts to stop it.
    Off it went, with a life and direction of its own. We, all of us, went chasing after it, helter-skelter down the hill. But it just got faster and faster, and farther and farther away. “Oh, God … ,” I heard Donald groan, and I realized what he realized. The tyre was heading straight for the Crobost Stores, which stood face-on at the bend in the main road at the bottom of the hill. What with its weight and speed, it was going to do a lot of damage. And there was not a single thing we could do about it.
    The sound of breaking glass sent shards of shockwaves through the night air. The tyre had gone straight into the window to the left of the door. I swear the whole