The MacGregor by Jenny Brigalow

survival. But she could hardly explain that to him. ‘I don’t —’ But she stopped and stared at him in concern. ‘Sean, what’s the matter?’
    He shook his head but reached out and leant on her for support. ‘A bit dizzy,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody women.’
    Megan would have dearly liked to interrogate him as to which women he referred, but it was clear it was not the moment. She helped him stagger back across the damp meadow and up to the house. They made it as far as the living room where he sank down into an easy chair.
    â€˜Can I get you anything?’ she asked, hovering anxiously at his knee. But there was no reply. He was fast asleep. For several moments she just watched him, afraid he was ill. But his breathing was regular and even and his skin cool to touch. She could taste no sickness on her tongue. And she relaxed once more.
    She traced a finger softly down his neck and finally left. Outside she paused only long enough to scan the landscape. After a minute of intense concentration Megan felt confident to leave. There was no one else out there. She’d know for sure. Grandad said he could smell a Campbell six feet under in a lead coffin and Megan believed him.
    Overhead the moon was sinking behind the mountain. Better get a move on.
    She ran and thought about a motorbike. About Douglas. About The Jackal and Hide. But mostly about Sean. Deep down she knew she should stay away. Especially now she was back on the Campbell radar. She also knew that she couldn’t. He drew her to him like the moon pulled the tide. She was as helpless as a wave riding high to the shore.
    When she reached the river she followed it, peeled off at the estuary and hotfooted over the range. It was a rugged stretch of bald rock and sheep-cropped turf, but to Megan it was home. At the tor she paused and peeked over the cliff. The croft was peaceful, smoke puffing out of the chimney.
    But then she stared. Why, the Douglas boat was still there. How strange. Grandad’s boat merrily bobbed beside it. It was all wrong. Both should be hard at work. Had something happened? Perhaps her recent brush with a Campbell had caused the frisson of fear that brushed over her skin like an owl’s wing. She wiggled over the edge of the precipice, found a foothold, and skimmed down like a lizard. She dropped the last two metres, landed like a cat, and raced across the stony beach.
    At the door she paused, looking and listening. All was quiet. But it was an uncomfortable silence. Broody and sullen.
    â€˜Grandad!’ she called and pushed open the door. The heat enveloped her and she peered through a smog of blue smoke.
    Sitting around the table was Douglas, his father and Grandad.
    Grandad tapped his pipe into an ashtray. His green eyes skewered right through her like a harpoon. ‘And where have you been, Megan MacGregor?’
    Megan looked at Douglas who looked as though he were about to cry. She dared a peek at Grandad. And glanced longingly back at the door.
    â€˜Don’t even think about it,’ said Grandad.
    Megan sighed. Things were about to get ugly.

Chapter 32
    Megan MacGregor wasn’t scared of anything, but she did have a healthy respect for her mother’s father. The tips of his pointed, hairy ears were red. An interesting shade of vermillion. Unfortunately, aesthetics aside, this was not a good thing. It took a lot to piss Grandad off, but Megan realised she’d succeeded brilliantly.
    She twitched as the old clay pipe held in his leathery, gnarled hand rapped on the table. ‘Are your ears stuck on, Megan MacGregor?’ he asked softly.
    Megan was not taken in by the silky tones. The quieter Grandad got the madder he was. ‘I’ve been out,’ she said. It sounded lame even to herself.
    His green eyes shafted through her like twin laser beams. ‘You don’t say?’
    â€˜I’ve been hunting.’ That was much better.
    Grandad snorted