Written in Bone by Simon Beckett

reluctant to leave the car. I’d just found out there was probably a killer on the island. It was an unsettling thought to find yourself stranded with on an isolated road.
    But that was stupid. Even if he was still on Runa, the young woman’s killer would hardly be out here.
Come on. No point waiting any longer.
    I got out of the car. As I did, the moon appeared through a break in the clouds. It gave the moors and hills a stark but ethereal beauty, picking out the road with a silvery illumination. My spirits rose as I started walking.
Not so bad after all.
And just as I thought that, clouds shrouded the moon again, and the light was abruptly cut off.
    The utter blackness shocked me. I’d lived in the country, and thought I knew how dark a night could be. But this was of a different order to anything I’d experienced before. Runa was a tiny island, miles from the mainland and with no towns or cities to cast even a distant glow. I looked up, hoping to see at least some evidence of lightening in the sky. There was nothing. The cloud bank extinguished any glimpse of stars or moon as effectively as a blanket.
    I looked back, hoping to see some reassuring sign of the VW. But the darkness was absolute. Only the sound of my footsteps told me I was still on the road.
It’s only the dark. It won’t hurt you.
Provided I didn’t stray from the road, there was nothing to worry about. Sooner or later it would lead me back to the village.
    Even so, as I started walking again my confidence ebbed with every step. The rain was freezing and the wind whittled away at my body heat, making me virtually deaf as well as blind.
    But not so deaf that I didn’t hear a scuff on the road behind me.
    I spun round, heart thumping. I couldn’t see a thing except blackness.
Probably just a sheep, or something blown by the wind. Or Strachan’s bloody dog.
Turning my back on it, I started walking again. But all my senses were attuned to what might be out there with me, and I was still straining to hear it when I suddenly stepped out into nothing.
    I pitched forward, arms windmilling before the ground smacked into me. I tumbled downhill, all sense of up or down lost. Rough grass scratched at my face, and then I jolted to a stop.
    Dazed and winded, I lay in the muddy grass, rain bouncing on my upturned face. I knew what had happened. I’d wandered from the centre of the road without realizing it and walked off the edge into a gully.
Idiot!
I started to push myself upright, and cried out as pain exploded in my left shoulder. When it had subsided to a dull ache, I gingerly moved my arm again. The pain lanced back, not quite as severe as before but bad enough to make me gasp out loud.
    But at least there had been no sensation of grating bone. I hoped that meant nothing was broken. Swallowing back the bile that had risen in my throat, I felt my shoulder awkwardly with my other hand. Even through my coat I could tell that there was something wrong with the way the joint fitted together. There was a bulge where there shouldn’t have been, and as my fingers traced its outline I felt a queasy wave of nausea.
    I’d dislocated my shoulder. Badly.
    I told myself not to panic.
Deep breaths. Take it one step at a time.
Before I could use my arm again I knew the joint would have to be shot back into place. I reached round with my other hand as far as I could, probing with my fingers to feel where the ball of the humerus had popped out of its socket. I paused, gritting my teeth, and then pushed.
    The pain made me almost black out. I yelled as starbursts wheeled across my vision. When they faded I was lying on my back once more, sweat and rain mingling on my face. I wanted to throw up. The spasm subsided but left me weak and shaking.
    I didn’t bother feeling the shoulder again. I knew it was still out of joint. It was throbbing relentlessly, a bone-deep ache that radiated from the base of my skull right down my arm. I sat up again, weakly. My head spun as I slowly