Bruar's Rest Read online

  One thing which troubled her was the thought that no burning should take place, not on New Year’s Day, it would only attract attention when there were so many people on holiday. So she decided she’d conduct the ceremony the next day.

  There was no way she could continue to use the wagon as a home, not even for a day, as the dead have to be left in total peace. But this wasn’t a problem for a tinker who’d survived summer and winter in the open, so she set about building a small tent behind the wagon and lighting a good fire.

  She had to get a fire lit—after all, for a tinker, is this not the first thing to be done? After clearing the area of snow, the mattress off her wagon bed was folded over a bent tree and secured with stones taken from the dyke, with silent promises that they’d be put back. She cut and piled branches to form a barrier at her rear, then used some more to build walls on either side of her mattress roof. From the wagon she gathered as many bedcovers as she could and packed them inside her tiny abode. Hunger pangs were by now gnawing deep in her stomach. She added extra firewood to her rapidly dying fire. Soon she’d a kettle boiled. Bridget had left lots of good things to eat, and in no time she was fed and watered.

  The long busy night took its toll, and if Sam hadn’t come as promised, she’d have slept a lot longer than the noon hour. He was confused to see her huddled inside a tent, instead of in the shelter of the wagon. ‘What are you doing outside the wagon in the middle of winter?’

  Pleased to hear another person’s voice she welcomed him in. ‘Sit down here and warm yourself by the fire. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll ask that out of respect you lower the tone of your voice.’ Then she told him what had happened. He was genuinely sad and said there would be a lot of tear-shedding by gypsies when this news reached them. He knew where several families were wintering, and if she wanted he’d go and inform them. For a moment she thought it would indeed be proper, but something nagged at the back of her mind—Buckley! If others heard, he most definitely would. ‘I might as well send a news bulletin,’ she thought, and then wondered if Sam should be confided in.

  ‘Sam, I can’t tell anyone about this. I have good reason, and I’m sorry I can’t give you the promised dram, I’ll need it to fire the wagon.’

  ‘Are you telling me that a funeral of one as revered as Mother Foy is to be carried out by, and I mean no offence, a Scottish tinker of no relation?’

  ‘I have good reasons. She knows why too.’ She ran a hand across the wagon. ‘You must know, Sam, I can’t bring attention to myself, and if I say Bull Buckley, will you understand?’

  He turned quite pale, shook his body as if a giant spider was crawling up his back, and spat into the red ashes. ‘When are you going to burn her?’ he asked, looking into the embers.

  ‘Tomorrow, will you come and help?’

  ‘The Irish are back in two days, and I’d promised to clean the stalls, polish the brasses and oil the leathers.’

  She lowered her eyelids at his rejection.

  But when he saw this, he said, ‘Hell, I’ll work through the night and finish my chores. Yes, I’ll come. Wait for me, don’t start until nine in the morning.’ She brightened up no end.

  If ever a night dragged on with no sign of morning it was that one. Snuggling inside her small tent and looking at the clear night’s starry sky, she was transported back to a campsite at home, her head filled with stories of ghouls and doom-slayers. An owl hooted, she held her breath, it hooted again. Thinking of those old faces telling tales of werewolves and witches only added fuel to her already heightened imagination. A wind rose, and on its tail came devilish groans; she could almost reach out and touch the cloven foot of a she-demon. ‘What a night to be alone.’ She shivered inside, but not with cold, for she was warm enough in her home-made tent. No, it was the fear that maybe Buckley might be joining the foxes and the rats watching her from the shadows. The hairs rose on her neck, while nearby a stream where she and old Mother Foy drew their drinking water gurgled with otherworldly chit-chat. Her chest heaved as she panted with fear. Her promise to keep vigil was scattered on the chill wind; she opted instead to bury herself under the heap of blankets and covers lining her shelter. And there, until early light, she remained.

  ‘Thank you, whoever you are, who looks after vulnerable folks in unsafe places, including me. Give me enough strength to carry out this day’s farewell to my old friend.’ Her predicament seemed to call for such prayers but to whom was she praying? Somehow, under the cover of the endless sky it mattered not if her ancestors or an unseen God listened, something mightier than humanity was what she needed at that time to support her through each fathomless minute.

  With a fire lit, kettle boiled, breakfast eaten, she began the funeral. It was not so easy when the bushes and tree branches hung thick with snow and morning dew. Still, there were plenty of bits and pieces to light a fire from Mother Foy’s bottomless hoard. Old books, boxes of rags and piles of torn curtains soaked in whisky were scattered under and around the wagon. Making certain that no eyes, prying or otherwise, were in the vicinity, she waited for Sam. If he had fulfilled his promise to work through the night, then surely he’d soon appear, but when nine o’ clock passed and ten followed with no sign, she decided to go ahead without him.

  So, with a lighted rag dipped in paraffin and lamp oil, she lit the undercarriage of the bowed wagon, the pride and passion of an ageless gypsy woman who had been held in the highest respect of anyone she knew.

  The resin in the wood flashed instantly to life, flames fighting for control of the fir’s breath. She stood well back, such was the intensity and speed of burning. Suddenly a thought flashed into her mind. ‘The tin box was full of money—if I am to leave this place, I’ll need that money for train fare and food.’ She might just have time to get it from the wagon.

  She remembered how her friend always put all her money in a pouch then into the box. Already a heat was spreading through the wagon, she felt it as the door opened easily at her touch. Inside the mummified remains waited for incineration, strangely still. The impatient voices of the wood groaned and spat beneath her as the fire got going.

  She dragged the heavy metal container from beneath the bed with apologies. ‘Forgive me, I need this a lot more than you, and where you go there’s no call for money.’

  Flames found a route up through the floorboards, one singed her ankle. She hesitated whether to remove the pouch and leave the box, but a growing fire has no patience. With as much strength as both arms could muster, she pushed the box out of the wagon and followed its path down the steps. Once at a safe distance, she opened it. There was an assortment of bits and bobs, including four green buttons for her coat. Seeing them brought tears, their salt stung her fire-reddened cheeks. ‘Dear old friend,’ she thought sadly, ‘you were ill, yet thought of my buttonless coat.’

  Disappointment on not finding the pouch distracted her from grief. She was certain the old woman put the money Stephen refused to take for Beth’s keep in the pouch; she had seen lots more bundles before the box was closed and pushed under the bed. She never went into it the box again, so where was the money?

  ‘Are you looking for this?’

  Fear spread through her shaking body like the flames in the wagon. Her fingers tingled, and sick visions of mutilated hedgehogs grew in her mind. As flames of red, yellow and gold, now twisting in unison, completely engulfed the gypsy wagon, she turned to see, in all his evil glory, Buckley, the demon stalker, directly behind her! He who snapped heads from bodies and sucked brains from defenceless animals.

  There was no wagon to run into and lock the door now. No man or woman to help. She was totally at his mercy. Blood drained from her heaart: she could feel it sap all her strength, from head-tip to toe end, every last drop. She collapsed weakly onto all fours like a terrorstruck mouse, stared up into the soulless black eyes of the wild cat, and waited.

  ‘I watched you all the while, and may I say, it was a darned good burning ye done. Foy would have been well ple
ased with ye, I for certain would have been if it were me ye burned. Not to mention the earrings and hair pleats and that bandaging.’ His words sent a further surge of fear into her body, thinking that he’d actually been out in the darkness watching every move. Was it coincidence or had he read her thoughts?

  ‘I’ve been as close as this to you for ages, Megan, my pretty thing. That night on the moor, I knew it were you hiding in the heather, I smelt ye. And what good did it do telling Mrs Newton? King I am, and no prison cell or deep jail can keep me for long. So you see it did no good at all. But me, well, I think you’ll provide me with a bit of fun.’ He lifted her up like a rag doll and bit into her neck saying, ‘You taste real nice, you won’t mind if I help myself to some more.’

  One hand gripped her thigh, the other pushed back her head until she was at his demonic mercy. Her clothes were ripped from her body as if they were made of gossamer. Another bite, this time to her exposed breast, drew blood. Her futile attempts to push him off amounted to nothing; he was far too powerful.

  ‘Real tasty, I’m surprised no one has taken a chunk of this before.’ His tobacco-yellowed teeth found another part of her shivering flesh. With a clenched fist he hit her stomach. She fell flat. Still forcing back her head he straddled her body, and like a ravenous caveman, untamed, he tore her undergarments from her trembling hips. His red hair hung over one eye and gave his appearance further menace. She was at the mercy of a maniac. One who did not believe in such a thing as mercy.

  ‘I’ll take this high road,’ he said, cupping her breasts with filthy, clammy hands as slavers dripped from his mouth and trickled, hot and steamy, onto her now naked body.

  For a second his grip slackened, she got half free and screamed, ‘Not over this border! Bastard, bastard breed, I’ll rather be dead than let you enter me!’

  One knee came up and caught him under the chin, while the other found its mark.

  ‘You bitch, she-devil!’ His face for a moment turned pale as the pain between his legs shot deep, but it was nothing he’d not felt a hundred times before; much to her horror it heightened his pleasure. ‘Kick me again,’ he laughed insanely, and drooled.

  ‘If you insist,’ she wriggled free and stood away from him, but in her eagerness to escape failed to notice that in her way was a bulky oak branch that had succumbed to the ravages of the storm. She went sprawling over it.

  His eyes widened at her vulnerability; again he was like the cat standing over its small prey before the final pounce. She was trapped and she knew it!

  ‘If you plan to rape me, kill me first. I’d not want to live after you’d been inside me.’

  ‘What cat kills its prey quick? I’m not going to rape you once; I’m planning to make a meal of you. I might even keep you breathing and do it tomorrow as well.’

  He threw back his head, rested two sinewy hands upon thin hips, and for what seemed like eternity said nothing. Her body was shivering with cold, she bit her bottom lip; it bled profusely. Yet this creature would not see her tears.

  ‘Am I not a power unto myself? I control every living gypsy in England. For instance, see that burning wagon of poor Mother Foy’s; it’s turning into a pile of ashes, see how the wind scatters them. For all we know them ashes might be hers.’ He leered at her nakedness, and with sadistic pleasure slowly, one by one, opened the buttons of his trousers, eyes narrowing into slits. When finished he dropped his body onto hers. She waited, her breaths coming in short pants, but she would never beg; not to a weasel like him. He was toying with her, and now that she was gripped by the arms, had to have his fun.

  ‘Did you notice the bruising on the old woman’s neck while plaiting her hair, or did you accept she passed away peaceful, like?’

  Was she hearing things? Surely no human, no matter how low, could kill a dying woman who hadn’t a day of natural life in her. His nodding head was already answering her question. Her temper, that the circumstances had buried, began stripping away the fear. He could rape her to kingdom come, chew every inch of flesh, but no way would she go without a fight. England and the gorse field with its dead and its demon were gone. She was home, beneath her heels once again the wind-teased heather, and a sea of stars sparkling in the heavens above the mountain tops of Glen Coe called to her from an open moor. ‘Megan,’ their voices joined those of the ancestors calling through the holly trees, ‘get his eyes.’

  His face contorted, he leered at her exposed, bitten breasts and revelled in his merciless control. Second by agonising second he held back, letting her arms go, drinking in the sordid infatuation of his power, but in his savage enjoyment he failed to see her curl fingers around the bulky branch that had been her earlier downfall. Now tightly held in her freezing hand, it came thumping into the side of his head. Dazed and confused he staggered onto all fours. With dominance now transferred into her hands, she wasted no time in swinging the heavy wooden weapon so hard into his ribs he buckled under its force.

  ‘I’ll not let the likes of you interfere with me, son of darkness, fiend that kills an elderly body waiting on a quiet death! You’re no king! You’re a shit-pit dweller, a lowlife, unfit to breathe the same air as Mother Foy or any decent gypsy.’

  But he was no ordinary human, she knew that well enough, and soon his bent back was straightening, his eyes widening, staring fire, smirking; the victim once more was at the mercy of the cat.

  Her momentary courage deserted her. Her fingers, unable to hold onto the weighty branch, loosened their grip.

  Slowly he shook his red hair clear of snow and dead twigs and hissed through clenched teeth, ‘Hell’s here!’

  Inside her head, voices screamed to her to run and run until exhaustion would deny him the sick perverted pleasure he’d planned, but an invisible magnet held her to the spot. She stood her ground and waited.

  Suddenly, beneath their feet, loud thumping was felt, her tent and kettle moved upon the ground, the bushes sleeping under blankets of snow parted as if a fury of wind was tearing them apart. Something was thundering towards the campsite. A shout from a familiar voice along with loud thudding hooves filled her ears—it was Sam riding Beth. Pulling on her reins, he steered her to charge in Buckley’s direction. ‘Go on, girl, run him down,’ ordered the feisty stable lad. Buckley was sent flying three feet in the air and came down in jaggy holly bushes. Megan raged for vengeance as she ran towards him. Claws unsheathed, she rammed stiff fingers into his face, ripping and gouging at his eyes. Blood spurted around his face. ‘I have you now, Buckley, your eyes. I’ll blind you and see how far you’ll travel without sight!’

  Sam had other ideas; swiftly turning Beth he leaned down and scooped her up. ‘Hang on, Megan, leave him to the police to catch.’ She clung tightly to him with her naked frame as Buckley rose from among the holly bushes, bleeding and raging and swearing vengeance.

  Back within the welcome safety of the farmhouse Sam didn’t spare a minute before wrapping Megan in coats and garments. She shook with cold, so he gathered her into his strong arms, desperately trying to bring some warmth and colour to her grey-white skin. But she’d been too long exposed to the freezing temperature without clothes. Her head lolled and eyes rolled, she was turning blue, there wasn’t a moment to lose. Inside his bedroom, the same one she had shared on Christmas Eve with Mother Foy, he put her into bed. She wasn’t responding, so he then took off his clothes and spent hours warming her frozen body. Once or twice he thought she’d died when no breath could be heard, but she’d sunk into a deep sleep and he didn’t give up. ‘I thought you were a goner,’ he said with obvious delight, on hearing her wake with deep sighs.

  In her weakened state Buckley still stood over her with a leering face of the wild cat. Her screams on feeling Sam’s naked body next to hers pierced the air. It took all his energy to explain things. ‘I didn’t know what to do—you were turning blue.’

  ‘You promised to come early, why were you not there when I needed you? He was ready to violate me over and over, then suck my brains out
.’ She sat up and began to hit out. He put his arms round her warmed body and set her back down.

  ‘I couldn’t get away,’ he apologised, ‘and before you ask, did I fall asleep last night, the answer is no. I had a huge lot of jobs to do, tons of leathers, tack and brasses to polish. Now I’ll have to get some warm milk into you, Megan.’

  She wasn’t having that! Staring wide-eyed at the bedroom window, fully expecting the pig Buckley to burst in and start the nightmare over again, she begged Sam, ‘Don’t leave me—he’s watching somewhere out there. Please, Sam, stay here in the room. Get a gun or knife, but don’t go about without a weapon.’ When she told him about Mother Foy and how the poor lady met her end, he put a protective arm firmly round her shoulder and said, ‘His days are numbered. The Irish will be home today and the police are going to be told, I’ll make damn sure of that.’

  ‘They’ll not catch him. He’s afraid of nobody, he can escape from every ball and chain. Nothing, I tell you, will hold that beast.’

  ‘Listen to me, when the police trap him, it’s the jail for him and no one gets out of there. Now keep cosy while I fetch hot milk. I’ve got your skin warmed up, time now for your insides.’ Slipping another log onto the bedroom fire, he took her hand and said, reassuringly, ‘For a while there you’d given me a fright, with your pale face and lifeless body; thank God you’re all right. But there’s a few nasty bruises on your body. I’ll fill a tub. I’m sure a relaxing soak will ease the pain.’