The Chessmen

II

The sky over the sands of Traigh Uige was painted on. Great fat brushstrokes of pale grey and cream. The wind was brisk and cool and blew through the last of the coastal tormentil, shrivelling its yellow petals like the first breath of winter. Fin turned off the metalled road and up the track to the level stony area in front of the blackhouse. He didn’t have any real hope of finding Whistler here, but it was the obvious place to start.

When he stepped out of the jeep he smelled peat smoke in the air, like toasted oat bread left a little too long under the grill. So perhaps he was at home after all. The front door was not fully closed, and Fin pushed it into the gloom.

‘Whistler, you there? Whistler? We have to talk.’

Silence. He stepped inside, and caught his breath at the sight that greeted him. It was pandemonium. Furniture overturned, shards of broken crockery strewn across the floor among the wood shavings. Whistler’s line of chessmen had been breached, several lying tipped over on their backs. He took a further step in, and by the light that fell obliquely through the narrow window in the rear wall, he saw the big prostrate form of Whistler lying face down on the floor. There was blood oozing through his hair and pooling on the floorboards.

‘Jesus, Whistler!’ Fin crossed the room in three strides and knelt by his side to feel for a pulse in his neck. His lip was split and blood oozed from his mouth. Fin saw the bruising and blood on the knuckles of his big, outstretched hand. But he was still alive. The scrape of a footstep coming from behind startled Fin. He half-turned and a light flashed in his head. The pain of it shot through his body. And darkness followed in an instant.