Darkest Fears

Lambs to the Slaughter

Doogie rolled up the sleeves of his sweater and plunged his fists into the washing-up bowl. Through the window above the sink, he gazed out towards Lochranna. It had been a week now and no bastard had come. Not the police, not the army. Not even old Gordon from the post office, who sailed over once a week to deliver the few bits of shopping that Doogie might ask Morag to set aside. What the blazes was the matter with them? Had they not seen the fireworks? Had they not heard the unholy racket? And surely the fact that he hadn't phoned them to place an order for milk or eggs or his weekly half bottle of whisky should be ringing alarm bells by now? Jesus wept, he thought. Is this what's going to happen if I ever take a fall or go down with the flu? Would the mainlanders just leave me here to rot?

Doogie sighed. He must have made the short journey across the bay to the tiny port a thousand times over the years. Two bloody miles, that's all. So near; so damned near.

The thought reminded him of the wounds he received when he had tried it Wednesday evening. Nothing too serious, mind. A couple of streaks of burned flesh across his back that he bound in an old bath towel to soak up the blood. Still, the cuts were sore and his trusty old boat was now so many pieces of charred timber bobbing around the dock. The incident had served its purpose. A warning. He wouldn't be trying to escape again.

He put the plate on the drainer and swilled out the bowl, glad that he still had the old fireplace to heat water now that the electricity was gone. But it was November and the first frosts were bringing a sparkle to the land of a morning; a reminder that the harsh Highland winter would be upon him all too soon. He would be running out of logs to burn before another week was out. Then what? There were no trees on the island worthy of the name. The bitter Atlantic winds ensured that only the hardiest shrubs could survive out here. His island was the very definition of bleak. It was little wonder that everyone else had gradually migrated to the mainland over the years. Sheep farming on a western isle was an unappealing fate for the young, and a grim way of life for all but the stubborn or foolhardy. And, Doogie conceded, he was probably both.

He drew in a heavy breath. No, he couldn't wait for a rescue party that might never come. And he wouldn't stay here to wither away from hypothermia. Or worse. It was time to act now, while he still had the strength. He would do it today. He would try to kill the damned thing and be done with the whole business. If he failed, so be it, but he wouldn't go quietly. He would die hard-bloody hard.

Then he heard a familiar sound in the doorway behind him. Thump-shuffle-thump.

Doogie's unwelcome guest had appropriated his shepherd's crook to use as a walking stick, and that noise it made as it roamed the cramped little cottage had become maddening. Thump-shuffle-thump. Thump-shuffle-thump. Daytime, night-time, for the damned thing never slept, but drifted about the place like a ghost in search of its chains.

"You've just eaten, damn you," said Doogie without turning around. "The blood on your claws is still wet." And, he guessed, still warm.

A thump. A shuffle. And silence.

Three head of sheep, for God's sake. He could ill afford such a loss.

"I'm not fetching another for you. Not so soon, ya greedy bastard." Sheer bravado, of course. Doogie knew he would sacrifice as much of his livestock as his crippled guest demanded. For what else would it eat?

It was a pointless conversation, anyway. The thing plainly did not understand English. Or the Gaelic, in which tongue Doogie had frequently and ripely cursed it over the past few days.

Thump-shuffle-thump. It limped across the kitchen and pushed the back door ajar. And, when he saw the crablike pincer raise another little divot in the wood, Doogie tutted, "Again? D'ye no have paintwork where ye come from, ye clumsy shite?"

Each evening Doogie's guest had gazed out across the bay like this, seemingly mesmerised by the short stretch of ocean that separated the isle from the mainland.

"I've told ye before, if ye want to hop over to Lochranna I'll not hold you back. To be honest, the town doesn't amount to much but they've a nice wee pub and the mobile library calls once a month."

And there's a nice wee police station too, thought Doogie. And, less than five miles away, a bloody great submarine base full of MOD types who would love to get their mitts on a real live alien.

The creature looked down at its leg, damaged during the crash-landing seven nights ago. Its yellow shell (part of its body, Doogie had deduced, and not a suit of armour as he had initially thought) was split open from thigh to ankle and the shattered limb could barely hold the alien's weight.

Doogie rubbed his throbbing back and sighed. "You know, I still have ma old dinghy somewhere. Used to sail it across the reach every week before I bought that nice wooden boat ye burned up with your fancy ray gun."

Aye, he mused, and the orange inflatable had last seen the light of day ten years ago, before his seventh decade had taken its toll on his strength and agility. No reason to suspect it wasn't seaworthy, but steering that rubber balloon across two miles of swirling Atlantic with his new friend bouncing around beside him wasn't a prospect Doogie relished.

"If you could keep those pointy fingers out of harm's way, I'll have a bloody good try at sailing her over there one more time."

Aye, he thought. And while we're out there riding the waves, maybe we'll see if you're the kind of alien that sinks or swims.

"I wonder, do they even have sea where you come from? Is that why it fascinates you?"

The creature stood motionless facing the bay.

"And when I get over there, I shall ask old Gordon what's been keepin' him," growled Doogie. "I'm running out of milk here and he knows I cannae stand ma tea without a drop of milk. So, how's about it, eh? D'ye fancy a wee ride?"

The alien turned away from the door and limped back through the kitchen.

Doogie picked up a bread knife from the drainer, still wet, and glared at the creature's curved, spiny back. He sighed. "I'm trying to tell ye that ye've outstayed your welcome, ye blasted monstrosity. And if ye still won't take the hint, I'll be just as happy to escort ye to your grave right here and now."

Both the electricity and the phone line had been dead since the alien's craft had smashed into the island last Monday evening. Doogie cursed himself for eschewing a mobile phone. At night, he fantasised about calling up Lochranna on one of those pocket-sized gadgets and then watching Gordon dutifully sail up to the dock in that letterbox-red motorboat of his. He pictured the look on the old boy's face as he explained. "See here, Gordy. Allow me to introduce ma new chum. In case you couldn't tell, he's one of those spacemen, like you see in the films. Being as how you're the only official person within five miles, I'm handing him over to your custody." He would give Gordon fair warning, of course. "By the way, old pal, ye don't wanna upset him at all. He has this laser thingy and he's no shy about using it."

It would kill Gordon of course. And then it would eat the old postmaster, ripping him open, just as it had ripped apart its own injured compatriots as they lay trapped in the blazing wreckage; just as it had ripped apart three of Doogie's sheep and his faithful old collie, Moira. It was ravenous, insatiable and Doogie knew that the only reason his own life had been spared so far was because he could shepherd food into the barn. With no other farmers remaining, Doogie's livestock had the run of the island. And run they did; across the bumpy grassland, up and down the rocky outcrops, and all along the stony shoreline. The crippled monster couldn't hope to catch the sheep by itself. For the time being, it had little choice but to tolerate Doogie's presence, and his dark mutterings. It needed him. That, Doogie reasoned, was the one advantage he had over it. And, he decided, it was the factor that would seal the creature's fate.

The alien, a seemingly impossible combination of crustacean, arachnid and locust, turned to face the farmer. Its tusks moved, almost daintily, clicking softly together. A shiver of fear raced through Doogie and he tightened his grip on the blade. Could it understand him after all? He had never heard the thing make any sound other than the shuffling of its chitinous feet on the floorboards and the click of its spiny fingers. Doogie's conversations with it were nothing more than monologues, designed to keep his own creeping insanity at bay. Or so he thought. But what if it could read his mind?

Doogie took up the tea towel, dried the knife and put it in its drawer. The thin blade wasn't up to the job anyway.

The creature turned away and walked out of the kitchen, along the narrow hallway and out the front door. Doogie wiped his hands on his jersey and followed it out to the barn, where it had set up home, seemingly oblivious to the cold and the stench from the mangled carcasses of the animals it had slaughtered. It squatted among the puddles of blood, shards of bone and sheets of skin, as though it were settling down on a comfy sofa to watch its favourite soap opera.

"OK, then. Just one more time," said Doogie. "But this would be a whole lot easier if you hadna murdered poor old Moira, ye ugly bastard."

He...