Terry shoves his hands deep into his pockets, leather jacket no match for the January wind knifing through the station. He hadn’t grabbed anything else when he rushed out—not even thought to. Just the case. That cursed case.
Since he’d acquired it last Friday, it had been nothing but trouble. Sharon hadn’t stopped asking: What’s in there? Who gave it to you? Why’s it so important? What could he tell her? That he’d screwed up so badly the only way to keep their home—and their lives—was to make this delivery? He’d never been a liar, never needed to be, but now the silence was eating him alive.
He turns up the collar of his faded leather jacket against the icy wind. Late January in Scotland was a harsh environment. The platform is nearly deserted, as you’d expect on a Wednesday near midnight. Terry shifts his feet, switching the case from his right hand to the left he feels the weight shift as if something large is rolling around in there. The image’s that movement brings to the forefront of his mind are gruesome, but that’s not the worst of it, it’s the sticky slurp as the object detaches itself from one side of the suitcase and rolls to the other. The sound resembles that soft squelchy sound you get with wet shoes. It’s enough to bring his burger back up, well almost. After all Sharon’s bacon cheeseburger is his favourite meal. She always adds just the right amount of mustard. He watches the oncoming train wondering if he will survive to ever eat one of Sharon’s burgers again.
The train slows to a stop with a squeal, brakes sighing. Terry draws a steadying breath and steps aboard carriage C, just as instructed.
He notices a mountain of a man enter from the opposite end. For a second, their eyes lock and his gaze says it all, I’m watching you. Do as you’re told if you want to live. He tips an imaginary hat and Terry swallows hard, sliding into a seat, placing the case beside him. The train jolts forward, heading North into the unknown.
He runs through the plan again. Ride to the last stop, where the rear two carriages will detach and continue north to Oban. He is to get off at Oban and make his way to the pier.
At the pier, a boat will be waiting, with a guy named Sven at the helm. After that? No clue. He’d been living minute to minute for two weeks, ever since that drunken bet. One stupid night, one stupid game, and now he was tangled in something straight out of The Godfather. Except he hadn’t killed, stolen, or cheated—just lost. Lost to the wrong people.
He sighs watching the outside world pass by in a blur. How was he meant to know who he was betting against? He was nobody, a small-time business owner trying to carve a decent life for Sharon and himself.
The conductor’s voice pulls him from his thoughts,
“All passengers continuing to Oban, please move to the last two carriages.”
Terry stays where he is. He is already in place.
The train brakes at the next stop and he glances out the window, temptation gnawing. He could leave the case. Walk away. Call Sharon, disappear together.
Movement catches his eye. On the platform stands a broad man in a dark suit, sunglasses hiding his eyes despite the hour. But it wasn’t him Terry fixated on—it was the woman seated on the bench just behind.
Sharon.
Terry’s heart slammed, his whole body began to tremble. She was supposed to be home, asleep. He lurches to his feet, nearly toppling over the seat in front.
“Sharon!” he bangs on the glass, shouting, “Sharon, hey!”
She looks up, gasping at the ight of him. She takes a small step toward him—then another suit appears from nowhere and places a heavy hand on her shoulder and whispers something in her ear. Her whole-body sags and she sits back down.
Fury swallows Terry. This wasn’t part of the deal. He charges for the carriage door and slams straight into the wall of the mountain man.
“Better take a seat, Terry,” the suit drawls, his southern accent slow and heavy.
He staggers back to the window seat as the train pulls away. Sharon’s figure blurred into the distance. His scream tears out of him, raw and useless:
“Sharon! You bastards! SHARON!”
He collapses into his seat, hollow and helpless. For the first time since this nightmare began, he knows—truly knows—he won't survive this.
For the rest of the journey he sits, shoulders hunched, fists clenched in his lap. The suits ensured he was alone for the rest of the journey. Anyone who tried to enter the carriage was quietly redirected.
By half-past three, the train rattled into Oban. Case in hand, Terry stumbled into the night. The streets were silent, windows dark. Streetlights guided him in the eerie silence. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. He followed the lamps toward the harbour until the smell of salt and diesel hit him.
A small boat idled at the pier, its lights a lone beacon. A small figure worked at the hatch.
“Must be my ride,” Terry muttered, throat dry.
He cleared his throat to announce himself. The man straightened slowly, eyes locking onto Terry’s. He wore dirty denim overalls, the top two button open to reveal a mat of ark hair. A square jaw bent nose and a skull tattoo under one eye completed his menacing look. His stare hollowed Terry out.
“I’m Terry. You Sven?”
“Yes,” the man said simply.
Relief surged through him, he thrust the case forward, eager to be rid of it. But Sven recoiled, stepping back with hands raised.
“Non, non. You keep.” He made the sign of the cross. He had paled and he began trembling.
Terry’s stomach dropped. Sighing, he climbed aboard with the case. Disappointed not to be rid of it.
The boat was small, weather-beaten, stinking of diesel and mildew. Two seats upfront and a wooden bench in back, terry lowered himself to the bench. The whole boat was worn and uncared for, paint peeled, wood chipped and there was a small crack in the window. Sven started the engine and guided it into the dark, toward a pinprick of land.
“Where are we going?” Terry asked.
“Island.”
“What island?”
Sven said nothing more.
The forty-minute ride passed in silence, broken only by the slap of waves. The thought gnawed at Terry: he could throw the case overboard. End it. But what would happen to Sharon? In the end, he was too afraid to try.
The island loomed; a black silhouette crowned with ruins. Two suited men waited at the pier, their SUV idling nearby.
The dock was a small wooden boardwalk. As he disembarked two man walked towards him.
“Hello, Terry,” said the taller of the two with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Something in Terry cracked a bitter grin. Do they buy these suits in bulk?
The shorter one scowled. “Something funny?” He was short for a man of his bulk. His was as fair as his partner was dark.
Terry dropped the smirk. “Get a grip. Almost home free,” he muttered to himself.
They ushered him in silence into the SUV the locks clicked in place behind him. No handles inside. His panic spiked, no chance of escape now.
By sunrise, they rolled to a stop near a crumbling castle.
“Come on terry let’s get moving,” said one of the suits as I held the car door open for Terry.
“Mr. Whittle is waiting,” said the other.
Terry climbed the hill towards the silhouette of a man against the dawn.
“Ah, Terry. So glad you could make it.” Mr. Whittle smiled, plain and forgettable, like any pensioner you’d pass in the street. His voice was soft, oddly high-pitched.
Terry seethed. This man wrecked my life.
“What about Sharon?” The words ripped out before he could stop them.
Whittles smile lingered. “We needed to be sure you were… motivated. So, we gave you an incentive.”
“YOU BASTARD!”
Pain exploded at the back of Terry’s skull. He collapsed to his knees, blood warm on his fingers.
Whittles tone never shifted. “I am a patient man, Terry. But mind your tongue. I’d hate anything unfortunate to happen to that pretty wife of yours.”
The world tilted. Terry fought nausea.
“Did you know this was once the site of Galen Castle? Built in 1582 two and a half centuries before Alexander II of Scotland died here,” he said.
Terry had no idea why the old man was telling him this, he hung his head, and prayed for this whole nightmare to end.
“I see you’ve brought back my case,” he said suddenly. His laugh was thin, reedy. “Thank you for that. I rarely enjoy what comes next—that’s why I have Frank and Roman here.”
He turned to leave. Terry gasped, “Wait! You promised I’d live if I did this.”
Whittle glanced back. “Ah, Terry. I wish it could be so. But you know too much. You’ve seen my face. And I like to keep things neat. You, my friend, are a loose end.”
Frank and Roman dragged him to the cliff edge. The sea roared below.
Tears blurred his vision. “What about Sharon? What will happen to her?”
“Don’t worry,” one suit chuckled. “Stephen will take care of her. He’s got… unique tastes.”
Their laughter echoed. Terry bowed his head, tears spilling.
“I’m sorry, Sharon,” he whispered.
The sun broke over the horizon. Then came the crack of a gun, and everything went black.
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