Origin of the Crabs
Author: Guy N. Smith
Date: 1988-04-15 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: Rouse suddenly let out a piercing scream releasing him from the paralysis of sheer terror in which those malevolent red eyes had held him. In panic he turned and tried to scamble up the slippery rockface. But his feet could not grip; slowly he began sliding back down, ever closer to the nightmarish form that was rapidly approaching, it huge claws waving in the air, its powerful jaws opening and closing in anticipation ...
Publisher: Dell

The Origin of the Crabs - Kindle Version 1.0

(c) Guy N Smith 1979 - 2010

Published by Black Hill Books, January 2011

ISBN : 978-1-907846-120

First Published by New English Library (NEL) June 1979.

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Contents

Title

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

The End

Chapter 1

The man had lain in the soft springy heather throughout the afternoon, and now, with the coming of an autumnal twilight, he raised his head slowly. Above him were the mountains, sharp bluffs which towered steeply, the grey stone interspersed with the brown of the dying bracken. A buzzard soared effortlessly, gracefully, its moth-like wings outstretched, almost motionless as it searched for an unwary young rabbit or vole in the wilderness. Below him the hills sloped more gently, winding streams rushing downwards, swollen by the recent heavy rains, gushing over the rock falls, spume flying.

In the distance the last rays of the evening sun glinted on the waters of Loch Merse, a mile or so away at the end of the narrow valley, surrounded by stunted Scots pines that had weathered half a century of storms and would withstand another fifty years. A bunch of wild duck were circling, dipping, then planing down on to the expanse of water.

Freddie Law rose to his knees, and with gnarled hands focused the long telescope. Slowly he scanned the landscape around him, the keen grey eyes missing nothing. His tattered, camouflaged combat jacket with matching trousers blended perfectly with his surroundings, so well in fact that unless anyone had unwittingly stumbled upon him they would in all probability have passed within ten yards of him and been totally unaware of his presence. Many were the occasions when gamekeepers searching for him at night on the moors and in the mountains had brushed against his clothing with their boots and pressed on.

Suddenly, he stiffened. Something moved in the corrie a couple of hundred yards below him. He remained perfectly still, watching, the heavy spyglass never wavering, Then he saw them. Ten in all, red deer moving through the undergrowth, a majestic stag in the lead, its head raised, stopping to sniff the air every few yards, alert for the slightest sign of danger.

‘Beauties,’ the watcher breathed to himself, ‘but they'll ha' to wait. Next month mebbe …’

The telescope completed its arc of surveillance and was lowered to the ground. The man stretched himself out again, relaxing a little, satisfied that there was not another human being within a mile of him. He would not make a move until it was fully dark but he had to be sure that the Cranlarich gamekeepers were not preparing an ambush for him.

The light seemed to linger more than usual tonight. But Freddie Law was in no hurry. Carefully he lit a crumpled cigarette between cupped hands, exhaling the smoke in thin trickles so that it would not give away his position. He lay back and relaxed, conserving his energy for that which lay ahead, his left hand caressing the four-foot gaff by his side almost lovingly, a weapon which he had made entirely by his own efforts. The long ash handle had been cut and shaped with his sharp hunting knife, and the three-pronged spearhead had been forged in his own kitchen fire. Well over a thousand trout had he taken with this gaff and a few salmon from the river, too, when the opportunity had presented itself. Salmon poaching was too risky these days, though, for the river authorities were increasing their staff of bailiffs. Only on the Cranlarich Estate did he feel safe. He had eluded Jock Rouse, McKechnie's keeper, for over ten years, and he would continue to do so as long as his health allowed him to poach at will. Freddie Law knew no other way of life. If he could not hunt the deer in the forests, the grouse and rabbits on the moors, and take trout from the streams at the advent of the spawning season, then he would rather be dead.

Darkness came and he rose to his feet, the telescope slung over his shoulder, the gaff poised for use as a walking stick. His nostrils flared. Like the stag earlier, he would sense danger if it was there. He was confident that some sixth sense would warn him as it had done on so many occasions in the past.

A mist was rising, and he chuckled to himself. It would mask the light of his small torch once he started to work the streams which gushed into the loch. Optimism added to the jauntiness of his step. He had a feeling that tonight was going to be one of those nights when everything went his way. No gamekeepers, a bag full of trout and back in his bed before dawn.

He embarked upon a course parallel to Loch Merse. There was no point in crossing the Cranlarich bog unless it was absolutely necessary. He knew the safe paths across it but they were winding and time-wasting. And there was always an element of risk. One false step, and there would be no way back, not even for Freddie Law. He had once witnessed a roe deer in one of the sucking quagmires, powerless to help it as it had been slowly and surely drawn down into the mud, helplessly watching when only its head and rolling eyes were visible. Then it was gone. A final gurgle, the mud hissing and bubbling. Not a trace of its existence remained. The shifting quagmires did not overlook so much as a hoofprint.

The night was black and murky, but the poacher did not need to use his torch. He followed the old sheeptrack in and out of the corrie, up the steep hillside, and down to the first burn. The icy water came up to his thighs as he waded in. There were seldom trout in this one, the water was swift and deep. He clambered up the opposite bank and forced his way through a patch of thick gorse. The sharp spines scratched his legs through his trousers, but he scarcely noticed the pain. It was all part of his way of life,

An hour passed before he reached the big burn, a fast torrent that rushed over its boulder-strewn bed. He paused, and felt in his pocket for his torch. This was the place, close to where the stream widened out into the loch. Two miles of its course lay above him, gradually becoming steeper until it reached the first line of rocks. He would work all of it tonight, walking slowly upstream so that any mud which he disturbed would only discolour the water at his rear.

A little shiver of excitement ran up his spine. Hardened as he was, he could not restrain it. This, for him, was what living was all about. Others got their kicks from backing horses, but his bet was on the night's sport, his bookmaker the mountain above him. It would either pay out on the long odds in full or send him home empty handed. There were no certs.

The torch beam cut downwards into the clear water. The mist swirled, thickening, but it did not obscure his vision. Gaff poised at the ready, he began his uphill climb, his attention focused on the bottom of the burn, scanning the small pools close to the bank away from the main current. Spawning trout liked to rest awhile in such places during the course of their exhausting ascent. He glimpsed a slight movement, an elongated shape that might have been a sliver of rock. It wasn't.

He struck, straight and true, and with unbelievable speed for one of advanced years. His fingers secured a grip on the wriggling fish which was pinned down by the prongs of the gaff. Its death throes continued in the bottom of the canvas bag on his back, and encouraged by this early success he continued on his way, sweeping the torch beam a yard or so in front of him.

Suddenly, he stopped so abruptly that he almost slipped on the moss-covered stones. Something moved at the edge of the shadows just ahead of him. He directed the light towards it, and was just in time to see a creature approximately the size of a large cat disappear from view behind a clump of thick rushes.

‘What the devil!’ he cursed aloud, a sense of uneasiness sweeping over him.

Like many other men who spent their lives in such an environment anything unusual disturbed Freddie Law. Momentarily he chewed on his lower lip, a habit of his when he was either frightened or puzzled, and attempted to determine the identity of whatever lurked in the shadows.

A fox? No, it was not large enough. A wild cat? No, they were only to be found much further north towards the Highlands. Odd ones turned up sometimes in this corner of south-west Scotland, but they would not seek refuge in a burn even if they fished it. An otter? An audible sigh of relief escaped his lips. That was what it was. He had seen one once whilst poaching salmon on a stretch of the River Annan. Maybe its holt was there behind those rushes.

His eyes narrowed. Otter pelts fetched money. Good money. In olden times the huntsmen used spears similar to his own gaff to finish off an otter which was held at bay by the hounds. There was just a chance that, with a little bit of luck, if this one did not move quickly … Freddie Law had confidence in his own ability to drive that gaff into a darting fish. His new quarry was much larger. If it remained where it was then it was as good as his.

Very gently he stepped forward an inch or so at a time, taking care not to splash unnecessarily, torch extended in his left hand, his weapon held in his right, shoulder height. Now he had it cornered. He was level with that clump of reeds. Whichever way it bolted, it would have to pass him.

But nothing moved. There was no sound except for the rush of water over stones. The poacher took another step forward. It had to be there, unless, of course, it was skulking in a hole in the bank.

Then he saw it, or rather he saw where it was hiding, an indistinguishable patch of blackness that was darker than the shadows, and the glow of two small red eyes that glared malevolently at him. It remained motionless, making no attempt to escape.

‘Ye brazen bugger,’ he grunted, ‘or are ye just plain bloody stupid? Well, it makes na difference …’

Freddie Law's arm went back, and then forward, the gaff driving fiercely at those eyes. But there was no soft impact of flesh and fur. Instead there was a jarring and splintering that caused the man's fingers to open in unexpected agony, the ash staff wrenching itself free of his hold. He gave a short cry of pain, almost dropped his torch and cursed fluently. A strange, foreboding noise seemed to answer him.

Click-click-click.

Freddie recoiled, slipped, and landed on his knees in the water. His expression was one of incredulity and fear as once again he shone the torch on the thing which squatted, half hidden by the reeds. Its noise was foreign to these parts, at least the volume was. It was like the clicking of crabs' pincers. Loch Merse was connected to the open sea by a subterranean tunnel, so it was believed, and occasionally crabs found their way into that expanse of inland water. He had killed one or two for the table on occasions, but generally he didn't bother with them. Crabs would not come up here, upstream, away from the salt water!

It reared up, and in the circle of light thrown by the torch he saw it, a crab the size of a fully grown hare, its tiny face a mask of evil, showing the hatred it felt for the man who had struck at it. A loud crack echoed in the stillness as it lowered its weight on to the shaft of the gaff and split it in two.

‘Keep away, damn ye!’ there was fear in Freddie Law's shout as he backed away, losing his footing once more and falling into the shallow water with a splash. Feverishly he scrambled up. The crab was closer now, moving with a swiftness that was unnatural for one of its species. There was little doubt in his mind that it was bent on attacking him.

His panic-stricken retreat was punctuated by a series of falls. His hands were torn and bleeding but somehow he managed to keep a hold on the torch, terrified of the blackness of the night and the terrors which it held if his light should be extinguished. He covered about ten yards, glancing back every few seconds, and now he was fully aware that this monstrosity was gaining on him.

Only then did it occur to him that safety lay beyond the banks and not downstream. Surely it would not pursue him on dry land. He changed direction, fell yet again, and screamed as one of its pincers slashed his right wellington boot. The rubber was slit, the woollen sock beneath torn, and he felt the flesh of his foot being cut as though with a sharp knife. His desperation lent him extra strength as he wrenched his leg free, grabbed at an overhanging sapling, and somehow hauled himself up into the heather.

His heart was beating wildly, and his breath was coming in strangled gulps. Fearfully he shone his light back into the burn, and peered down at his attacker. The giant crab was still there, motionless, looking up at him, thwarted. The horrific face was almost human, an expression of mingled hatred and defeat, the eyes glowing like distant campfires in a corrie, hypnotic, willing him to step back into the water.

With a shudder he forced his gaze away and, turning on his injured heel, he struck aimlessly through the thick vegetation which bordered the banks of the stream. One thought was uppermost in his mind: flight. Anywhere, so long as he could put as much distance as possible between himself and this nightmarish thing, this devil which had come up from the loch, maybe even from the Cranlarich bog.

The poacher blundered on for some twenty yards, and then fell headlong as his lacerated foot refused to bear his weight any longer. This time the torch flew from his grasp, bounced on a boulder, and the bulb shattered. He was in total darkness.

He whimpered softly in his fear. The undergrowth behind him rustled. He cowered, and buried his face in the heather in total surrender. He could go on no longer. The loss of blood had made him weak. There was no way in which he could fight this awful adversary. He prayed that death, if it came, would be swift and painless. The blackness around him was tinged with red, and then unconsciousness brought blessed relief from the terrors of the night.

Some time later his senses returned, and once again he was peeling into the night, still hearing the clicking of pincers, and seeing in his mind the terrible thing that lurked in the burn.

‘Dinna be such a fool, Freddie Law.’ He spoke aloud in an attempt to restore his courage. ‘It canna follow ye on dry land, not even a bastard like that. Pull yerself together.’

His ankle ached and he felt it. It was warm and sticky where the blood had congealed in the slit in his wellington boot. With some relief he ascertained that the bleeding had stopped. He fumbled in the pocket of his combat jacket for his matches. His fingers located a soggy cardboard box, and he knew that it was useless even to attempt to strike the contents.

‘Ach, ye dinna need a light to show ye the way home, Freddie,’ he laughed hysterically, ‘ye knows this place even better than the laird hisself, damn him!’

His courage returned increasingly as he proceeded to curse Bruce McKechnie, the laird of Cranlarich, and his gamekeeper Jock Rouse. He tried to push the memory of the crab from his mind. A freak, certainly, but it couldn't hurt him now. The most important thing was to find his way home.

It was almost impossible to walk on his injured foot so with some difficulty he broke off a silver birch branch and used it as a support. Even so, his progress was abysmally slow. Every few yards he was forced to rest. And now the night was full of noises, rustlings, crackings, and clickings that could have been made by the claws of an unnaturally oversized crab. His fears began to return, more terrible than before on account of his inability to flee from them.

Branches parted before his passage. Twigs and leaves brushed his face. An owl hooted its displeasure at being disturbed from feeding on a freshly killed mouse. Something closed over his arm in a vice-like grip. He tried to scream, but his vocal chords refused to function properly. Still being held, he sank to his knees, muttering incoherently. Laughing to himself. Crying.

‘All right, you bastard. Ye've got me. Now kill me, and damn ye, ye devil from hell!’

‘So you've slipped up at last, Freddie Law.’ The voice which spoke out of the darkness was harsh, unfriendly, the grip on the poacher's arm tightened, twisting the limb behind his back. A torch was shone in his face, dazzling him so that it was impossible to see his captors. His first sensation was one of relief. At least his attackers were human!

‘Jock Rouse!’ Freddie grunted. ‘Well ye're oot o' luck, mon. I've na gun, na gaff, na nowt.’

‘We'll see about that.’ The burly gamekeeper maintained his hold on his captive. ‘Here, Joe, I've got the old sod.’

Freddie heard footsteps coming towards them, and another man appeared on the scene. Whilst the torch was diverted from him he could see that both men wore waterproof clothing, including leggings and sou'wester hats. Their nocturnal vigil, for once, had not been in vain. They had caught their man at last.

‘Search his bag, Joe.’

The canvas haversack was upturned. Freddie groaned inwardly as he heard the trout thud on to the ground. Up until this moment he had completely forgotten about his only catch of the night.

‘That's all we need.’ Jock Rouse thrust his florid, cruel face close to Freddie's. ‘You can't talk yer way outa this one, Freddie. You can hide yer gaffs and guns, but the fact that you've been poaching is good enough for us. Not that we even needed proof o' that. This is Cranlarich, and we have our own laws. Our own ways o' dealin' with the likes o' you, also!’

‘Look mon,’ Freddie whined, ‘ne'er mind the poachin'. Ye can take me to the sherrif. My foot's hurt, mebbe the ankle's broken.’

‘Why, so it is.’ Jock Rouse guffawed as he shone his torch downwards and saw Freddie's torn, bloody boot and twisted ankle. ‘Stepped in one o' yer own gin traps by mistake, eh!’

Both gamekeepers laughed.

‘Ye gotta listen to me, mon.’ There was a note of pleading in Freddie Law's tone. ‘There's … a … a monster in the big burn.’

For a few seconds there was silence. The two men looked at each other and then at the poacher.

‘Ye don't think,’ Rouse's expression hardened, ‘that we're going to believe that sorta crap, d'you? Mebbe there's somethin in Loch Ness, who knows? There could even be in Loch Merse if you've got an imagination, but in the fuckin' burn! Joe, we gotta try and knock some sense into this crazy old bastard, and knock 'is bleedin' silly notions out of 'im at the same time.’

‘No. Listen to me, please!’

‘Jock,’ it was a vain, half-hearted protest from the under-keeper, ‘the old guy's hurt …’

‘And he's gonna be hurt a lot more before we've finished with 'im!’ Jock Rouse gripped the old man by the lapels of his saturated jacket, and dragged him up to a kneeling position. This is what happens to poachers on the Cranlarich Estate.’

The huge clenched fist descended with full force into Freddie Law's abdomen. There was a sickening thud. The poacher grunted and sagged forward. He gurgled a protest, but there was more to come. A chopping blow caught him on the side of the face, and he would have sprawled in the grass had not his attacker been holding him.

‘Steady on, Jock. We don't want to kill the old bugger.’ The head gamekeeper's assistant had a look of alarm on his face.

‘We won't … quite.’ Rouse laughed, and hit his man yet again.

Freddie Law's strength and powers of resistance were ebbing from him for the second time that night. He had a sensation of floating in space, being dragged towards a yawning black cavern in which red and green lights were flashing. Then he blacked out, and was totally oblivious of the flurry of blows which rained down upon his unconscious body.

It was daylight when Freddie regained consciousness. It was raining heavily, and for some time he just lay there on the edge of the corrie finding the downpour refreshing to his burning, aching body. Gradually the memories of the previous night drifted back to his confused mind.

‘I musta bin crazy,’ he grunted, tried to rise, and fell back again.

His ankle hurt most of all, and looking down at it he saw the torn rubber boot, and a portion of the blood-soaked sock which was exposed through the tear.

‘This is sommat t'do wi' McKechnie,’ he swore as he started out on what he knew would be a long crawl back to his tumbledown cottage in the distant village of Cranlarich. The bastard knows he canna get away wi' settin' mantraps these days so he's found somethin' worse. He put that monster in the burn cause he know'd I would come after the trout. That's it, somehow he's bred a big crab and 'e's usin' it as a watchdog …’

It was after midday before he reached the outskirts of the village. The narrow street of grey stone cottages was deserted as the injured man made his way on all fours along the pavement. Even with his own dwelling in sight he was forced to rest every few yards. His breathing was laborious and his vision was restricted by the fact that his left eye was swollen and closed. Yet he did not miss the slight movement of curtains and screened inquisitive faces that peered from behind. The occupants of Cranlarich were witnessing his tortured progress over every inch, but none came to help him.

Once again he was tottering on the brink of oblivion. He wondered if he would make it, and if he didn't if anybody would come to his assistance. No, he decided, they wouldn't. They would leave him lying there, to die if necessary. It was the way of Cranlarich, a tiny hamlet where everybody hid behind closed doors because they feared Bruce McKechnie and his men, remote from the outside world, cut off by the mountain range of Criffel on the one side, and the treacherous Solway marshes on the other. They were all prisoners, every one of them.

‘Why, Mr Law, what on earth have you been doing?’

Freddie started and tried to turn his head to see who was standing behind him, but could not. Nevertheless, he recognised the voice after a few seconds. It belonged to the Reverend Angus Dalglish, the minister who served these outlying villages.

The clergyman moved forward until he was in front of the other, looking down, his pink rotund face a mask of bewilderment, concern, and reprimand.

‘Doubtless you have been poaching, Mr Law,’ he spoke with reproachful tones. ‘Stealing other men's game. Nevertheless, you appear to be much the worse for wear. Who has done this to you?’

‘Canna ye guess?’

‘Aye,’ the other sighed, already resigned to the answer that would doubtless be forthcoming. ‘I can guess. The laird's gamekeepers.’

‘Thugs, Reverend.’

‘They will have much to answer for when the day of reckoning comes- The Lord will exact His revenge, Mr Law.’

‘Is there nowt we can do about it?’

‘We can pray, Mr Law. Pray that things will get better in this valley.’

Freddie Law somehow refrained from spitting in his contempt. He attempted to struggle up, and gratefully clasped the other's proffered hand.

‘Surely somethin' can be done, Reverend.’

The clergyman was silent for a moment or two. He did not speak again until the two of them were shuffling along in the direction of the poacher's cottage.

‘It is indeed a sad state of affairs.’ He grimaced, and with his free hand pulled the wide brim of his black hat down over his forehead in an attempt to shield his face from the driving rain. ‘This man McKechnie is a disciple of the devil, I am sure. His brother before him was such a kindly man, and he was respected by villagers and crofters alike. And then, his untimely death, that fall over the precipice …’

‘He was pushed, Minister, by …’

‘Do not say it, Mr Law. Let us not judge a man by vicious gossip, even the laird. His brother fell to his death, and within a few weeks, as we all know, this man, who is now laird, returned to his kingdom. He built a “sporting empire” as he calls it. The shepherds had their grazing taken from them to make way for extensive grouse shooting for wealthy clients staying at Clanlarich. Things happened to certain people who opposed the new way of life. Ferguson, for instance, was found drowned in the loch because he persisted in taking his sheep on to the meadows adjoining the bogland. MacPherson, it is said, walked into a bog when he was the worse for drink, although it is known that he quarrelled with the laird in the Royal Stag over peat rights. Yet we must not make accusations, Mr Law.’

‘Because we hasna the guts.’ Law spat this time, and was relieved to see the dilapidated door of his home was only a yard or so away. With one supreme effort he shook himself free of his companion and leaned up against the wall, twisting around so that his eyes met those of the other. ‘I repeat, Reverend, none of us has the guts to stand up to this fiend. Not even with all your fine talk of forgiveness and faith in the Lord. Meself … well, up until last night I carried on much as before …’

‘Aye, poaching, stealing,’ Dalglish countered the accusations, ‘and look where it has got you, man.’

‘I'm no complainin', Reverend. It hurts, aye, but I'll mend in a week or so. But there's somethin' you oughta know, and maybe you can include this in your Sunday prayers, too.’

‘And what is that?’

‘There's … sommat in the big burn.’

‘What on earth do you mean. Something? What? A mantrap set for trout poachers and you stepped into it?’

‘No, Reverend. A … a monster.’

‘How utterly ridiculous! And you expect me to take note of your lies, to believe such wild stories coming from a man who makes his living by stealing other men's game! You've been drinking again, Mr Law, and until such time as you are sober I will have no more to do with you.’

The portly minister, his features red with indignation, turned on his heel and strode away in the opposite direction. Curtains moved again in the windows on both sides of the street. But the doors remained closed.

Freddie Law sighed and shuffled into the gloomy front room of his cottage. In the reality of his drab abode the happenings of the night before seemed far from real. Yet he knew that huge crab existed. It was no figment of his imagination. However, he knew only too well that it was useless to relate his nightmarish experiences to others. He would only invite the ridicule of the inhabitants of Cranlarich.

Chapter 2

Bruce McKechnie, the laird of Cranlarich, drew deeply on his Havana cigar and surveyed the extent of his estate from the shores of Loch Merse. He was a tall, imposing figure, awe-inspiring to those who knew him. His immaculate Norfolk jacket and soft deerstalker hat were cut from the same expensive tweed. His riding breeches were especially tailored in Saville Row, and his leather leggings were highly polished to match the shine on his Argyle boots. Yet his features betrayed the cruelty of the man; the thin, almost bloodless lips, the slim, pencil moustache, the hooked nose like the beak of a bird of prey, and, above all, the close-set pale-blue eyes with their almost total absence of lashes. His age was indeterminable, his fair, almost white hair camouflaging any flecks of grey which might otherwise have been visible. Even those guests staying at Cranlarich, business executives from home and abroad, were aware of his overpowering personality, and felt uncomfortable on those days when he chose to shoot or fish with them.

Jock Rouse had an air of humility about him as he beached the small rowing boat and turned to his waiting employer.

‘Well?’ McKechnie grunted, not troubling to remove the cigar from his lips as he spoke.

‘The loch's full, sir. Crammed full with every species of fish you care to mention. The trout have come in in shoals.’

‘Perfect.’ The laird did not permit himself a smile in spite of his obvious satisfaction. ‘And early, too. I reckon we're going to be able to offer the best fishing in the United Kingdom next season.’

‘But why!’ the gamekeeper spread his hands in puzzlement. ‘We've always had good fishing, but never anything like this.’

‘Undoubtedly the rumours concerning an underwater nuclear test carried out by the Russians in the Arctic Circle last summer were true,’ McKechnie replied. ‘There are reports of all-time record cod catches, too. The cod war is forgotten simply because there is suddenly enough for everybody. Record weights, too, almost as though some form of mutation has taken place. Underwater life is fleeing, moving south, taking refuge where it can find sanctuary. And where could be better than the peace and quiet of Loch Merse, eh, Rouse?’

‘It certainly seems a possibility, sir,’ the other agreed, ‘but, well …’

‘What's worrying you, man?’

‘There's … there's some crabs amongst the rocks on the east shore, sir, and, well … they're not like ordinary crabs, if you know what I mean.’

‘No, I don't know what you mean, Rouse,’ McKechnie snapped. ‘Have they got five legs, sprouted wings, or something equally peculiar?’

‘No, sir.’ The gamekeeper shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Nothing like that, sir. It's just that they're big. Too big. Horrible. Even in the light of what you say it's unbelievable. God, there's something wrong.’

Bruce McKechnie studied the other carefully for some moments without speaking. Rouse's normally ruddy complexion was pallid, and his large coarse hands shook visibly.

‘You'd better take me to look at them.’ The laird spoke calmly, taking his cigar from his mouth and carefully flicking off an inch of ash. ‘We'll go by boat. It's a long walk round.’

Jock Rouse nodded, and turning away he began to drag the boat down to the water's edge again. His every movement was slow, reluctant. Suddenly he was remembering an incident of a few nights ago, the beating up of Freddie Law, the poacher, and that man's reference to a monster. Having seen the huge crabs that afternoon he no longer ridiculed the story. Doubtless, Law had seen something.

‘You remember I told you how we caught that fellow Law, sir.’ he said as they pushed off into deeper water.

‘Oh, yes.’ McKechnie replied as though matters of poaching were no longer of importance. ‘What about him?’

‘Well, he was babbling about a monster in the burn. We didn't take much notice, but maybe … maybe there was something in it.’

‘Unlikely.’ The laird peered down at a large trout which darted away in front of the bows. ‘You know as well as I do, Rouse, how these locals embellish rumours. There's a new round of gossip started in the Royal Stag about my brother.’

‘Gossip?’ This time Rouse dropped the ‘sir’ and there was a note of defiance in his voice. ‘You know as well as I do what happened.’

‘You murdered him, Rouse. Pushed him over the cliff. As you dealt with one or two others who got in my way.’

‘Acting on your instructions … sir.’

‘That'll do, Rouse. I could get you life if I wanted, so don't get any ideas. Your instructions were verbal. No witnesses. It would be extremely difficult to prove.’

‘I'm just making a point.’

‘Then don't. And don't go asking me for any more money because you won't get it. Do I make myself clear?’

The gamekeeper nodded, and they lapsed into silence, the only noise being the swish of the oars through the dark, deep water. Each was busy with his own thoughts. Jock Rouse remembered James McKechnie, handsome and kindly. He recalled that fateful deerstalking trip, when he had persuaded the former laird to stop out late in the hope of a shot at a stag on the topmost mountain peaks. A low cloud had obscured the scene of the murder, the muffled scream. Another similar night MacPherson's pleading had gone unheeded as the sucking bog had claimed him. And Ferguson had had his head held in the loch until he had drowned, and the body had been taken out to the centre and dumped. It had been nearly a week before it had drifted ashore.

Bruce McKechnie, on the other hand, was thinking about a young girl, the daughter of the landlord of the Royal Stag just outside Cranlarich. She had her uses apart from her petite young body. She was the laird's ‘ears’ in the village. He wondered how much longer he would be able to suppress these simple people. They either loved or hated a laird in such remote places as this. He had to have respect. They had to know their place just as their forefathers had in the times of the feudal system. Maybe it was a mistake to ban grazing on the moors, but if the grouse were disturbed then his wealthy clients would not come here year after year. There did not seem to be any middle course. And now suddenly all this was happening, shoals of fish, giant crabs …

His thoughts were interrupted by the scraping of the bottom of the boat on rock. They had reached the east shore. He glanced up. There, nestling at the foot of Criffel, a mile and a half away, was the big white house. His house, overlooking his land. All his. And Christine thought that she was going to have a half share in it. No way. She was his whore, and nothing else.

‘Well, where are these crabs, Rouse?’ he barked.

‘Can't see any at the moment, sir.’ The gamekeeper was shading his eyes from the afternoon sun, peering up and down the rocky shore.

‘Sure you didn't imagine 'em?’ he snapped with a hint of sarcasm.

‘I never imagine things, sir.’

‘Then let's go ashore and take a look.’

McKechnie stepped on to the beach, and stood back whilst Jock Rouse heaved the boat up out of the water. Some seagulls screeched at them overhead, and somewhere a curlew was warbling its solitary melody. But there were no crabs in sight.

‘They're usually to be found amongst the rocks at the water's edge,’ Rouse stated, as though trying to convince himself as well as his employer. The gamekeeper wasn't sure whether he wanted to see any crabs or not. Suddenly he found himself wishing that he had not mentioned them at all. Fear and revulsion were creeping over him. He remembered again Freddie Law's words. Oh, God, the fellow could have been telling the truth …

Bruce McKechnie was striding away, keeping to the edge of the loch, his keen eyes scanning the uneven ground at his feet. He was puzzled. Strange things were happening here, certainly. And Jock Rouse was not the type to let his imagination run away with him. Above all, there was a shooting party arriving the following week. Right now the laird did not want publicity of this sort. He had to satisfy himself one way or the other. Either there were huge crabs in Loch Merse or there were not. He would find out for himself.

Rouse stumbled in the wake of McKechnie. The latter was fit and agile. It was all he could do to keep up with him. He cursed under his breath. And then he saw the crab.

It had been lying motionless among some large boulders. The laird had not spotted it, for its colouring blended perfectly with its surroundings. But now it was rearing up, a couple of yards in front of Jock Rouse. Its pincers waved menacingly, the tiny hate-filled eyes regarded him steadily, a look of cunning, almost of superiority showed on its hideous face. It knew that it barred his path. It recognised fear.

Rouse stopped, staring. His mouth opened, but the warning shout was a mere gulp, his eyes bulging in horror and disbelief. The creature was larger than a sheepdog, almost twice the size of those which he had seen previously. They had scuttled away at his approach. This one, quite obviously, had no intention of retreating. Even as he stood watching it moved, a sinister shambling gait that brought it nearer him.

Rouse suddenly let out a piercing scream, releasing him from the paralysis of sheer terror in which those malevolent red eyes had held him. In panic he turned and tried to scramble up the slippery rock face. But his feet could not grip; slowly he began sliding back down, ever closer to the nightmarish form that was rapidly approaching, its huge claws waving in the air, its powerful jaws opening and closing in anticipation …

Click-Click-clickety-click.

‘Christ Alive!’ Bruce McKechnie turned as he heard the scream, and froze into immobility as he witnessed the scene some fifteen yards from where he stood. For one of the few occasions in his life he was frightened. He had hunted big game in Kenya, taken part in a seal cull, slaughtered kangaroos in Australia. His whole life had been devoted to the chase, but suddenly he felt that this time Man was the prey.

The huge crab was astride the hapless gamekeeper, its bulk covering the upper part of his body. The laird could only guess what was happening. Another scream died away abruptly. A booted foot that had been kicking wildly in the air suddenly dropped lifeless to the ground. There was a crunching sound like he had once heard on a visit to an abattoir, that of bones being severed and crushed, splintering. It was calculated, sadistic slaughter.

Click-click.

McKechnie whirled. The sound came from his rear, and it was close. Rouse was forgotten. The laird recoiled, but he did not panic. He let out his breath in a low, scarcely audible whistle as he saw them. Three, four, and another emerging from the water. Five giant crabs, not as large as the one which had already made its kill, but big enough to send the sanest and bravest of men into the realms of madness. Some would have fled, panic-stricken; others would have been incapable of movement, standing there as their minds snapped, meekly awaiting the end. But not the laird of Cranlarich.

He glanced back at the monstrous killer crab. Its face was towards him, but the features were indiscernible, a morass of human intestines trailing from its mouth as it slurped greedily, its whole form covered with scarlet blood from the severed jugular vein of its victim.

McKechnie felt the bile rising in his throat, knew that he wanted to vomit, but such a time-wasting function would inevitably seal a similar fate for himself. His brain had momentarily stalled but now it responded to ice-cold logic.

‘You bastards,’ he spoke aloud, seeking to boost his own courage with curses, ‘you dirty, oversized bastards!’

They halted their advance almost as though they understood his words, five monstrous crustaceans confident of securing their prey, preparing to pull down this puny man and devour his remains, perhaps fighting amongst themselves over morsels of flesh and blood. McKechnie seized upon their delay to move in for the kill. The loch prevented his escape on the south side. The big crab was behind him. The other five almost had him surrounded. But not quite. There was a gap of three or four yards before the circle of death was complete. And he leaped for that one exit which held the possibility of survival.

McKechnie would not have believed that such cumbersome-looking creatures were capable of moving speedily. Even as he breached the gap they were starting to close it. A pincer brushed against the pouch of his riding breeches, another touched his arm. He heard them hissing, first in anticipation, then with frustration at being deprived of their victim. They were certain they had him. Now, as he burst through, they knew they had lost him.

As he bounded over rocks and shingle, two of the crabs took up the pursuit. McKechnie heard them coming, but he did not look back. One slip would have meant certain death. But his agility was second only to that of the majestic stag which showed itself on the peak behind the big house each evening. He ran, sure-footed, leaping and negotiating every obstacle, until finally he reached level meadowland. Only now did he pull up, breathing heavily, and look back.

Only two of the crabs were visible, those which had pursued him, and they were scuttling back in the direction of Loch Merse. Of the others there was no sign. Not even the big one.

‘Jesus.’ McKechnie wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Where the devil did this lot come from?’

It was almost unbelievable. The two retreating crustaceans had altered direction, and now they had stopped. A splintering smashing sound carried to the watching man's ears. The boat. They had seen it, recognised it as some kind of human threat to their watery domain, and with a series of blows from their powerful pincers they had smashed it. Within seconds it was unrecognisable, a heap of driftwood for trespassing locals to take home to kindle their fires.

McKechnie saw the last of the crabs enter the water, walking out until it closed over them. And then they were gone.

He seated himself down on a boulder, and taking a long cigar from a leather case in his breast pocket, he placed it between his lips. He struck a match with fingers that scarcely trembled, and inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs. The crisis was past. That initial moment of fear was gone. Once again he was the laird, the local ruler of these moors and mountains. Creatures from the deep threatened his kingdom, but they would not conquer it. He was determined. They must be destroyed. By him. But right now he needed time to think.

The sun had already set behind Criffel by the time he stood up. He knew now what he had to do. He, Bruce McKechnie, was probably the only living soul who was aware of the existence of these outsized brutes in Loch Merse. Possibly the poacher, Freddie Law, had seen them, but nobody was likely to take much notice of a drunken old man. He could always be dealt with if the need arose. Jock Rouse was dead. The laird had no intention of going back to see what remained of his gamekeeper, but it was logical to conclude that if the crabs had not already eaten their victim then they would return after dark to consume whatever remained. Rouse had disappeared completely. His absence could be explained to those who might ask questions. The villagers would not bemoan his departure from Cranlarich. He had no living kin. A gamekeeper's job, anyway, was insecure. They came and went. Jock had gone elsewhere to a better post. McKechnie smiled at the thought. The man's death benefited him. There was nobody to tell of the fate of James McKechnie now. No threat of blackmail over his own head. For the moment the huge crabs had done him a favour.

Yet he had to keep these creatures out of sight of other people. He knew only too well what would happen. Loch Ness was a classic example. There would be scientists arriving with bathyspheres and other equipment to search the bottom of the loch. Sightseers would come in their thousands, camping all over Cranlarich. The sporting empire which he had built up would be destroyed overnight. The shooting and fishing would be ruined. It must not happen. It would not, if Bruce McKechnie had his way.

He started out on the long walk back. Even so, his route to the big house was not direct. Darkness was falling when he reached the small semi-derelict cottage nestling in the spinney. This was the head gamekeeper's residence, where Rouse lived. An old Austin A35 van stood on the grassy track outside the front door. The laird smiled to himself. There would be no problems.

The door was unlocked and he went inside and lit the oil lamp on the table. The place smelled of unwashed clothing and stale cooking. Methodically he began to carry out various items to the van; clothing, a few old photographs, some books on natural history. Fortunately, Rouse owned few personal possessions and the task was completed in less than an hour. McKechnie went back inside, checked to see that he had not overlooked anything, blew out the lamp, and returned to the van. The battery was old, and he cursed as the starter-motor turned over too slowly, but finally the engine fired. He was sweating as he reversed out on to the narrow forestry track and headed uphill.

The slate road was steep and winding, and in places he had to change down to bottom gear. He did not use the headlights. They might have been seen from the village below. He knew the terrain well enough, and by driving slowly he eventually arrived at his destination, a small plateau directly above the marshes. He heaved a sigh of relief, clambered out, and walked to the front of the vehicle.

The ground ahead sloped gently downwards for about thirty yards, and then terminated in a steep drop of some fifty feet. It was too dark to see clearly, but the laird was well aware of what lay at the bottom of the precipice - the Cranlarich bog!

He returned to the van, opened the nearside door, and reached inside. His groping fingers located the handbrake lever, and released it. The van moved forward a foot or so, hesitated, and then began to roll down the slope, gathering speed.

McKechnie heard the scraping of the underside of the A35 on the rocks, followed by a deathly hush. A few seconds later a dull splash reached his ears. The bog gurgled hungrily, devouring its victim voraciously, its appetite such that it swallowed living beings or inanimate objects with equal eagerness.

At last the silence rolled softly back, and with a loud sigh the laird began to retrace his steps. It had been a satisfactory night's work.

The large study had changed little in appearance throughout a succession of Cranlarich lairds. Several pairs of antlers adorned the walls together with an array of antique firearms, flintlock and percussion deer rifles, and horse pistols. The wide bow window behind the Elizabethan mahogany desk commanded a panoramic view which incorporated the lower reaches of Loch Merse, the bog, and Criffel, although now a mist obscured the peaks of the latter. It had the promise of a typical autumn day, however, for already weak rays of sunlight were penetrating the swirling grey vapour and reflecting on the water.

Bruce McKechnie looked up from his seat at the desk, slowly and methodically folded the previous day's edition of the Financial Times, and regarded the small dark-haired man clad in plus fours who stood before him.

‘Oh, yes, Joe,’ the laird smiled faintly, ‘I just thought I'd let you know that you have gained promotion.’

‘Promotion, sir?’ The other's mouth fell open in obvious surprise.

‘Yes, Joe,’ McKechnie said, lighting his first cigar of the day. ‘You've been promoted. From this moment onwards you are headkeeper to the Cranlarich Estate.’

‘But … but …’ Joe Kinlet stared in disbelief, ‘but … what about … what about Jock?’

‘Jock Rouse has left,’ McKechnie spoke slowly, watching closely for every reaction which the young man might show. ‘That's the way it is in the keepering profession. Let's face it, he wasn't the best headkeeper we've ever had here. Last season's head of game shot speaks for itself. And the early grouse shoots were abysmal. Much of it was due to bad organisation. The muir burning was only done scantily, and there are a hundred other things I could mention. Suffice to say that last night Jock and I had words. I told him Cranlarich would benefit by his absence so he packed his van and went. Now it's up to you, Joe.’

‘Yes, sir!’ There was obvious delight in Kinlet's reply. ‘I'll do my very best, sir.’

‘Good. There's a party due in on Monday. Two of the guns, Ryland and Barrett, are regulars each season. They know what to expect, the high standard of sport which we maintain here. I don't want them disappointed. And, er … one other thing. Confine the duck shooting to the flight ponds on the moor. I think we'll have to regard the loch as a kind of sanctuary if we're going to keep duck coming into the estate throughout the season.’

‘But … but …’ Joe Kinlet stammered. ‘We've always shot duck on Loch Merse. It's big enough to act as a sanctuary as well. And there's the geese, sir. They always start moving down from Perthshire about this time of year. Many of the regular guns look forward to shooting geese on the loch as much as they enjoy the grouse on the moors.’

‘That's an order, Joe.’ Bruce McKechnie regarded his new head keeper with a steely glint, an expression which those who had worked on Cranlarich knew only too well. ‘I don't want anybody messing about near the loch until further notice.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Joe Kinlet nodded, and shuffled towards the door. ‘I'll see to it, sir.’

Bruce McKechnie rose and strolled towards the window. The sun had now broken through the mist, and the waters of Loch Merse presented a breathtaking spectacle. His lips compressed into a narrow line, and he shuddered. After some minutes he turned away and crushed the remains of his cigar into a large cut-glass ashtray.

‘Damn the crabs!’ He thumped on the desk with his fist. Of all the rotten luck. They have to choose my loch. My God, how much longer can I hide 'em?’

Chapter 3

Christine Blacklaw reclined on her bed in her attic quarters of the Royal Stag. Her pose was an adopted one, one that she had rehearsed countless times, using an old glamour magazine as a guide. She gazed at herself in the dusty full-length wardrobe mirror, and adjusted her negligee by about half an inch. She smiled her satisfaction. That looked perfect, she decided. It had to be. She was showing just enough naked flesh to excite her lover the moment he walked through the door. Just enough leg and just enough breast. He would help himself to the rest as his lust escalated.

Her long dark hair fell almost to her waist. Her dark eyes were set just a shade too close together, a reflection of her cunning, her constant scheming. Without Bruce McKechnie there would be nothing for her in Cranlarich. She would have to move on, perhaps to Glasgow, or even up to Aberdeen where there was a good living to be made amongst the oil riggers. Her parents, too, would have to go, for the income from the Royal Stag would not provide them with a living without the ‘subsidies’ derived from her being McKechnie's mistress.

The thought of marriage crossed her mind. It was not totally out of the question. She wasn't in love with the laird, but he had his attractions. She could live with any man twice her age if he owned several thousand acres of land, a small village, and had a million pounds invested on the stock market. Any man. She did not try to convince herself that he loved her. Her body, certainly. Even if he tired of her after a few years he would still have to make it worth her while to give him a divorce. She could have her freedom and her riches then.

Her reverie was broken by the sound of footsteps on the creaking stairway. She stiffened, and her pulses quickened. She really had the urge tonight, and for once her lover need not necessarily have been a multimillionaire.

The door opened. Bruce McKechnie stood framed in the light from the stairway still wearing his Norfolk jacket and riding breeches. His eyes alighted on the girl lying on the bed, but his expression remained impassive.

‘You're late,’ Christine murmured, her eyes closed, unwilling to meet his gaze. ‘I thought you weren't coming tonight.’

‘I had business to attend to.’ His reply was curt as he stepped into the small room, closing the door behind him.

He took off his jacket, draped it over a nearby chair, and seated himself on the bed. Her hand found his and squeezed it lightly.

‘I was starting to get worried.’ She hoped that her concern sounded genuine. ‘People are talking.’

‘These damned crofters are always gossiping. What is it about this time?’

‘About you … me … us … the loch.’

‘What are they saying about the loch?’ he snapped, his eyes narrowing, his body stiffening.

Her eyes flickered open, surprise and indignation causing them to widen. ‘So you're more concerned about what people say about the loch than what they say about us?’

‘I'm sorry.’ He smiled faintly. ‘It was just … well, why should they gossip about Loch Merse?’

‘Superstition, I suppose.’ She was watching him intently now. ‘Freddie Law was in the bar earlier. Your keepers have certainly roughed him up, haven't they?’

‘There was a bit of trouble the other night. He was poaching. These fellows have got to learn what to expect, otherwise the whole of Cranlarich would be living off the estate.’

‘He reckons that there was … well, something in the big burn, a kind of giant crab.’

The laird gave a laugh. He hoped that it sounded like genuine ridicule, and that his consternation did not show. ‘How totally ridiculous. A giant crab! I suppose it won't be long now before the Loch Ness monster is reported to have changed its habitat and come to live in Loch Merse. Nevertheless, we don't want rumours flying about otherwise we'll have Joe Public and his wife invading Cranlarich.’

‘Oh, I don't think anybody took him seriously.’ She smiled and guided his hand beneath the lower folds of her flimsy garment, moaning softly when his fingers rested where she wanted them. ‘They're talking about us, though. I'm just your whore, aren't I, Bruce? That's what they're saying.’

‘It's jealousy.’

‘It's true, though.’

‘No it isn't.’ His lips went down to hers, meeting in a lingering kiss, tongues touching, entwining. ‘Don't take any notice of them.’

There were a lot of things she wanted to sort out, but this was not the time. Her desires were increasing and satisfaction in that respect was paramount. Her slim fingers began unfastening his shirt buttons, helping him off with the rest of his clothes, kissing and fondling him until finally they both lay naked.

Yet something was disturbing her lover. She could tell even as he entered her, although he gave no outward sign. He kissed passionately and thrusted eagerly, but things were not as they usually were. Something was definitely worrying him.

Finally, they climaxed together, clutching at each other, convulsing, rolling on the bed, then lying still, nestled together, kissing more tenderly. It was half an hour before he began to extricate himself from her embrace.

‘What's the matter?’ There was concern and disappointment in her voice. ‘Now that you've been satisfied, it's time to leave your whore, is it?’

‘There's things I must do.’ He avoided her searching gaze and reached for his clothes.

‘Things more important than me?’

‘You don't understand.’

‘You're right there. You never give me the chance. Like I've already said, I'm just your prostitute. You never confide in me.’

‘You'd be in a sorry way without me.’ His eyes blazed with anger.

‘I'd manage.’ Her own temper was rising. ‘It's something to do with Loch Merse, isn't it? Something's going on, and you're frightened of it leaking out. What is it, smuggling in cannabis by submarine from the Solway via this mythical subterranean tunnel?’

‘Don't be bloody stupid, girl!’

‘Well, something's going on. I can tell. You can't hide it from me, Bruce.’

‘I don't know.’ He sighed, and made a deliberate effort to control his mounting anger. ‘I'm sorry. I'm on edge. I don't like rumours going round that might bring crowds of sightseers from the cities just when the sporting season is getting into full swing. Jock Rouse left the other night. That means additional work for Joe Kinlet and he hasn't got the experience.’

‘I see.’ She wasn't totally convinced. ‘Well, I'll keep my ears open. You'll come and see me tomorrow night won't you, Bruce?’

‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘I'll come. I promise.’

The sun mustered its full late autumnal warmth, and the row of beaters sweated profusely. In the midst of the line across the sloping moorland Joe Kinlet shouted frequently for them to keep level. Some slowed, others quickened their pace, but their enthusiasm was waning after the first hour. The big coveys of grouse had split up since the early shoots, and the birds were wild. Spasmodic shooting from the butts ahead reached the ears of the men as they struggled across a marshy area.

Phil Ryland opened the breech of his smoking gun, ejected the spent cases, and reloaded. Two birds downed, one in front and one behind, a good right and left in any class of shooting.

‘Nice shooting, Phil,’ the tall lanky young man in the next butt, fifty yards to his left, shouted.

Ryland nodded, a smile on his handsome tanned face. ‘But not enough of 'em, eh Paul?’

Bruce McKechnie in the stand beyond Paul Barrett scowled. It was true what these two said. There weren't enough grouse, certainly not enough to warrant a £100 per day charge for shooting on this moor. It was just one of those inexplicable things. Some days the coveys were to be found, on others they were absent from the big moor. But it was no good trying to explain that to the guns. They paid their money and they expected some sport in return.

The drive finished, and the guns and beaters made their way to the two waiting Land Rovers for the luncheon break. The laird looked across towards Ryland and Barrett. Hell, he needed to provide some good sport for these two. In a way they were a part of his business, directors of a large shooting supplies company in North London. They could either recommend the Cranlarich Estate to their customers or they could advise them to go elsewhere.

Beaters and guns ate their sandwiches in separate groups. McKechnie poured himself a double whiskey from his flask and strolled across to the shooters, smiling with a confidence which he was hoping to pass on to the others.

‘A few birds to warm up on,’ he murmured. ‘No doubt we'll find the main coveys higher up this afternoon. Strange, but lately they seem to prefer higher ground.’

‘Maybe,’ Paul Barrett replied. ‘But I've shot in these parts long enough to know that when grouse are scarce, they're scarce, up hills and down dales. And from what I've seen of this heather of yours, McKechnie, it's no wonder. There's been little or no burning here in the spring. The growth is old. The birds have gone elsewhere, where some muir burning has been done and there's plenty of tender young shoots to feed on. I reckon Jock Rouse has been skipping his chores this year. Where is he, by the way?’

‘I fired him,’ Bruce McKechnie scowled, ‘and I think the reasons are quite obvious by what you've just said.’

‘We'll make up on duck and geese,’ Ryland grinned. ‘That's what we've really come for this time. Many birds flighting into the loch at present?’

McKechnie hesitated, biting his lower lip before replying.

‘We're not shooting on the loch at present,’ he said. ‘We're using it as a sanctuary to conserve our stock of wildfowl.’

‘Not shooting on the loch!’ Barrett stood up, his good humour disappearing and being replaced by indignation. ‘Of course we're shooting on the loch. We always do.’

‘Well, we don't now.’ The laird's cheeks were flushed. There are ample flight ponds, enough to shoot a flight every night of the week.’

‘But we don't get geese on the pools,’ Ryland snapped. ‘And if you can't provide grouse, McKechnie, then you've got to give us geese. We're shooting on the shores of Loch Merse, whether you like it or not. It's advertised in your brochure, “good goose and duck shooting on the shores of Loch Merse”, so you can't get out of that one. Not this season, anyway, Paul, and I will be down there tonight, depend on it.’

Bruce McKechnie lapsed into silence. He glanced at the other three men who made up the shooting party for the week. A retired colonel, a barrister, and an elderly gentleman of private means. They showed no inclination towards wildfowling after a full day's grouse shooting. It was the former two who would make trouble. Ryland and Barrett. He cursed them under his breath.

‘If you wanted good grouse shooting you should have come up in August,’ he snapped.

‘We came now because we wanted to shoot geese as well.’ Ryland was already picking up his gun and cartridges, a gesture indicating that he wanted to get on with the afternoon's sport rather than delay the midday break any longer. ‘And shoot geese we will.’

On that note guns and beaters moved off, the latter conversing in low tones amongst themselves. It was verified what people were saying in the village of Cranlarich. There was something strange going on around Loch Merse.

There was barely an hour before the deepening shadows would merge into dusk and then drift slowly into nightfall. The sun had already dipped behind Criffel, and the first wisps of an autumn mist were creeping over the Cranlarich bog. Curlew warbled in the distance on the Solway marshes, and mallard and teal were flighting in from the shore to their favourite inland feeding grounds.

Phil Ryland and Paul Barrett arrived on the edge of Loch Merse clad in thick sweaters and waterproof clothing, each carrying an expensive London-made gun. Toby, the Cocker spaniel they shared, panted excitedly at their heels. The dog knew what was expected, he anticipated the whistle of wings in the semi-darkness, the crashing reports of the shotguns, and then it was up to him. He relished the long swim out in the icy water, the search amidst the reeds for a winged duck, and then the slow triumphant paddle back to dry land. The sport of the chase was bred into his species. Had there been a thin layer of ice on the loch he would willingly have smashed through it, forging on in his quest to please his masters.

‘Don't give much for our chances tonight,’ Ryland muttered. ‘Too still. Not a breath of wind. The birds will be too high.’

‘Always the pessimist, Phil,’ his partner grinned and slid a couple of heavy crimson-cased cartridges into the breech of his gun. Toby most certainly doesn't agree with you. Now, where are we going to stand? Do we split up or stay together?’

‘Thirty yards apart in this reed bed should do,’ Phil Ryland replied, loading his own gun. ‘I'll put a leash on Toby otherwise he'll spend the whole time running between us to make sure we're both here.’

‘Fine.’ The other was already moving off to take up his position. ‘Best of luck, Paul.’

‘And you.’

Five minutes later the two men were hidden from sight, standing up to the tops of their waders in the marshy surround of Loch Merse, the dog whimpering softly to itself in its excitement as it squatted on a hummock of solid reeds.

Twilight came and lingered, daylight reluctant to surrender to darkness, the mist thickening steadily and advancing over the bog towards the loch. Duck were on the move in earnest now, widgeon hurtling in from the direction of Criffel, circling, checking, then diving down to land in the centre of Loch Merse. It was as Phil Ryland had forecast. The birds were too high, out of gunshot range when they passed over the waiting men, losing height only when their nocturnal destination was directly beneath them.

Suddenly both men stiffened. Far away they heard a sound, a wild musical honking, gaggling, silence, then honking again. There was no mistaking the call of wild geese, the orchestra of wild inaccessible places, the cry of the Greylag as it completed the last stage of its migratory flight from Iceland. The long journey had been undertaken in stages, first the Hebrides, then on to the extensive lochs of Perthshire, and now the Solway. Or maybe an overnight stop on Loch Merse.

‘By God, d'you hear 'em, Phil?’ Barrett called out in his excitement

‘I'll say.’ The reply was in undertones, almost as though Ryland feared that the skein would hear him and change direction. ‘Just hope and pray that they'll come into the loch.’

Silence returned. Then the gaggling resumed anew, louder now, closer, a thrilling sound to those who heard it. Shapes materialised out of the darkening sky, silhouettes, with wings beating majestically, long necks outstretched, starting to lose height.

‘They're coming for the loch,’ Ryland whispered hoarsely, instinctively pushing forward the safety catch on his gun. ‘And straight over us. In range!’

The ‘V’ formation of eleven Graylag geese seemed to hover momentarily over the waiting gunners, the swishing of the mighty wings an accompaniment to the honking. Then, harshly destroying the wild chorus, came the simultaneous crashing of shotgun fire. To those who watched from below the scene appeared to be one of slow motion. The leading gander halted abruptly, head dropping forward, wings closing, falling … falling, drifting, falling again. The remaining ten wild geese slowed, wings beating, altered direction and climbed, seeking safety in altitude. Two more shots rang out, the flashes from the guns briefly illuminating the scene, one bird falling, the rest retreating. But no more geese fell.

Toby heard the splash and his large floppy ears cocked up. He whirled round, almost fell, remembered that he was still tethered, and gave a sharp bark of frustration.

‘Go get 'im, boy.’ Strong fingers undid the slip knot of the check cord and with one bound the spaniel jumped into the reeds. He splashed, submerged, came up for air, and struck out, half-wading, half-swimming.

Then he was gone, grunting softly to himself as he slid into the deep cold water of Loch Merse.

‘Sod that.’ Barrett appeared at Ryland's side, twin trickles of smoke filtering from the barrels of his gun. ‘We fucked that up properly, Phil. Should've had three of 'em. Maybe four.’

‘We both fired at the lead bird,’ Ryland replied. They were higher than we thought in the half-light, and by the time we got our second barrels off the rest were out of range.’

‘Still we got one.’

‘Providing Toby finds 'im.’

‘Bloody pessimist you are, mate. That bird was as dead as a stone. Fell like one, too. I heard him hit the water. Shouldn't be any trouble for old Toby.’

They fell silent, listening. They could hear the dog swimming, then treading water. He snorted, a sound of triumph.

‘He's got the goose. Good boy, bring 'im in.’

The two men peered into the darkness, but could see nothing. By this time the daylight had almost gone, and the rising mist was thickening, drifting like a grey opaque curtain around them.

Suddenly, there was a loud splash from somewhere out on the loch in front of them. Toby's jubilant snorting was cut short, to be replaced by a sharp yelp, a canine cry of pain and fear. The water gurgled, and then everything went still.

‘What the bloody hell's going on?’ Phil Ryland took a step forward, forgetting for the moment where he was, and the water came over the top of his thigh-length waders, saturating his lower clothing. ‘Oh, fuck it!’

‘Steady on.’ Barrett caught at his companion's coat and just succeeded in preventing himself from falling headlong. ‘Something's happened to Toby. There isn't a sound. Hey, Toby! Toby!’

They stood there with a sense of foreboding and helplessness creeping over them. The dog was a first class swimmer. He had won two certificates in water tests. And now, engaged upon a simple retrieve, he had disappeared without trace.

‘What the hell's happened to him?’

‘How the fuck should I know?’

‘Well, shine the fucking torch on the water.’

The torch beam was thrown back at them by the wall of fog which was now barely ten yards in front of them. Cold clammy fingers seemed to clutch at them.

‘Wait … I can hear something.’ Barrett held up his hand.

They listened. Something moved a little way to their right. There were faint splashes, rushes rustling. But there was no grunting and panting such as the gundog usually made on his return with a retrieve.

‘Come on, Toby. Here boy.’ Barrett scarcely recognised his own voice. His throat was dry, and there was an unpleasant tightening of his stomach muscles. He knew something was dreadfully wrong, but he wasn't going to admit it, not even to himself. ‘Come on, Toby, lad. Hurry up and bring that goose.’

Splash. So close that it made them start and whirl round, almost overbalancing again. The reed bed was moving. A shape, unrecognisable. Two eyes. Not Toby's brown orbs reflecting the torchlight. Red ones. Tiny eyes that glowed and shone like uncut diamonds. Coming closer.

Click-Click-Clickety-Click.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Ryland yelped and turned to flee in the face of the unknown terror.

Barrett had not seen the creature. His friend had blocked his vision, and now they collided, grabbed desperately at each other, lost their footing on the muddy surface, slipped, and submerged.

Ryland was the first to come up, coughing and spluttering, but his only thought was flight. He pushed at the clutching Barrett, and felt the other going under again. It didn't matter. When you came up against something like this, whatever it was, then it was every man for himself.

He took two steps and stopped, almost paralysed with fear. The light from the torch in his hand revealed a scene which could not be true. It could not possibly exist on this earth. No way. His terror mounted, reached its summit, and then he began to laugh. Quietly at first, chuckling, then loud peals, head back, tears trickling down his mud-spattered countenance.

‘You fucking stupid idiot.’ Barrett dragged himself to his feet. ‘If you think it's bleedin' funny to push me under … Oh, Jesus God!’

A couple of seconds of silence followed, and then Barrett was laughing, too.

‘Aint they just beautiful. Nice little crabby dogs. Come to work for us. Hey, where are we?’

‘This must be hell, old son. And it ain't hot like they used to tell us. Bloody cold, in fact.’

They were bent double, laughing, crying. There was no fear in them now.

The giant crabs moved in slowly, knowing that their prey could not escape them. The largest, some five foot in height, had fresh blood on its evil face. Fur adhered to one of its pincers. It had tasted human flesh before, and the craving for more was strong. A dog was no substitute.

Barrett felt the pincers close around his legs, just below the knees. The pain was excruciating, and even in his newly-discovered euphoria he yelled aloud. The double amputation was swift. So swift, that he merely sank another eighteen inches into the swamp, the bloody stumps embedding themselves into the thick mud. Somehow he remained upright. His hand was being held. Someone gripped his wrist. He knew he was safe, that he wouldn't fall. But where was Phil? There was no sign of him.

Phil Ryland was underwater, the fallen torch still alight, illuminating the macabre scene. A face stared into his. Piercing eyes that numbed his brain, conveying their message of death. There was to be no mercy. An audience, horrific staring faces, surrounded him. Muffled clicking. The victim at the guillotine, the blade already severing his neck, could not shut out the sound of the knitting needles. A symphony of death.

Ryland died, but Barrett still lived. His pain barrier was broken. Legless, armless, a human trunk, he bobbed in the water, his life's blood gushing from him, turning the reed bed in stages from muddy brown to crimson. Pincers slashed. The creatures were playing with him as a cat would torture a mouse. Each strike was on target. Gutted like a freshly killed rabbit, he floated on his face, still alive, mutely offering his head to the executioner. The big crab accepted his offer, and the night's sport was over. The hunters had caught and killed. Now it was time for feasting, a royal banquet to celebrate the human carnage.

Far out on Loch Merse a dead Greylag goose floated, belly uppermost. It, too, had died as the result of this night's sport. Yet its end differed from that of the two human hunters. It had been killed swiftly and painlessly, and had been spared the horrors that lurked beneath the dark waters.

Chapter 4

There were two empty places at the table in the Cranlarich Hotel dining room. The other three guests ate sparingly, glancing at the vacant chairs from time to time, then at each other, mutely asking questions that none could answer. Where were the two young men, Ryland and Barrett? They all knew that the headstrong pair had gone fowling on the shores of Loch Merse against the laird's wishes. The incident created an uncomfortable atmosphere that still persisted.

Almost apologetically the three looked to the head of the table where Bruce McKechnie sipped his wine, deep in thought, his plate of roast pheasant almost untouched. Canvers, the waiter, kept his distance, standing almost motionless at the rear of the large room with tapestries of fifteenth-century hunting scenes adorning the walls. They looked strangely macabre and realistic in the shadows cast by the two cut-glass candelabras. Nobody spoke, but somebody would have to soon, Colonel Sanders reflected, wiping his short-clipped white moustache delicately with his napkin. Damned young fools, upsetting a shooting holiday like this. What the devil were they doing out there, two hours after darkness? There was always the possibility that they had stayed to try for a duck under the moon. It was almost full. Dashed unsporting. One didn't do those sort of things in these kind of places. The Solway marshes were the place for that, rough it with the riff-raff, stop out shooting all night if you wanted to, catch pneumonia and then try to kid everybody that it had been worth it. He sighed audibly. The sooner peace was made with the laird, the better. Somebody had to do it. He cleared his throat.

‘Those dashed silly fools are damned late, McKechnie.’ Colonel Sanders looked down at the remains of his Rainbow trout as he spoke. ‘Damned inconsiderate of them, I reckon, what about you chaps?’

He was answered by a chorus of half-hearted grunts. The three men visibly wilted under the searching stare of McKechnie. The laird's personality was overbearing, even to men who were leaders in various modes of life.

‘Inconsiderate?’ McKechnie snapped, sensing the embarrassment of his guests, their willingness to pander to him, and secretly revelling in it. ‘I'd say it was just plain bad manners. Well, as far I'm concerned they can bloody well camp out if they want to.’

‘But … er … I mean,’ Colonel Sanders fidgeted with his fork. ‘They're hours overdue. If they're not back before bedtime … well, somebody'll go and look for them, won't they?’

‘Like I said,’ the laird smiled, but there was no humour in his expression, ‘they can stop out if they want to. If they're not back by eleven-thirty they'll have to, because the doors will be locked and they won't be opened until seven-thirty tomorrow morning … on my instructions.’

The uncomfortable silence returned. Valiant efforts were made by the three men to finish the second course, sweets were waived in favour of coffee and liqueurs. Three brandies were ordered. They needed them.

Bruce McKechnie rose from the table, a glass of crème de menthe in his hand. Weariness showed in his every movement. His features were drawn, only his eyes showing the determination which drove him on. He, personally, would not be retiring for some hours yet. A young girl awaited his coming down in the village of Cranlarich. Already she would be lying on her bed, perhaps naked, delighting herself in a variety of ways because her sexual appetite was almost insatiable. The laird knew that he had to satisfy her. Most of the time he looked forward to it eagerly. Not tonight, however. By this time there was no doubt in his mind that the crabs had got Ryland and Barrett. Their disappearance would take some explaining. Rouse's had been easy.

‘I'll bid you gentlemen good night,’ he raised his glass to his lips in a gesture, but did not drink. ‘I hope tomorrow may be better in many ways than today. I think we will change our plans and beat out the home covert for pheasants. At least I can guarantee you some good sport there.’

McKechnie closed the dining room door behind him and stood in the richly carpeted entrance hall. God Almighty, it was like a nightmare, one that went on and on. You wanted to wake up, but you couldn't, and in the end you accepted the fact that it must be real. He was sweating. With an effort he regained his composure, called upon every reserve in his body, both mental and physical. Well, rather the crabs killed that pair of interfering busybodies than they saw the creatures and lived to tell the tale. So long as the crustaceans made a thorough job of it, cleaned up every bit of flesh and bone, leaving no evidence of their carnage. That spaniel, too. He smiled wryly. Did crabs eat dogs? No matter, the dog would not be able to divulge the secret of Loch Merse.

He walked towards the stairs. A quick change and he would be on his way. Perhaps Christine Blacklaw would be able to take his mind off his fears for a few hours. Tomorrow questions would be asked, and there would be no answers forthcoming. He would offer no suggestions or theories. There were none. Only the terrible truth, the secret of the loch. And nobody would believe that.

The mist, which had shown signs of lifting before midday, began to thicken again, shutting out the weak sunlight completely. The atmosphere, too, had changed appreciably, and the cold cloying dampness foretold an early winter. The men standing on the shores of Loch Merse turned up the collars of their overcoats, and stamped their feet impatiently.

Chief-Inspector Broomhall from Dumfries stared fixedly out across the water, his sallow features impassive. Detective-Inspector Page lit another cigarette with the butt of the old one, inhaled, and coughed. His breath clouded amidst the tobacco smoke. He glanced furtively at his superior, and then at Bruce McKechnie. There was definitely an air of tension; he could sense it. So could the others, Colonel Sanders, the other two guests from Cranlarich Hotel, and the uniformed police officers who were methodically searching the undergrowth some distance behind them. It was always like this when a search for bodies was being conducted. However hardened you were, you never forgot any corpse you found. The Alsatian tracker dog was silent. There was no scent.

‘I think it was very remiss of you to allow twenty-four hours to pass before you reported these two men missing, McKechnie.’ Broomhall spoke softly, his gaze still on the loch.

‘I had no reason to suppose that anything was wrong,’ the laird answered him, a large cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth, a faint gesture of defiance that did not go unnoticed by the policeman. ‘They were headstrong, the types who would stay out all night, shooting under the moon, and then go straight off to the grouse moors on their own. I told them to keep away from the loch but they defied me.’

‘Why did you forbid them to shoot on the loch?’ the other's eyes narrowed.

‘Because we want to keep it as a sanctuary for wildfowl. Hundreds of birds roost here during the winter months. We have ample flight ponds to cater for our customers.’

‘I see.’ Broomhall fell silent. He disliked this man intensely, with his supercilious attitude, his lack of concern for two young men who had failed to show up after almost forty-eight hours spent in this remote terrain.

There was a movement in the water less than ten yards from the bank. The watching men felt their pulses quickening, a dryness in their throats. The laird tensed momentarily, and then relaxed as the figure of a man in a black diving suit straightened up out of a patch of reeds, thick slime dripping from him. He was holding something in one hand.

‘He's got something.’ Broomhall spoke aloud, instinctively walking forward although the frogman was already approaching them, wading through the shallows. McKechnie recognised the object from where he stood, and relief flooded over him. It was a shotgun. Well, they were bound to find the guns. Even crabs did not devour shotguns.

The frogman took his mask off as he handed the weapon over. He was sweating in spite of the cold.

‘Bloody worst pool I've ever searched, chief,’ he smiled wanly.

‘It's a loch,’ McKechnie cut in, irritation in his voice. ‘A sea loch.’

‘Don't care if it's Lake Geneva,’ the other retorted. ‘It's bloody black as night down there.’

‘Where was the gun?’ Broomhall snapped, examining the Purdey with a practised eye.

‘In the reeds. 'Adn't even sunk down into the mud. Just like it'd been propped up whilst the geezer that owned it 'ad a slash.’

‘No other signs?’

‘Nothin'’

‘There should be two guns.’

‘Look, chief, I ain't in your fucking police force. I just 'appen to 'ave divin' as a bleedin' 'obby, and I agreed to 'elp out. I done me best. But if you ain't satisfied, then take my tack and 'ave a go yerself. Cause I ain't fucking going down there again.’

‘All right, all right,’ Broomhall grunted, ‘I accept that you've done your best. The police frogmen will conduct a thorough search tomorrow morning. It's just that there were two men, both with shotguns. McKechnie, what are our chances of recovering the bodies tomorrow?’

‘How long is a piece of string?’ the laird gave a hollow laugh. ‘I've no idea. A guy was once drowned in the loch. It was a few days before his body drifted in. Some say the loch is bottomless. I've no intention of trying to disprove that. Anyway, aren't we being rather presumptuous? Just because we've found a gun it doesn't mean Ryland and Barrett have drowned. Maybe it's all a put-up job. They wouldn't be the first people to try to kid everybody that they've gone under. And, anyway, the dog wouldn't have drowned with them, or at least it's most unlikely.’

Chief-Inspector Broomhall did not reply. Much as he disliked the owner of the Cranlarich Estate he had to admit to himself that the laird had a point. What, indeed, had happened to the dog?

The party was joined by the officers with the tracker dog. The handler, a burly sergeant, sniffed, a habit of his when he drew a blank.

‘Nothing at all, sir,’ he addressed Broomhall.

‘Well, we'll have to postpone the search until tomorrow,’ the Chief-Inspector grimaced ruefully. ‘This mist is thickening fast. In the meantime, though, we can ask some questions in the village. Maybe somebody there will have seen them.’

‘I doubt it very much.’ McKechnie turned away. ‘Take a tip from me, Inspector. If you want to find out anything don't bother asking the inhabitants of Cranlarich. If they know anything they won't tell you … on principle.’

Broomhall grunted. ‘I shall, in all probability, have to take a statement from you tomorrow, Mr McKechnie,’ he snapped, ‘and I'd be obliged if …’

‘Don't worry,’ the laird called back over his shoulder, ‘I shan't be going anywhere.’

‘We've found the other gun, Mr McKechnie.’

The laird glanced up from his desk and scowled at the sight of Chief-Inspector Broomhall standing inside the study. To hell with the fellow. He had not even the good manners to knock. A curt remark was already rising in Bruce McKechnie's throat, but he checked himself with an effort. He wanted to see these policemen leave Cranlarich as soon as possible, and he was not going to achieve that by obstructing and offending them. Somehow he forced himself to smile.

‘I must compliment your frogman on his efficiency, Inspector.’ he said. ‘I take it you found the weapon in the loch?’

‘Aye, in almost the same place as the other one. Except that it was in the mud … just as though some heavy weight had pressed it right in. The stock's cracked and the barrels are dented and scratched. What d'you think could have done that? Just as though an elephant had trodden on it.’

‘Hmm, I really couldn't say. But guns are delicate things if they're mistreated, Inspector. A slight knock on a stone can produce a dent. A fall can crack a stock.’

‘Not like these, Mr McKechnie. Still, it's no use guessing. Our forensic experts will no doubt come up with the answer.’

I doubt it, McKechnie thought, and smiled again. At least the frogman didn't catch sight of any crabs during the course of his search, or get killed by them, something which would have sparked off a full-scale search of the loch, probably with the aid of bathyspheres.

‘Well, there's no evidence at this point of the two men having drowned.’ Broomhall lowered himself into a chair without being invited to sit down. The laird again managed to control his rising anger.

‘So?’

‘There could be something in what you said yesterday. About them trying to fake a drowning.’

‘They'll probably turn up in Australia,’ Bruce McKechnie said with a sense of exultation.

‘Or not at all. Anyway, we'll be leaving you for the moment. Nobody in the village recalls having seen them. They'll be listed as missing, in the meantime, and all police forces notified. We might have to come back here, though, depending on what turns up.’

A parting threat, the laird decided as he listened to Broomhall's receding footsteps down the hall. The policeman wouldn't admit that he was beaten. He'd welcome the excuse to come back, especially with a full search warrant. Officious in every respect.

McKechnie stood looking out of the big window across the loch. The mist was lifting a little just like the curtain at the end of an act. The police had gone, but the crabs were still out there. Waiting. For what? He shivered, but he had to admire the crustaceans. The perfect murderers. They knew how to cover their tracks.

‘Now look here, McKechnie, I want to know what's happened to my brother. And Paul Barrett!’

‘The laird studied the young man seated before him carefully. John Ryland bore a distinct similarity to the missing Phil, both physically and in character. Younger by maybe three or four years, but just as headstrong. Determined to the point of foolhardiness.

‘My dear fellow, if you want to know what little there is to know I suggest you contact the Dumfries Constabulary,’ Bruce McKechnie snapped. ‘Much as I would like to help you …’

‘You can't be bothered,’ John Ryland snarled, leaning across the desk. ‘I've already spoken with Chief-Inspector Broomhall. I know the guns were found in the loch. But both men were good swimmers, they had no reason to commit suicide, and even if something has happened to them, what about Toby, the spaniel? Nobody seems able to account for him.’

‘I expect they've taken him with them to wherever they've gone.’ Hardly had he spoken than Bruce McKechnie regretted his words.

Ryland's arm shot forward, the laird was seized by the collar, and bodily dragged up across the wide desk, choking and gasping.

‘You rotten bastard!’ Ryland's other hand was raised threateningly, the fist clenched, ‘I ought to smash your bloody face in.’

McKechnie was released slowly, and panting heavily he sank back in his chair.

‘You shouldn't have done that, Mr Ryland.’ he croaked.

‘You make another crack like that and you'll finish up in hospital, maybe worse.’

‘Threats like that could put you in an awful lot of trouble. Now, get off my premises.’

‘No way. I've come up from London to find my brother and Paul Barrett. They disappeared on the Cranlarich Estate, and that's where I'm going to search for them, with or without your permission.’

‘The police have already searched Loch Merse with a frogman. They found the guns. Nothing else.’

‘I know all about that. One of the guns, my brother's Cogswell & Harrison, was severely damaged. No normal accident could have done that to it. Have you any ideas what might have happened, Mr McKechnie?’

‘None whatsoever.’

John Ryland fell silent. With a supreme effort he brought himself under control. He wasn't going to get anywhere by trying to ramrod this guy. Much as he hated himself for doing it, he changed his attitude.

‘Look here,’ he smiled weakly, ‘I'm sorry, Mr McKechnie. I had no right to do that to you. It's just that … well, I'm overwrought. My brother's wife is nearly frantic. He has two small children, and so I've got to find Phil. He just isn't the kind to do anything stupid. Will you help me?’

‘I really don't see how I can.’

‘Just give me the freedom of Cranlarich.’

‘I told you, there's nothing to be discovered here. The police have conducted a thorough search. Your brother is not on the estate, and if by some chance his body is in the loch, then Loch Merse will reveal it in its own time.’

‘I'd like to book in here. Stay around for a few days. Who knows, I might find something.’

You might, indeed, McKechnie decided, and took his time straightening his collar, helping himself to a cigar out of his leather case, and lighting it.

‘That would not be possible,’ he replied at last. ‘There is no accommodation here. We're fully booked.’

‘Were,’ the other corrected him. ‘I know for a fact that the other three chaps who made up the shooting party have packed their bags and gone home. I'm willing to pay full rates, and I don't want any shooting.’

‘I said it would not be possible. There is no accommodation.’

‘All right, have it your own way,’ John Ryland stood up slowly. ‘I'll book in at the hotel in the village. But I want to have a good look round your loch.’

‘You'll be trespassing, and my gamekeeper will, in accordance with the law, remove you from the estate using no more force than is necessary.’

‘He might try,’ Ryland reached the door, pulled it open, and turned back to face the laird, ‘but don't count on it. I think you know a damned sight more about this whole business than you're making out, McKechnie. You're trying to hide something, and if that's the case then I'm going to do my best to uncover it.’

The door slammed shut, and the angry young man was gone. Bruce McKechnie's hands trembled as he poured himself a brandy from the cocktail cabinet, drank the amber liquid in one gulp, and refilled his glass. Damn it, he was frightened of no man. All the same he had a feeling that John Ryland was going to cause him an awful lot of trouble.

For once McKechnie was not in the mood for sex. He had far too much on his mind. But he hadn't been down to the Royal Stag for three nights now, and Christine was becoming impatient. She had telephoned earlier in the evening and he knew that it was imperative that he visit her. He needed her. Especially if Ryland was booked in there. He had to keep track of the other's movements.

She was doing everything to arouse him. Her earlier efforts had failed miserably. Those slim fingers had not produced the essential reactions in the lower regions of his body. Now she lay curled on his stomach, her pouted lips and flicking tongue working on him. He tried desperately to oblige her, attempting to push all thoughts of the crabs and Ryland from his mind, thinking only of this slip of a wench and all that she had to offer in the way of a physical relationship. But it did not work.

She raised her head from his limpness, and her dark eyes gazed into his. There was no anger only disappointment and inquisitiveness.

‘What is it, Bruce?’ she whispered, crawling up his body until her face was close to his. ‘You've never been like this with me before. It's this business of the loch, those two missing guys, and all the bother of the police, isn't it? But it isn't your fault. You couldn't help them going off and getting themselves drowned.’

‘Is there a young fellow by the name of Ryland booked in here?’ he asked, trying to sound unconcerned, his fingers squeezing her erect nipples.

‘Yes, there is. Why?’

‘I just wondered. He's the brother of one of the missing men. He's conducting his own enquiries.’

‘So what?’

‘I just don't want him snooping around the Cranlarich Estate and making a nuisance of himself.’

‘But you've nothing to fear. You're not trying to hide anything. Or are you, Bruce? There's a lot of funny things being said about Loch Merse these days. There isn't anything going on, is there?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then you don't need to worry about John Ryland, do you?’

‘So you even know his first name!’

‘Jealous?’

‘The bastard tried to rough me up. Threatened me. If he thinks he's going to ride roughshod over me …’

‘He's the kind of man who looks as though he could be very good in bed.’ Her eyes blazed with the taunt, her unsatisfied emotions taking over.

Suddenly, something snapped inside Bruce McKechnie. His smouldering hatred for John Ryland was brought to a peak, and no longer was he in control of his actions. His right hand went back, then forward, the flat of it driving into the face of the girl who sat astride him. The impact was like the report of a pistol shot, the force of it throwing her backwards so that she sprawled at his feet, legs lewdly spread, mutely chiding him again with the warm wetness of her basic desires. Her hand went to her mouth. She tasted blood.

‘Oh God!’ she whimpered. ‘You bastard. And to think that I might have married you.’

‘No chance,’ he sneered as he swung his legs to the floor, grabbing for his shirt in the same movement. ‘You've certainly been letting your fantasies get the better of you. The villagers were right. You're my mistress. My whore. And nothing else.’

‘A whore's no good to you,’ she jibed. ‘You can't even get a hard-on. Cranlarich will laugh its eyes out when word gets around. The mighty laird's prick dangles as small and soft as a bit of seaweed when he's in bed with a girl twenty years his junior. And when he's gone back to his fine home she has to toss herself off to get satisfaction. My God, how they'll laugh, Bruce McKechnie!’

He was visibly shaking with rage as he dressed, his back towards her.

‘And glad I am to get rid of you,’ she yelled after him as he opened the door and started down the stairs. ‘Something's going on in Loch Merse, and I don't want to be any part of it. And don't crawl back to me for a hiding place when things get too hot for you.’

He stumbled out into the road, climbed up into his waiting Range Rover, and pressed the starter. Damn the stupid bitch, damn Ryland, and damn the bloody crabs. He'd have his revenge on all of them. They weren't going to buck Bruce McKechnie like a saddle-shy horse. They'd all pay the price, and then the Cranlarich Estate could revert to its normal routine. His sporting empire would rise like a phoenix from the ashes of disaster.

Chapter 5

Christine Blacklaw thrilled to the embrace of a younger man. It was a long time since she had been kissed by a man her own age. The memory of Bruce McKechnie still lurked in the background of her mind, a ghoul in the shadows, frightening her now that she saw the full implications of their relationship.

John Ryland sat on the bed beside her. Both of them were still fully dressed, although a couple of buttons on her blouse were undone. Even that small token of his affection for her had thrilled her more than the laird had done for a very long time. Possibly tonight they would go no further. But there would be other occasions. She was sure that this was just the beginning.

They kissed again, and he clung to her, almost as though he really needed her. She concluded that he probably did. At least until his brother's fate had been determined. And she would make the best of it while it lasted.

‘There's something funny going on around Loch Merse,’ he said disengaging himself from her, and staring down at the floor, a worried expression on his face.

‘I think you could be right.’

‘Suppose we put our cards on the table, and be frank with each other.’

‘Suits me. I hope you won't be going back to London for a long time, though.’

‘I doubt it very much.’

‘Are you married?’

‘Separated. Things didn't work out. Two years of bliss, six months of hell, and now it's all over. Or it will be before long.’

‘I'm sorry.’ Secretly she was glad. She knew he was telling the truth. He was that kind of a man. Forthright, sexy, too. Possibly by this time tomorrow they would have made love.

‘Look, suppose you tell me what you know.’

‘I'm afraid it isn't much,’ she smiled coyly and apologetically. ‘I pick up a lot of the local gossip in the evenings when I serve in the bar. You ought to talk to Freddie Law.’

‘Who's he?’

‘The local poacher. He knows every inch of the Cranlarich Estate. Better than the laird himself. And Freddie claims to have had rather an unnerving experience a few weeks back. He reckons there was some kind of giant crab in the big burn that goes down to the loch.’

‘Oh, that's ridiculous!’

‘I think so, too. But folks are generally scared of Loch Merse. They're a superstitious lot at the best of times, even in broad daylight, but nobody will go by the loch after dark. You ask 'em and they'll tell you. They can't come up with anything concrete, but they're damned frightened. Mostly of McKechnie, He's a swine if you get on the wrong side of him.’

He told her about his own meeting with the laird.

‘I wish I'd been there.’ The venom in her tone was noticeable. ‘The bastard hit me. I thought maybe at one stage he might have married me, but obviously he had no intention of doing so. Well, I wouldn't marry him for all his millions now. He's an evil man.’

‘Where do I find Freddie Law?’ he asked.

‘The tumbledown cottage on the left at the end of the street. It's almost midnight, though.’

‘From what you tell me he's used to keeping late hours. He'll be there, unless he's gone out poaching.’

‘I doubt it. He had a roughing up from the keepers at Cranlarich. He's not fully recovered yet. But wouldn't it do in the morning?’

‘I shan't rest until I've spoken to him,’ he replied. ‘My brother's missing. He could be in deadly danger … even dead. I've got to find him as soon as possible.’

‘Good luck,’ she smiled. ‘But look after yourself, John. Please. It means a lot to me.’

‘I'll be back,’ he nodded, and opened the door. ‘I promise.’

It took five minutes of loud knocking before Ryland heard a movement inside the semi-derelict cottage. A light showed under the door, and footsteps shuffled in the passage.

‘Who's there?’

‘My name's Ryland. Christine Blacklaw sent me. I'm sorry to disturb you, but it's urgent.’

The door was dragged open, and Ryland saw the old man for the first time, the haggard face still showing signs of bruising. His expression was furtive. Fearful.

‘What d'ye want at this time o' night, laddie?’

‘I've got to talk to you, it's urgent.’

The door opened a little wider. Ryland saw the sparse figure, gnarled and wizened, the sharp features, one eye wide and staring, the other almost closed.

‘Ye'd better come in.’ The door was held back. Ryland pushed past him, wrinkling his nose at the pungent aroma of the interior. A narrow passage led directly into the living room, a place that was a jumble of purse nets, poaching equipment, unwashed crockery, and soiled clothing.

‘Now, laddie, what's all the trouble aboot?’

‘I want to ask your help.’ John Ryland seated himself in a vacant chair. He was determined not to rush this conversation, and to put the old man at his ease. ‘You've heard about my brother, one of the men who went missing by Loch Merse?’

‘Aye. Your brother, eh? A bad job. Very bad.’

‘I want to find him.’

Freddie Law's gaze dropped, and he shuffled his feet with embarrassment. When he looked up again John Ryland noticed that his nervousness had returned, the whites of the eyes rolling.

‘But I canna help ye, Mr … Mr Ryland,’ the poacher muttered.

‘I think you can.’ The young man leaned forward, staring into the other's face, deliberately holding his gaze. ‘Christine says you can. She says you know something about what is going on at Cranlarich.’

‘I know nothin'. Nothin' at all.’

‘No? What about the crab, the giant one that was in the burn?’

Law started, and gulped. ‘I canna be sure. It was dark, ye ken. It coulda bin an otter.’

‘I don't think so. Not that I believe in monsters of any kind, but there is something odd going on, isn't there, Mr Law?’

‘Aye, there's sommat odd, but I dinna want no truck wi' it. I'll no go on the Cranlarich Estate again.’

‘Rubbish,’ Ryland laughed, ‘poaching's in your blood, man. You can't give it up, and where else is there to poach around here unless you cross the mountains and go further inland?’

‘Well, next season, mebbe. But right now I've had me fill.’

‘I want you to come out with me, Freddie. On to the estate, tomorrow night whilst the moon's still full. Just to wait and watch, see what goes on … if anything.’

‘No-o,’ the old man pursed his lips and shook his head, reminding Ryland of a string puppet, the sinewy neck seemingly barely capable of supporting the skull. ‘No, not for every trout and salmon that comes in from the sea.’

‘But perhaps for fifty pounds. All in fivers. Half before we go, and half when we get back. Easy money. Maybe we won't see anything at all.’

Freddie Law lapsed into silence. He looked down at the floor again, a struggle obviously going on inside him. He remembered that night on the burn, the terrible flight from danger. Then he thought about the cash. Without his poaching there was no money coming in.

‘It's a tempting offer, Mr Ryland,’ he spoke slowly, carefully. ‘Mebbe, just the once. But only to the loch. I'll not take ye up the big burn, not even for fifty quid.’

‘All right.’ Ryland sighed with relief. ‘It's a deal. Tomorrow night. I'll call for you about eleven. Now what I want is some vantage point on that part of the loch where my brother and his friend disappeared, somewhere where there's plenty of cover and we can hide for two or three hours.’

‘There's plenty o' cover,’ Law replied. ‘But I'll only do it the once. Dinna ask me to go a second time, mister. Not for a hundred quid.’

‘Just the once,’ John Ryland promised, and stood up to go before the other could change his mind. ‘See you about eleven tomorrow night, then. And I'll bring a flask of something to keep us warm.’

Freddie Law smiled. That was an added bonus.

The mist was thickening when John Ryland left the Royal Stag and made his way down the deserted village street towards the dilapidated cottage. He glanced skywards. The moon was already showing itself above Criffel, an orange orb that would gradually turn to silver as it climbed higher into the night sky. Damn this mist. It hadn't lifted since he had come to Cranlarich. Tonight he could have done without it. Visibility already was down to twenty yards. It would be even less down by the water.

Freddie Law was ready and waiting, letting himself out of his front door as Ryland approached. The poacher wore a long thornproof coat that had weathered many seasons, a soft trilby hat, and short wellington boots.

‘Ma boots leak so we canna cross any deep water,’ he muttered. No way was he going to be persuaded to go anywhere near the big burn.

They walked in silence, their breath clouding in the air. At length they came to a barbed wire fence. Law went underneath it with surprising agility, wriggling through without so much as one of the barbs touching his clothing. Ryland went over the top strand, snagged his trousers, and cursed under his breath.

Now they were in total darkness, a belt of spruce trees obliterating the moon above and shutting out its rays. Ryland sensed rather than heard his companion moving, and followed blindly. The old man needed no guiding light. He was following a well-used rabbit track, one that he had used on countless occasions. They continued without a word, low branches brushing their faces, until some minutes later they emerged into the open again, a long stretch of sloping meadowland before them. The mist hung in the hollows, forming a dense curtain further on.

‘The loch's about two hundred yards in front of us,’ Law whispered.

‘Lead on,’ Ryland answered him, and for some unaccountable reason shivered violently. There was something eerie about the whole setting which superimposed itself on the sheer magnificence of this moonlit night. It was quite still. There was not a single night bird to be heard, as if every living thing had deserted this place. An atmosphere of terror prevailed which spread further than the mountains beyond, as if the whole world was waiting for something to happen. An aura of evil crept over the landscape along with the dense mist.

Freddie Law stopped so suddenly that Ryland bumped into him. The latter could see the water's edge, barely ten yards in front of them, the rocks glinting with slime in the moonlight.

‘Well, here we are,’ Law muttered. ‘The mist's bad, though, and it'll get thicker. Not much point in stayin'. Ye'll see nothin'.’

‘We're staying.’ Ryland's reply was curt. ‘Mist or no mist.’

‘Please yersel'.’

‘In fact, I think it would be preferable if we split up. We can watch a wider expanse that way.’

The poacher licked his lips, and wiped them with the back of his hand. He did not care for that idea at all. The prospect of being left alone out here was fearsome to him.

‘There's no point …’ he began, half-heartedly.

‘Yes, there is. Now look, I don't mean for us to be half a mile apart. A hundred yards or so will do. Suppose I stop here, and you make your way a bit further along this shore. Pick yourself a place where there's plenty of cover. And if you need me I'll come at the double.’

‘Aye,’ Freddie Law spat on the ground, ‘but if there's any o' those creatures around I saw up yon burn, I'll be needin' more help than you can gi' me, Mr Ryland, with all due respect.’

John Ryland watched the other departing, the grey vapour swallowing him up in a matter of seconds. It was quite obvious that the old man was scared to death, that he really believed in these huge crabs.

Ryland looked round. There was plenty of cover, mostly rocks. He could have retreated a few yards and stood in the edge of the wood, but from there he would have been unable to watch the water. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, letting the smoke out slowly. God, it was creepy here. But it was all in the mind. Mostly because Phil and Paul had gone missing somewhere around this loch. They could have drowned, their bodies submerged in weeds in the depths, overlooked by the frogmen. Toby, too. That was the strangest thing of all. But he wasn't going to solve the mystery by staying in the safety of the Royal Stag.

He sat down, leaning his back against a rock. His thoughts turned to Christine Blacklaw. There was something about her that definitely appealed to him. Tomorrow he would go to bed with her. That was a nice thought. Comforting. It caused a slight stirring in his loins.

The night wore on. Above the low-lying mist the moon crept towards its zenith.

Bruce McKechnie was uneasy. The rest of the household had retired over an hour ago, but the laird remained in his study, chewing a dead cigar. The light was off and the curtains open, the ethereal moonlight being slowly obscured by the ghostly mist. He shivered uncontrollably, but he was not disturbed by the idea of the spirits of long-dead lairds and crofters walking his estate. It was the thought of the real danger that lay in the depths of Loch Merse that troubled him.

Surely the giant crabs would not remain in an enclosed loch when they had the oceans of the world to roam. Allowing for the supposition that they had retreated from the effects of a nuclear explosion, like all the other species which were being found off the west coast of Scotland, they had to move on elsewhere sometime. He tried to console himself with this thought. Perhaps they had already gone. Crabs were controlled by the moon, being more active when it was full. Maybe they had just gone back down that subterranean tunnel. If so, his problems were solved. But he had to know, one way or the other. Blast this mist. Without it he would have been able to sit here in the safety of his own study and watch for signs of movement on the loch.

He stood up. He knew that he would not be satisfied until he had seen for himself. He did not relish the prospect. Crossing to the opposite side of the room, he opened the tall mahogany gun cupboard on the wall. There was enough light for him to identify the individual weapons. A pair of 12-bores, a .22 rifle … a .240 deer-rifle. He lifted the latter down, weighed it in his hands, noted the superb balance, the craftsmanship that had gone into the design. On more than one occasion he had dropped a stag at a hundred yards in the corrie. A stag! These were crabs. A different proposition, altogether. Yet the rifle gave him a feeling of superiority over all living things. Secretly he worshipped firearms. He found a box of shells and dropped the contents into the pocket of his tweed jacket,

A few minutes later he let himself out into the night, moving stealthily.

Freddie Law was cold. He shivered, and his teeth chattered. He was frightened, too. Very frightened. There was not a sound to be heard. That in itself was significant that things were not as they should be. Why were there no duck quacking out in the middle of the loch? He tried to tell himself it was because the mist had grounded them elsewhere, but he knew it was not true for the mist had not risen until long after flighting time.

He had no watch, but he was able to tell the time approximately by the position of the moon overhead, discerning the silvery orb through the drifting vapour. Somewhere between two and three am. They had been here over three hours. Only the thought of the money prevented him from going and telling his companion that enough was enough. Twenty-five pounds lay on the top of the sideboard in his living room. The down payment. It would be doubled by dawn. He hoped sooner.

The cold did not seem so intense now. His eyelids dropped. Drowsiness was not uncommon on a nocturnal vigil. It was dangerous, though. One ran the risk of catching pneumonia. Sometimes during the summer months he had slept out in the heather. He could recall the soft springiness of his natural bed, the sweet aroma of the blaeberries. His head slumped forward. He tried to resist, but he was powerless.

He dreamed. A balmy August night. Curlew called from the hills where they had been breeding throughout the summer. A dog fox barked. The big burn. The mood of his dream was changing. The tranquillity of it all was fading, The big burn. Staring eyes. A shapeless form materialising out of the shadows. Tiny red eyes mesmerising him, holding him, preventing his flight. Sheer unspeakable terror flooded through him and rendered every muscle in his body useless.

He watched. The thing was closer now, the face barely a yard from his own, staring malevolently. A pincer rose, as big as a scythe and equally as sharp. He felt it touch his neck, sensed the trickle of warm blood. And at that moment he realised that he wasn't dreaming. It was all happening!

Freddie Law could not even scream. He wanted to close his eyes and shut out the scene, but he was unable to do so. He was being dragged forward. The water was up to his chest, then up to his neck, the blood staining the loch, spraying that devilish countenance before him. Two heads above the surface regarded each other, showing human fear and crustacean hate. Then they were submerged, continuing their mute acquaintance. Freddie wanted to die but his Maker seemed in no hurry to claim him. The scarlet water was threshed to a foam. There were other crabs, angry at being deprived of their prey by the greed of one. They clawed indiscriminately, claiming limbs, severing, tugging at the stubborn sinews, tearing arms and legs, munching, swallowing. And at last, for Freddie Law, the blood-red scene turned black.

John Ryland tossed the end of yet another cigarette into the water and stood up. He stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together. A glance at his watch showed him that it was 4.25 am. The moon was already waning. And nothing moved.

He gave a low whistle. There was no point in keeping the old man out any longer. He had earned his money. Whatever was happening around Loch Merse was dormant tonight, he decided. Not that he ever really believed the crab story. But one had to eliminate the impossible and the improbable.

He whistled again. There was no answering signal or movement. He tried to peer through the silvery grey gloom, but by now his vision was restricted to three or four yards.

‘Freddie,’ he called softly. ‘Time to be going.’

He was both puzzled and worried. Damn it, suppose the old man had slipped into the water and drowned. But he would have heard him thrashing about. Probably he had dropped off to sleep. Ryland began to walk in the direction which the poacher had taken.

A hundred yards further on the young man halted and whistled again. No answer.

‘The old bugger's conned me,’ he decided and felt a surge of relief at the notion. ‘He's fucked off home. Well, I'll bloody well go and get him out of bed.’

Angrily John Ryland began retracing his steps, striding carefully along the rock-strewn shore of Loch Merse. Twice he almost fell. So intent was he on finding his way back without the help of his guide that he failed to notice the face which stared out at him from behind a huge boulder, the narrow eyes hardening as they recognised the brother of Phil Ryland.

Bruce McKechnie's knuckles tightened as he gripped the deer rifle. The stock came up almost to his shoulder and then he lowered it again. The age-old instinct to kill an enemy had almost overcome reason.

‘Now what the devil is he creeping about here for?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Interfering bastard.’

Within seconds the mist had swallowed up the Londoner. The laird laughed softly to himself. Yes, it was time to go home. He was well pleased with his night's vigil. The crabs had gone back to the sea, he felt certain. Were they still in the loch then they would surely have emerged under a full moon. Nobody need ever know that they had existed. And John Ryland would ponder for the rest of his life over what might have become of his brother and Paul Barrett.

Cradling his rifle beneath his arm, Bruce McKechnie set off back in the direction of the Cranlarich Hotel.

There was no light showing in Freddie Law's cottage when John Ryland approached it. By this time his initial relief had merged into annoyance. The return trip through that small wood had not been easy. He had fallen several times, twisted an ankle, and scratched his face and hands on some wicked briars.

He did not knock on the door, but pushed it open. It creaked back on its hinges. He stood there on the threshold, momentarily afraid to enter because suddenly he knew that the old man was not at home. He had not returned from the loch.

‘Freddie,’ he called out. ‘Are you in?’

He would almost have forgiven the poacher had he suddenly emerged from the living room. But everywhere was silent. Ryland switched on his torch, and it was a task of less than a couple of minutes to ascertain that his companion was not at home.

John Ryland walked back outside. For once he was unable to make a decision. Should he try and find his way back to the loch and search for the missing man? He dismissed the idea at once. It would be useless in this thick mist. Perhaps after daylight. But that would not be for a couple of hours yet.

He began to fear for Freddie Law's safety. It was as though the man had been spirited away by demons of the night in the same manner in which his brother and Barrett had disappeared leaving no trace. He had not heard a sound during those long hours of waiting.

Finally he made up his mind. First thing in the morning he would go up to McKechnie's place. The laird knew more than he cared to admit, he decided. Well, this time he wouldn't get off so lightly. Somehow he would make the man tell what he knew.

Chapter 6

‘I'm sorry, sir, but the laird has not risen yet. Would you care to leave a message?’

John Ryland stared into the impassive face of Canvers. He did not doubt that the man was telling the truth.

‘I'd like you to go and get him up. Tell him that John Ryland wants to see him immediately. And it's urgent.’

‘I'm sorry …’ Canvers gasped as he was thrust aside, eyes wide with surprise and indignation. This impudent caller was already inside and heading for the wide oak staircase.

‘What the devil is the meaning of this intrusion, Mr Ryland?’

Ryland stopped and averted his gaze. Bruce McKechnie was standing on the first floor landing, a silk dressing gown draped over his lime-green pyjamas, fair hair awry, eyes blazing.

‘What's going on?’ John Ryland snapped, determined not to be browbeaten by this man who ruled over Cranlarich with fear, forcing the crofters and villagers to do his bidding. ‘Where's Freddie Law? What have you done with him?’

‘My dear fellow, I haven't set eyes on that poacher for weeks, and I neither know nor care where he is.’

‘He was on the shore of Loch Merse up until around four-thirty this morning.’

‘Was he, indeed? Well, he bloody well shouldn't have been on the estate, and if anything's happened to him then that's his lookout.’

‘I was on your estate, too, last night, McKechnie.' Ryland's expression hardened as he looked up at the other. ‘Not far from where Law was. And he's disappeared into thin air.’

‘And what did you hope to achieve by hanging about by the loch? Spawning trout, maybe? Or salmon? There's a heavy penalty for night poaching you know.’

‘Come off it, McKechnie. I'm not interested in either your trout or salmon. We were looking out for these giant crabs!’

The laird stared down at the man in the hall, and not by so much as the flicker of an eyelid did he betray the shock which coursed through his whole body.

‘You're mad.’ His lips curled in a mocking sneer. ‘I thought so the other day when you behaved as you did in my study. You ought to be locked up. And if you don't get out of my house and off my premises right away I shall call the police.’

‘Well, I'm going to contact them right away,’ Ryland retorted. ‘With people constantly disappearing into the loch they will doubtless start to draw their own conclusions.’

‘Get out!’

Ryland turned on his heel. He had been too impetuous. There was nothing to be gained by trying to force an issue with this man. He was diabolically clever. A strategic retreat was the best course; a return to the Royal Stag to consider his next course of action.

‘You'll be hearing from me,’ he snapped, turning away and brushing past Canvers.

As he walked across the stone flagged court of the Cranlarich Hotel, John Ryland noted the parked cars; a Mercedes, a Rolls Royce, and two Jaguars. A wealthy party of guests had booked in for a week's shooting. He did not envy them their stay. Whatever existed in Loch Merse might well be claiming more victims shortly.

‘It's crazy. Inexplicable,’ Ryland told Christine Blacklaw as he sat on the side of her bed.

The daughter of the Royal Stag's landlord was always a late riser. The hours she worked were not conducive to leaving her bed early in a morning. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stared up at the handsome young man whose hand squeezed her own.

‘And you think Freddie was telling the truth? About the giant crabs, I mean?’

‘Well, he certainly was not lying deliberately. Of course he could have been mistaken about what he saw, but I'm inclined to believe now that there is something in the loch. Not necessarily crabs, but something formidable. Well, McKechnie won't cooperate, and I don't have any proof, so I've no alternative other than to play a lone hand.’

‘Oh, John, be careful. Please.’

‘Don't worry.’ He patted her hand and tried to appear reassuring. ‘I'm not going to do anything stupid. The thing that worries me most at the moment is what has happened to Freddie Law. It's reasonable to assume that he's met the same fate as my brother and Paul Barrett, but what do I do? Do I report him missing to the police when he just might have taken off on his own? There's always the possibility that he has, although I can't see his reason for going.’

‘Well, they've searched the loch and not come up with anything,’ she mused, ‘so a second hunt is unlikely to reveal anything.’

‘Hey, this mist is clearing.’ He stood up and crossed to the window. ‘The sun's dispersing it.’

‘About time, too.’

‘Tell you what.’ The rays of weak sunlight had already given him a new zest. ‘I'm going to take a look around in the daylight. So far all the searching has been done when you could barely see your hand in front of your face.’

‘If I can't stop you trespassing on the Cranlarich Estate,’ she said, ‘then at least do something constructive.’

‘Such as?’

‘There's a shepherd's cottage at the foot of Criffel. A little stone dwelling in a small glen. The shepherd's name is Sandy Cline, an old fellow of Freddie Law's generation. I haven't seen him for a year or two. He used to come into the pub occasionally but he hasn't been for some time. In the days of James McKechnie he used to run a few sheep, but Bruce stopped all grazing because it was detrimental to the grouse. Anyway, Sandy was kept on to help look after the moor and assist with the muir burning in the spring.’

‘We're not going to get any help from the laird's men,’ Ryland snapped.

‘He's not one of McKechnie's keepers,’ she assured him quickly. ‘He hates the laird, in fact. But he's around the place, and if anything's going on there's a fair chance that he knows something about it.’

‘It's worth a try.’ He returned to the bedside and kissed her, his hand momentarily resting on her breasts, his fingers smoothing the nylon over the hard nipples, dwelling there for a few seconds. ‘I'll be back this evening.’

‘I'll be waiting.’ She closed her eyes as their lips met.

Sandy Cline seldom ventured far from his cottage these days. Tall and sparse, his shoulders had begun to stoop lately. His grey hair had grown thick and unkempt beneath the peaked cap which he wore from morning until night, even indoors. The lines on his face told their own story, the sadness at the passing of his wife and the resentment at his virtual imprisonment in this valley. He could not leave. There was nowhere to go. Nobody wanted to employ an ageing shepherd. At least he had shelter here and a meagre wage. And now there was little work to do except his own chores.

The glen echoed to the sounds of his small chopper splitting kindling wood. He worked methodically. There was no point in hurrying, for when this task was done there was nothing else to occupy him for the rest of the day. He severed another chunk of pine, and then a shadow fell across him. He stiffened. Nobody came here these days.

‘Mr Cline?’

He turned slowly and saw a young man. One of the guests from the hotel, he told himself. Or maybe the police. A detective had called two days ago about the missing men.

‘Aye,’ the shepherd spoke slowly, the words rolling off his tongue as he studied the man who stood before him, ‘I'm Sandy Cline. And what can I do for ye, mister, who'er ye are?’

‘I'm hoping you can do quite a lot for me,’ Ryland said, seating himself on a pile of logs. ‘Have you by any chance set eyes on Freddie Law lately?’

‘Freddie Law.’ Suspicion was evident in the flockmaster's expression, for none enquired kindly about the whereabouts of the old poacher here on the Cranlarich Estate. ‘No, I ha'n'a seen him of late. Why d'ye ask?’

‘Because he disappeared last night,’ Ryland said, ‘sometime between eleven-thirty and four-thirty on the shores of Loch Merse.’

‘The Lord ha' mercy on his soul.’ Sandy Cline paled and swayed unsteadily on his feet, ‘jest as He may ha' on the other two.’

‘One of the other two was my brother. That's why I'm here.’

‘Then allow me to gi' ye some advice, laddie,’ the shepherd raised a trembling hand, pointing skywards beyond the towering peaks of Criffel, ‘get ye away from Cranlarich whilst ye still can, and no be daft enough to come back!’

‘But why?’

‘Dinna ye mind why, laddie. Jest get away … now!’

‘I think you've a notion as to what has become of Freddie,’ Ryland hazarded, ‘and maybe the other two. Well, I'm not going, not for McKechnie nor anybody else.’

‘Dinna say ye weren't warned.’

Ryland rose to his feet, his face grave. ‘I'm not being warned off by any of the laird's hirelings,’ he snapped.

‘Look ye.’ Cline spread his hands, embarrassed. ‘I'm no in McKechnie's pay. Not that way, I mean. I does the muir burnin' fer him, but nowt else. And I doesna' want to do anythin' else fer the likes o' him.’

‘And you won't help me?’

‘I'd like to, laddie. Believe me, I would. But I canna. Nor can I tell the police. They wouldna believe me. They'd ha' me taken away and put in one of them madhouses with only me knowin' as I'm sane.’

‘In other words you don't want to be ridiculed because you've seen some huge crabs in Loch Merse?’

‘Crabs!’ Sandy Cline's eyes narrowed. ‘Did ye say crabs, mister?’

‘Yes,’ Ryland tensed, ‘big ones. And at the moment, ridiculous as it seems, I am inclined to think that they are responsible for the disappearance of three men and one Cocker spaniel dog.’

There was a moment of silence. The old man shook his head slowly from side to side.

Finally, he said, ‘It weren't crabs that I saw. It was much, much bigger. A kind've centipede, crawlin' up out o' the water, dozens of legs but no head.’ He recoiled as the horror of that which he had seen returned to him. ‘It wasn'a nothin' o' this earth. It was a creature o' evil, spawned in hell itself.’

‘I think,’ Ryland mused, ‘that it is highly unlikely that Loch Merse is harbouring more than one species of outsize horror. However, when did you see this … this centipede?’

‘About a week ago. The longin' for a wee dram come upon me, and bein' a fine night I set out for the village. You have to pass the loch, there's no other way. I was on the east side when I saw it. The water was ripplin' like some underwater current was startin' up. I watched, and then I saw it, the outline in the starlight, movin' slowly, comin' ashore. A hundred, maybe two hundred yards away. I couldn'a believe it. On the way back after a dram, then perhaps. But not before I'd got to the village even. I ran all the way back here, and I haven'a bin further than the corrie since. That's what got them two shooters, mister, and old Freddie Law as well. Ye'd better give thanks to the Almighty that it didn'a get yersel', seein' as ye were messin' aboot down there after dark.’

Sandy Cline's eyes rolled and his whole gaunt frame shook. John Ryland knew that the man was not lying.

‘I believe you,’ Ryland said. ‘Only I don't think that what you saw was a giant water centipede. You only saw it in silhouette. What you saw were crabs, dozens of 'em, as big as dogs, maybe, coming ashore in file!’

The shepherd did not reply. His outburst, the telling of the nightmarish happening, had exhausted him, and he sank slowly down until he was sitting on the chopping block, eyes fixed on the floor. It was some time before he spoke again.

‘I'm an old man, mister,’ he raised his eyes to meet Ryland's and now he was smiling faintly, ‘and I hasna' long left in this world. But not fer a thousand pounds would I go by that loch agin. Not even in daylight. The next time I passes it I'll be in a coffin on ma way to the kirk.’

‘Well, now that we know for certain that there's something in the loch, the next move is to decide how to deal with it. As you say, Mr Cline, we can't take our story to the outside world yet. Not even to Cranlarich village.’

‘Get ye awa', mister, whilst ye can, and leave be what doesna' concern ye.’

Ryland knew that nothing would persuade the old man to accompany him upon a moonlight expedition. No amount of money would lure him from this glen after dark. He would not ask. Already he felt that Freddie Law's death was on his conscience. And yet something had to be done. That Phil and Paul were dead, also, the young man had no doubt. The thought of revenge seemed trite to him at that moment, but, nevertheless, he did not intend to return to London to take over the family business without somehow levelling the score. Three men had died. Foul play had already been ruled out over the first two by the police. He needed more proof before he volunteered any information to the law on the old poacher. But above all, others might die, and probably would. Innocent villagers, children playing by the loch were all at risk. So far the crabs had only struck at night. Perhaps soon they might start coming ashore by daylight. He sighed. At the moment the responsibility for safeguarding a whole lot of people rested on his own shoulders. And he had no idea what he was going to do about it.

‘Thank you, Mr Cline.’ Ryland looked down at the shepherd. ‘At least you've confirmed certain rumours … to me, anyway. I'm going to see what I can do about these crabs.’

‘Dinna be a fool, man. There's nowt anybody can do. Not even McKechnie, rot his soul. Them creatures ha' bin sent here. Sent by the devil to a place that's as evil as hell itself. We've all got to pay for the crimes o' one man. The laird has done foul murders here, and he must pay the price. Us, too. The people o' Cranlarich ha' had the mark o' death put upon them. I tell ye, go while ye still can, afore it's too late!’

Chapter 7

Bruce McKechnie stared out of the study window on to a sunlit autumnal scene. The loch shimmered peacefully, a golden brown carpet lay beneath the avenue of tall beech trees, the leaves still falling gently, drifting earthwards like flakes of snow. There was not a breath of wind.

His fists clenched and unclenched, and the veins on his forehead knotted as he seethed inwardly with rage. His eyes were focused on the winding rutted road that led from the Cranlarich Hotel down the whole length of the valley. He watched the car, a silver Rolls Royce, the chauffeur driving slowly, attempting to avoid the many potholes.

The Jag and the Mercedes had left earlier. Only his own Range Rover stood on the paved forecourt, a symbol of desolation. They had gone, these wealthy sportsmen from the south, and they would not be returning. Dissatisfied customers who would spread the word, telling in their exclusive clubs of how the sporting empire of Cranlarich had crumbled. The game had gone, the villagers shunned the place, and there were no beaters to be had. Neither money nor the wages of fear could persuade the latter to drive the grouse to the guns. The previous day's sport had resulted in a fruitless foray with the shooters attempting to walk their birds up. A row had developed at the end of the afternoon and McKechnie had refunded the money to his departing clients. It was the least he could do in an attempt to keep the Cranlarich reputation in exclusive sporting circles.

Five guests due to arrive at the weekend had telephoned their cancellations. That had nothing to do with the absence of birds. The publicity over the two missing shooters was responsible for the blank week which lay ahead. Rumours were circulating in high sporting circles. It was bound to happen. And the crabs were to blame!

Bruce McKechnie slumped down at his desk and rested his head on his arms. His rage had simmered and died. The man's self-control had triumphed. First came anger, then despair, finally cold reasoning.

He lit a cigar and went over the recent events again in his mind. Just when he was congratulating himself on the crustaceans having left Loch Merse they had snatched another victim. In a way they had done him a favour. Freddie Law had been a nuisance for the past decade. But the continued presence of the creatures worried the laird.

He came to a decision. If the crabs would not go back to the sea then they must be exterminated. They must be wiped out before the public became aware of their existence. But how?

Then he had an idea. It came to him so suddenly that the simplicity of it astounded him. He recalled a poaching incident the previous year on a stretch of the River Annan. A gang had used dynamite. Several hundred pounds of salmon had been cleared before the bailiffs had arrived on the scene. The townspeople, a couple of miles away, heard the explosions and presumed it was either a military night exercise, or else some quarry owner was carrying out blasting that would have been dangerous by daytime.

And there was a quarry on the Cranlarich Estate, one that had not been worked since the days of James McKechnie. There was also some dynamite.

The laird smiled. The sooner darkness fell, the sooner he could go into action. The crabs were due for a very unpleasant surprise.

It was after darkness had fallen when Bruce McKechnie let himself out of the Cranlarich Hotel. His small staff were busy in their own quarters, for with the absence of guests there was no elaborate dinner to prepare and serve.

He walked quickly, carrying a large empty suitcase. The moon would not rise for another couple of hours, and he was grateful for the mantle of night which covered his activities. First he must collect the dynamite from the old quarry. He hoped that some remained, and that the fuses were still intact. He remembered as a boy throwing lighted fireworks into the burn. Once they began to fizz they never went out. Little did he realise then that those juvenile antics would serve him well in later life. Even the force of those small explosions below water had been intensified. Once a trout, which had been skulking behind a stone close to where the banger had gone off, had floated to the surface, stunned. They had roasted it over an open fire. But this time the game was bigger, far more dangerous. He was certain, though, that no living creature could stand up to that which he had planned for this night.

The laird picked his way carefully down the steep slope which led into the quarry. The faint starlight showed his surroundings in silhouette, outlining the sheer sides of this century-old excavation. Stunted trees had rooted on the very edge of the crumbling precipice, somehow maintaining their hold, year after year, stubbornly refusing to yield to the infrequent small avalanches which followed heavy rainstorms.

The ground levelled, and he saw the symmetrical shape of the workmen's hut, a windowless structure of corrugated iron and wood. Something scuttled away at his approach, and his pulses quickened. A rat, probably. He produced a small torch from his pocket and switched it on, the beam shining directly ahead of him. It was safe to use a light now.

The door was unlocked. He smiled wryly. It creaked loudly as he pushed it open, the dank stale air of the interior causing him to wrinkle his nose. Nobody had been here for a long time. Just rats.

Wooden crates were stacked untidily in the small enclosure, layers of dust on them. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. A large spider regarded him curiously from the centre of its web, unmoving.

McKechnie began moving the crates, wiping away the layers of dirt with his fingers. He found implements, spare parts, some empty boxes. Anxiety took over as he pushed one box after another to one side. The explosive had to be here. Unless … He thought of the recent outbreaks of terrorism in the cities and wondered if some of the Cranlarich dynamite had found its way into the hands of the bombers. And then he found the box he was seeking. It was new, unopened, the red seals unbroken. It bore a date, 1950. That was the year when the quarrying here had been abandoned. His luck was in.

He picked up a crowbar which lay on the floor and inserted it under the lid. There was a loud splintering, and some of the wood came away, enough for his purpose. He shone the torch on the contents of the box.

Eight-inch sticks of explosives were neatly packed in rows, fuses attached, all ready for use.

The laird laughed to himself. He could not have asked for more. As good as new. Methodically he began transferring the contents into the suitcase. Two dozen sticks would be ample for his purpose. There would not be much left alive in the loch after they had gone off. It was a pity about all the fish, the trout and the salmon, but that could not be helped. The extermination of the giant crabs was top priority.

He emerged from the shack a few minutes later, switching off his light as he began the ascent from the quarry floor. He could not afford to take any chances. As far as the people of Cranlarich were concerned a gang of poachers from the towns had visited the estate this night and dynamited the loch. The villagers would not ask too many questions. Sometimes it was an advantage, McKechnie ruminated, to be a hated laird. It kept the rabble at a comfortable distance.

The walk from the quarry to the north shore of Loch Merse took him well over an hour. By the time he arrived at the place where the small boat with the outboard motor was moored he was sweating. He grunted with relief as he lowered the suitcase to the ground. So far so good.

He could have used the larger craft which was kept for the purpose of loch fishing but it had its disadvantages. The powerful engine was noisy. People would hear it, especially his own staff. The bailiff's rowing boat would have been silent, but it was too slow.

He paused for a minute or two to regain his breath before starting out. A sudden thought occurred to him, and for one brief moment he had the urge to abandon the whole idea. Suppose … suppose the crabs were around, waiting silently in the reed beds to attack him before he got clear into deeper water. It was a frightening prospect. Terrifying. Here in the blackness he could vanish without a trace, just as Phil Ryland, Paul Barrett, and Freddie Law had done.

With an effort he pulled himself together. It was unlikely that the crabs would move before the moon was up. And, anyway, nothing worthwhile was gained in life without some risk. He'd had to arrange for his brother to be murdered otherwise he would not have been laird of Cranlarich now. His whole life had been a series of desperate gambles, just as tonight was. And there was no reason to suppose that his luck would fail him now.

The engine started at the first pull, and the craft began to move slowly away from the bank, cutting its way through the reeds. He sat at the helm, peering ahead of him, the reflection of the water enabling him to see where he was going.

Ten minutes later, with the engine idling, he took the first stick of dynamite from the case, and held his lighter to the fuse. The cord spluttered, and he tossed it overboard, watching it disappear in a trail of underwater sparks until it was lost from sight. Now he must hurry.

He applied full throttle, made another stop, threw another stick of lighted dynamite. Then the boat moved on again. He sweated. There was approximately a half-hour fuse on each of the deadly cylinders. Not that an underwater explosion would harm him in the boat but … well, it might disturb and enrage any crabs which were out of range. Canvers or Joe Kinlet might hear the muffled reports and come to investigate. There were many things that could go wrong.

The boat churned a white foam in its wake. The laird steered the vessel with one hand, lighting the explosives with the other, dropping them over the side without slowing. He made a complete circle, around the small island in the centre, parallel to the east shore. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes, and the mooring place was in sight again. Excellent. The last stick went overboard, and he took a direct course, the engine flat out, stuttering once, then picking up again.

He reached dry land. He pulled the boat up as far as he could manage on his own, and then broke into a run, the empty suitcase seeming heavier now than when fully loaded. He fell once and scrambled up, heedless of the cut on his knee.

Lights were still showing in the rear downstairs windows of the hotel as he reached the avenue of beech trees. Everywhere was silent. His mission had been completed unnoticed.

And then he heard the dull flat boom of the first explosion in the depths of the loch, a long rumble like distant thunder. He entered by the front door, and reached his study before the second one went off.

McKechnie began to count the muffled underwater explosions as he stood in the window of his study. They came at approximately three minute intervals. The moon was just rising above Criffel and by its faint light he could see the surface of Loch Merse. The water showed signs of disturbance as each stick of dynamite went off, but the full force was confined to the depths.

He smiled wryly. Nothing could live in the loch. All forms of life would be wiped out. It was a pity, but there was a way in from the sea and more trout and salmon would come in eventually.

A knocking came at the door, frantic hammering of knuckles on wood. Another length of dynamite exploded in the loch.

‘Come in.’

The door opened. It was Joe Kinlet, with Canvers close behind him.

‘Sir,’ there was alarm on the gamekeeper's face, ‘there's explosions in the loch. Poachers.’

‘Dear me.’ McKechnie cocked his head and listened. Detonation number fifteen. ‘Poachers. Go on down, Joe, and see what's happening. You'd better go with him, Canvers. But don't take any risks. In the meantime I'll ring the police.’

The two men left, closing the door behind them. McKechnie sat down again. There was nothing else he could do. They would return shortly and report that there was nobody to be seen. He would reply that he had failed to get through to the police. There was often trouble with the telephone lines in a remote place like this, and there wasn't much point in bothering them now. A great pity that so many fish had been slaughtered, but they'd better get the boats out in the morning and collect as many of the dead trout and salmon as possible. Kinlet would have to patrol extensively at night from now onwards to prevent any further raids.

Yes, the laird congratulated himself, things had gone according to plan. He just hoped that there would not be any dead crabs floating on the surface in the morning. No, they were far too heavy. By this time they were probably all dead in the deepest part of the loch. Good riddance.

He poured himself a glass of brandy and selected one of his most expensive Cuban cigars from a cedarwood box on the table. His success called for a little celebration.

‘There doesn't appear to be anybody about.’ Kinlet peered out from a clump of bushes some fifteen yards from the nearest point of the loch. ‘Strange. What's the bleedin' point o' blastin' all the fish in the loch and then scarperin'.’

Canvers swallowed, but did not reply. He did not care for this errand at all. His place was in the household. He had been brought up in the service of a number of lairds and his only outdoor excursions involved helping with picnic hampers on the moors during the grouse shooting season. He pulled up the collar of his overcoat. The sooner they returned to the hotel, the better. It was the gamekeeper's job to sort out this kind of thing.

‘We'd better hang on for a bit,’ Kinlet muttered.

Canvers groaned inwardly. ‘There doesn't seem much point,’ he protested in his usual squeaky voice. ‘The poachers have gone. There's nothing we can do.’

‘But maybe they haven't gone,’ Joe Kinlet snapped. ‘Maybe they're still hiding, waiting to launch their boats and pick up the spoils.’

The two men lapsed into silence. The moon was clear of Criffel now, and with the absence of mist the whole of this part of the valley was clearly visible, the loch shining calmly. There were no more explosions. Every one of the two dozen sticks of dynamite had gone off.

‘I thought I heard something.’ Canvers stepped closer to his companion. ‘Over there, in those rushes.’

‘Let's watch and see then,’ the other whispered, ‘and don't make a sound.’

Minutes passed. The noise came again, a squelching as though something heavy was dragging itself up out of the mud in the reed bed.

‘What is it?’ Canvers clutched at Joe Kinlet's arm. ‘Whatever can it be?’

‘Sounds like somebody dragging a boat up out of the loch.’ the gamekeeper replied, ‘only we'd've surely seen 'em before. Good job I brought a gun along. Come on, let's take a closer look.’

The shotgun gave them both courage, a sense of invincibility. If, indeed, it was a boat then the poachers were in for a nasty surprise. Kinlet crept forward, the double-barrelled gun held at the ready, the hammers back in a cocked position. Canvers kept close to him. The manservant did not want to run any risk of them becoming separated.

The reeds were dense at this point, four or five feet high. The watching men saw them swaying as if a heavy object was being dragged along, forcing its own path. It came closer, squelching. Occasionally there was a clicking noise as though made by some metallic object. Another yard and whatever it was would be on dry land, emerging into the open. Kinlet raised the gun shoulder high. Already he was rehearsing his opening words; ‘All right, you guys. Don't try anything bloody stupid. Just stand over there and keep your 'ands where I can see 'em. The police are on the way.’

The nearest rushes parted. A huge shape, about the size of a calf, but indistinguishable in the shadows, moved forward. Something was behind it, another shapeless mass, with glowing red pinpoints.

‘What the fucking hell is it?’ Kinlet grunted.

‘I … don't know.’ Canvers stepped back. He wanted to say ‘It's a creature of some sort’ but his vocal chords refused to function. His legs felt weak, as though they were having difficulty in supporting his body. He turned his head away. He could not run. Neither could he bring himself to look.

‘They're … crabs’ Kinlet yelled, ‘as big as fucking cows!’

For one brief moment it was the element of surprise on both sides which caused the unexpected confrontation between man and crustacean to come to a standstill. Tiny red eyes winked surprise and hatred in the darkness cast by the towering rushes.

Click-click-click.

The leading crab moved, a pincer waving, closing the distance between itself and the human in its path. Three yards separated them.

Joe Kinlet's finger tightened on the trigger. The pressure was instinctive, the twin barrels lined up on those eyes. The report of the first shot was deafening, the second coming almost immediately afterwards. Both barrels fired right into that horrible face. The gamekeeper knew that he had not missed. Nothing could survive at that range.

Something struck the gun. A metallic clang rang out and the weapon was forced from his grasp, spinning in the air to crash amongst the rocks to his right. That face loomed, unmarked, a thousand times more evil than before, hissing, clicking. The reed bed was coming to life. Shapes emerged on to the rocky shore. Eyes glowed everywhere.

‘Jesus!’ the gamekeeper took a step back and bumped into Canvers. ‘The place is alive with the fuckers. Run!’

Canvers simply stood and stared in disbelief and horror. It could not be true. It was impossible. These creatures had no right to exist in a sane and civilised world. But they did, and they were right here, shambling in an unnervingly ordered fashion, forming a circle which would cut off the two men's retreat.

‘Run!’

There was just a chance. Kinlet pushed Canvers to one side, saw him stumble and fall, and headed for the small gap beyond before it closed. Too late!

The crabs had moved fast, and the circle was complete. Kinlet pulled up, backing away. His boot caught against the fallen manservant, and he only just managed to keep his balance. Canvers was whimpering softly to himself, his hands over his face.

The gamekeeper looked behind him. Crabs were all around him, moving in, closing the circle. His eyes bulged. He searched his brain for a logical explanation. There was none. He wrestled with the problem, and then crossed over the narrow line which separated sanity and madness.

‘All right, you bastards. If you want to cut up rough you've come to the right place.’ Kinlet swung a punch at the nearest tiny face, screaming abuse.

The blow never landed. Hardly was the arm at full extent when something caught it. Held it. A snipping sound like powerful scissors cutting through a length of taut heavy-duty string. A thud.

Kinlet swung back to strike again, powering forward with the stump of his arm, jetting blood at his adversaries, laughing. He was totally unaware that nothing existed below his elbow. He threw a left hook this time, which was parried, caught and held. The bone snapped. A clumsy amputation left trailing sinews and jagged flesh. Still he fought, armless, blow after blow.

The crabs closed in. Tonight they were in no mood to play. The shock of the series of underwater explosions had angered them as never before. They blamed this man with his puny strength.

A forest of claws pulled the gamekeeper down. He kicked at them even though he had no legs. His body was slit from throat to groin. They tore flesh from his bones whilst he still lived. He watched his own intestines devoured without comprehension. And when he died he was still smiling at his final joke. He'd made a right bloody mess of the sods!

Canvers might have been overlooked as he lay still and silent amidst the gore. It would not have mattered either way for his heart had ceased to beat.

His bald head shone in a patch of moonlight. One of the crustaceans gripped it between its pincers and pulled. There was a ripping, tearing noise. The head came away and slipped out of the bloody claws, struck a sharp rock and shattered, revealing a grey morass. The creature lowered itself and slurped greedily, discovering a familiar flavour. The crab knew that it had tasted the same thing before. Not too long ago. It could not remember. It did not matter, anyway.

Bruce McKechnie heard the shots and moved to the window. What the hell was Kinlet firing at? Something was happening down by the loch. He stared, but there was too much shadow.

He moved back to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a pair of binoculars. They were fitted with infrared lenses. They were also very powerful.

It took him some seconds to focus them. He saw a moving dark mass, a conglomeration of shapes. He caught his breath. Even at this distance, in the semi-darkness, there could be no mistake. The crabs had survived the blasts, and now they were ashore. It was impossible to make out any details but it seemed quite obvious to the laird that his manservant and gamekeeper were being ravaged, then devoured just as Jock Rouse had been.

McKechnie could not help them. He did not particularly want to. It was not their deaths that worried him. Labour was replaceable in these outlying places. His concern was that the crabs still lived. Nothing could have survived twenty-four dynamite explosions in the loch. But these hellish fiends were not even harmed by the detonations!

Impassively he kept his gaze on the mêlée. Three minutes, no longer, and it was all over. He could see the crustaceans plainly now as they moved into the moonlight. And then he stiffened. The hands holding the binoculars shook.

The crabs were moving in a ‘V’ formation, military style, perfectly organised … heading inland, coming in the direction of the Cranlarich Hotel!

There could be no doubt about their destination. They scrabbled along, on a direct course, covering the sloping ground at unbelievable speed. He counted them. Fifty, perhaps sixty. And more were emerging from the reed beds, following in the wake of the advance party.

The invasion of the Cranlarich Estate had begun.

Chapter 8

Even in the face of this new disaster Bruce McKechnie could not help wondering what had gone wrong. Certainly these crabs were immensely tough, and could withstand anything which would kill normal creatures. But twenty-four sticks of explosive should have accounted for them.

He was puzzled, too, remembering the noise which the underwater explosions had made, as though the force had been directed upwards instead of being confined to the depths. Was it something to do with the subterranean tunnel perhaps? Maybe the structure of this valley was responsible, or a combination of both. He was glad that the fuses had been long-burning ones, otherwise he might not have had time to get clear of the loch. But right now he had to move fast.

A glance through the window before he left the study revealed that the giant crabs were some three or four hundred yards away. He could hear the clicking of their pincers now. But why should they make for the hotel? Instinct? As though they knew …

He went through to the entrance hall. He heard the voices of the servants from the kitchen. There was nothing to be gained by raising the alarm. Let them find out for themselves. A temporary retreat was paramount, he decided, and he wasn't taking any passengers along.

He let himself out of the tradesman's entrance, walking quickly towards the fir wood at the foot of the steep hillside beyond. He would be safe there.

Click-click-clickety-click.

The laird broke into a run. The attackers were already on the forecourt. A metallic crash came to his ears, and he knew that they had overturned the Range Rover, regarding it as some kind of inexplicable silent foe which barred their way to the building.

Woodwork splintered as the oak front door gave. Masonry crashed. The flimsy defences were breached. The laird reached the fringe of the wood, and hurried into its interior. Only when he had climbed a hundred yards or so of the forested hillside did he pause for breath, and judging by the noise from the Cranlarich Hotel all hell had broken loose.

The three remaining servants had been eating a late supper in the kitchen. Mrs Mudie, the ageing cleaner, Maggie, the middle-aged cook, and Elsie, a younger girl whose uses were confined to making beds and cleaning the guests' rooms, munched in silence. There was nothing to talk about at Cranlarich, anyway. Anything worth saying had been said long ago. Something was going on tonight, but it did not concern them. Poaching and such nefarious activities were the responsibility of Joe Kinlet. They couldn't understand why Canvers had gone with him, but they weren't complaining. The fellow was a pain in the neck, always thinking of something that needed doing from the time you got up until you went to bed.

They heard the noise in the entrance hall. It sounded as if the front door had fallen in and someone was smashing up the furniture.

‘What's that?’ Mrs Mudie asked, spitting food on the table as she opened her full mouth.

‘Dunno,’ Maggie looked up, ‘but it's to be 'oped as them as makes the mess cleans it up. Some toffs arrivin', no doubt. Drunk before they get 'ere.’

‘Nowt to do wi' us.’ Elsie blinked and reached for another portion of cheese. ‘I always say, carry on and take no notice, even if the place falls down around yer feet.’

Even as she spoke, the kitchen door was bowing. A panel splintered, the bottom hinge came away, and the lintel crashed down across the table. Crockery was catapulted into the air, smashing on the floor. The three women leaped to their feet, screaming. They screamed even louder when they saw the big crab wedged in the remains of the door. It moved forward, the woodwork shattered, and it was in the room.

Click-click-click.

The hall was full of crabs. They hissed and jostled, as though every one of them was determined to get into the kitchen. They smelled food. Humans.

Elsie became hysterical. Mrs Mudie collapsed in a faint. Maggie grabbed a saucepan and backed away. But there was nowhere to flee. The larder, which led through to the rear of the building, was locked. Canvers always locked it promptly at eleven-thirty every night.

Click-click-clickety-click.

A waving pincer caught Elsie across the face. Possibly it was an accident on the part of the leading crab which was making for the prone Mrs Mudie. The sharp claw hit the girl horizontally, slicing off her nose and her protruding lower lip. She stared, unbelieving, frozen into immobility, blood gushing down and saturating her white overalls.

Maggie threw her saucepan. It missed the big crab and hit another one, bouncing off and clanging noisily into a corner.

Elsie was seized and pulled towards the crab leader. Her eyes bulged within inches of the creature, and their faces met in a squelching bloody kiss of death. He held her close for a few seconds, and when he pushed her from him her throat was gone, in its place was a gaping hole that jetted scarlet fluid. For once the king of these invaders from the deep was in a benevolent frame of mind, as far as his minions were concerned, anyway.

Turning, hissing, he passed them the human fountain of blood, knowing what they would do with it. He did not even pause to watch. There was other prey to be had.

Mrs Mudie was crushed in the crustacean advance on Maggie. The latter had found a knife. She held it by the hilt, her back against a trestle table. The odds were too great. Even in her terror she knew this. There was no escape. She averted her gaze from the scene by the door, Elsie being ravaged, ripped apart. Mrs Mudie's flattened bloody shape lay in the centre of the room. Maggie wanted to die, but rather by her own hand than at the claws of these devils.

She reversed the knife, held the tip of the blade against where she judged her heart was, and pulled towards her. The pain was agonising for a second or two. She swayed, and sank down. Everything went black. She died before the first crab reached her.

The crabs were in the kitchen no more than five minutes. At the end of that time there was no trace of the three women except where the blood had soaked into the woodwork of broken chairs and tables. Flesh and bone had been devoured, intestines had followed, all washed down with freshly spilled blood.

More orderly now that their initial hunger had been satisfied, the creatures began their exit from the kitchen, shambling out into the hall, going from room to room, forcing their way into every conceivable place. It was as though they were searching for something or somebody, driven on by a relentless hatred of mankind.

Some went upstairs, much of the wide stairway collapsing beneath them. Plaster showered from walls and ceilings. But nowhere was there a living being besides themselves to be found. The fall of Cranlarich was complete. The giant crabs had invaded and conquered.

Steadily they filtered outside, a few at a time, making their way back towards Loch Merse, small groups, individuals, a relaxing of the former military discipline now that victory was theirs.

Bruce McKechnie knew that the crabs had gone back to their underwater hideout. There was not a sound to be heard from the wrecked Cranlarich Hotel. He stood on the edge of the coppice, listening. His features were haggard in the moonlight. He felt himself tottering on the brink of despair. Defeat. Just when he was congratulating himself on having wiped out the monsters in the loch, they had risen from the waters of death and taken their revenge.

Stealthily he began to walk back to the hotel. Every few yards he stopped. There was silence everywhere.

As he rounded a bend in the narrow winding track he saw the big house. It was in total darkness, the only light coming from the moon above, silhouetting it eerily against a background of jagged mountain peaks. Nothing moved.

A few yards further on he saw the results of the invasion. The rear patio was strewn with rubble and broken glass. It was as though there was not a window remaining intact in the whole building. Doors lay splintered at the feet of yawning entrances. A low wall had been totally demolished.

McKechnie climbed over a heap of wood and bricks and entered by the servants' door. The corridor leading to the kitchen was several inches deep in plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. He shone his torch ahead of him, surveying the full extent of the damage. It astounded him that the exterior structure had withstood the onslaught. Some of the walls sagged dangerously.

The entrance to the kitchen was a gaping jagged hole where once there had been a door. He climbed over a mound of debris, and as he struggled to negotiate a fallen girder, he became aware of what lay beyond. Blood lay everywhere, running down the walls in rivulets, congealing before it reached the floor. The bile rose in his throat. He heaved, and almost vomited. The three female servants had been trapped in here, ripped apart, and then … eaten. Possibly some of them were still living whilst the flesh was being devoured from their bodies. Screaming in vain for mercy. There was no sign of the corpses. The killer crabs had left nothing except bloodstains and wreckage in their wake.

Something stirred in the far corner, a small avalanche of brick dust and a clatter of falling cutlery. The laird directed the beam of his torch towards the sound. There were piles of rubble everywhere, but one of them moved. The whole heap straightened up, showering rubbish everywhere. Thick dust, but in the midst two pinpoints of red, close together, flickering, reflecting the light which played upon them.

‘God! No!’ Bruce McKechnie hissed.

The giant crab materialised out of the debris, pushing its way forward with the strength and efficiency of a bulldozer. Its mouth was moving methodically, masticating the remains of something which protruded from it. Black fur matted with blood, a tail. A cat. The laird knew that it was the one which lived in the outhouses, the tabby which kept the vermin down. This crab had obviously remained behind after the others had gone because it knew that the cat was around. A hideous game of crab-and-cat had followed, and even the speed and agility of the latter had not enabled it to evade its pursuer.

The crab swallowed the last of its catch, its mouth pouting like some toothless old man. But its hunger was not satisfied. It saw further prey and was determined to feast yet again.

McKechnie slid back down into the corridor. He knew that if he panicked he would die. Already his pursuer was pushing the obstructing rubble ahead of it, ploughing it into the corridor, causing another shower of plaster to fall from the ceiling. The laird retreated, and too late he realised that he had backed into the house. The tradesman's entrance was sealed off, broken bricks, smashed wood, and an angry crustacean barred his escape into the patio beyond.

He ran for the study. Click-click-click. The creature was only yards behind him. He dived through the gap where once an oak-panelled door had been. His desk did not exist anymore. He darted to the big window … the cold night air filled the room. Only jagged splinters of glass remained, stalactites and stalagmites between the fleeing man and the paved forecourt, ten feet below.

McKechnie glanced behind him. The creature was motionless, regarding him steadily, gloating in its certainty to secure its prey. There was no hurry.

The laird knew exactly what he was going to do. He was one leap from freedom. He might break an arm or a leg. Possibly worse. But the gamble was worth it. And then his brain returned to concise logical reasoning. The remains of the curtains wafted against him, cut to ribbons by the slashing claws that had smashed the windows. In his pocket was the lighter which he had used to light the sticks of explosive. There was one way of ensuring that the crab did not follow him …

The tiny gas flame hissed, and licked at the material. One of the torn streamers ignited, a second caught, and the fire shot upwards. Smoke billowed. McKechnie saw the beginning of fear in the creature's eyes. It hissed angrily, but did not advance.

He stepped out on to the wide sill. Below him the forecourt resembled a macabre chessboard, the flagstones shining in the moonlight, urging him to jump. A game of chance awaited. His move. Win and you live. Lose and you die.

Flames roared behind him. Smoke poured out and obscured his view. He hesitated no longer, and launched himself into space.

He hit the hard surface and rolled, instinctively remembering his training in the parachute regiment several years earlier. Rolling over and over, the concrete burned his flesh. A searing pain pierced his right ankle. He came to a standstill and lay there, breathing heavily. His torch was gone, but he did not need it. The moonlight was sufficient.

He tried to struggle up and collapsed. God, his ankle felt as though it was broken. A roaring filled his head. Christ, he had to get away before that hellish thing up above found a way down.

Flames crackled. Dense smoke billowed upwards. He looked up. The study was an inferno, dancing tongues of fire shooting from the window. It was incredible. The flames were spreading already.

McKechnie began to drag himself along the ground, using his arms and his one good leg. It was painful, but desperation drove him on - and the will to live.

He thought about the crab. Maybe it was already roasting, but that was unlikely as it would be able to escape back through the tradesman's exit. Possibly it would head for the safety of the loch. But he wasn't taking any chances. He had to make himself scarce.

Just as he reached the cover of the forecourt wall he heard the creature, the staccato clicking, angry hissing. He crouched low in the shadows. If it spotted him then there would be no escape this time. He dared not raise his head to look. He just hoped that if it did find him the end would be quick. These hellions appeared to enjoy playing with their victims.

The ground vibrated. McKechnie lay prone in the shadows, holding his breath. His heart pounded wildly, there was a roaring in his ears, and the pain in his ankle was almost unbearable.

Silence. It had stopped. His heart seemed to stop, the noise in his ears lessened. He thought that he might die of fright.

Click-click.

The crab was mobile again, its claws scraping on the concrete, moving away. Slowly, as though it had accepted defeat.

McKechnie raised his head. The crustacean was about ten yards away, scrabbling in the opposite direction, outlined against the burning Cranlarich Hotel. It would not be returning.

The laird gave way to a fit of coughing. The smoke was thickening, billowing out from the building, obscuring everything. He had to move even further away, otherwise he would surely suffocate.

It took him a long time to cover the thirty yards which took him to the top end of the meadowland which ran on down to form the Cranlarich bog. There were frequent stops, long pauses. He was certain that his ankle was broken. Finally he rested on the soft wet grass and turned his head to watch the fire which was fast consuming his home. The whole building was ablaze now, tongues of flame shooting high into the sky, crackling, and showering the area around with sparks like some gigantic firework display.

The crabs had beaten him. They had won in the end. His attempts to destroy them had resulted in his own downfall. Yet, he reflected, the fire was a saviour. Reputed to be the greatest cleanser of all, it had its uses. All traces of the crustacean attack would be removed. No bodies, bloodstains, or other tell-tale evidence. A total clean-up, and the insurance company would meet the bill. Cranlarich could be rebuilt, bigger and better than ever, a new empire rising from the ashes of the old.

It was a comforting thought. Except for one thing. The crabs were still in the loch. So far everybody who had set eyes upon them had died, except himself. But it could not go on. Sooner or later they were bound to be sighted. They could not remain hidden forever.

McKechnie's optimism was evaporating. It disappeared completely when he came upon the deep rutted scar in the grass, freshly turned earth looking as though a tractor and plough had been this way. The long uneven furrows went right down to the edge of the meadow and then faded out on the rocky ground. The crabs had left their clawmarks indelibly imprinted on the ground. There was no mistaking them, the unsightly trails, proof to Mankind of their existence. Up until now they had not ventured up on to soft ground. The shores of the loch were stony and left no tracks. But now …

The moonlight began to dim. The laird glanced skywards. Dark cloud formations were coming from the west. He felt the first large spots of rain on his upturned face. The black mantle of night was being cast over the landscape. And it was a long crawl to Cranlarich village.

‘What's that?’

John Ryland was woken from the pleasant sleep into which he had drifted by Christine Blacklaw shaking him.

‘What's what?’ he mumbled, groping for her slim naked body.

‘Those noises. Sort of rumbling bangs in the distance.’

‘Probably thunder.’

‘No it isn't. There it goes again. That's the fifth one I've heard.’

He sat up in bed. The moonlight filtered in through chinks in the curtains, illuminating the attic bedroom.

‘It was coming from the direction of the Estate.’ She suddenly wished that she had not woken her lover for she knew what he would do.

A few minutes later they heard another muffled explosion.

‘You're right,’ he threw back the sheets, ‘something funny's definitely going on over there. I'm going to go and take a look.’

‘Oh, please, John. Stay here with me. It's none of your affair.’

‘Oh, yes, it is,’ he said disengaging himself from her grasp. ‘Anything to do with McKechnie is something to do with me. Maybe I'll get to the bottom of this business once and for all.’

‘Well, please take care, John,’ she begged, knowing that it was no good attempting to dissuade him from going out. It had been a wonderful night of love, and now it had to end this way. Too many people had been disappearing and nobody seemed interested. Only John Ryland. And if he vanished too … She did not dare to think about it. He had arrived just when she needed him most. And now, after only a few days, she could not face the future without him. Her hopes and her dreams had escalated. She might even be pregnant. She prayed that she was. Then together they could leave this valley of evil forever.

She heard his footsteps going down the stairs, the outer door opening and closing softly. Then nothing. After a few minutes she buried her face in the pillow and wept. Oh, God, was this nightmare never going to end?

John Ryland walked quickly. A mile or so along the road, he turned off through the wood, branches whipping his face, briars clutching at his legs. A few minutes of total darkness and then he emerged into bright moonlight again. The loch looked serene, only sinister because of what he suspected.

He stood for some time on the fringe of the wood, watching and listening. Nothing. Whatever had caused those muffled explosions? There was no explanation. No movement.

The thought of Christine Blacklaw tempted him to return to the Royal Stag. There was nothing to be gained by staying here. And yet Freddie Law had vanished only a hundred yards or so from this spot. Had it been a night like tonight, devoid of mist, then Ryland would surely have seen what happened, maybe even saved the old poacher.

He heard voices. He tensed. He heard them again, whisperings that carried on the still night air, floating across the water, coming from the opposite shore. Silence, then a movement caught his eye. Two figures glimpsed about half-a-mile away. They vanished into the thick woodland that ran parallel to the shore.

He thought he recognised the laird's men. Ryland was curious, but he knew that he was not going to learn anything from where he stood. It was imperative to get across the loch on to the opposite side. And, apart from a long swim which he not only did not relish, but would have given away his presence, there was only one way to achieve that. A long walk lay ahead of him, around the loch, through woodland that he did not know, and then across open meadowland. He came to a decision and moved off.

The big wood was dark. Several times he found himself on tracks which petered out into dense thickets. On occasions he was forced to use his torch to check on his whereabouts. He was constantly going back on his own tracks. An artificial fir plantation such as this gave no landmarks. Every tree looked alike.

Such was his frustration and concentration that it was some minutes before he became aware that the night was no longer silent. The air was filled with a distant noise, a clicking sound that went on and on, growing louder, fading away. But always he could hear it. Then two reports rang out. A shotgun.

Click-click-click-clickety-click.

Suddenly he recognised the clicking for what it was. The giant crabs had emerged from Loch Merse and were on the move.

‘Christ alive!’ He began to force his way through a patch of waist-high undergrowth, heedless of caution. Nobody would hear him against that din.

It seemed an eternity before he was free of the wood. As he stepped out on to open land he looked around him. Nothing living moved. But the clicking continued, far away. And with it he heard the crashing of breaking glass, splintering of woodwork and falling masonry.

Cranlarich Hotel was plainly visible in the moonlight. Some lights were showing. Then he heard muffled screams.

‘Jesus, they've attacked the hotel!’ He broke into a run, his feet sinking into the soft ground, saturating his shoes and socks.

The going became heavier with thick mud. He had to drag one leg out and move it whilst the other sank in, squelching. This was something he had not anticipated.

Suddenly, his right leg was stuck, deeper than before. He tried to move his left. It would not budge. The ground around him gurgled and sucked. He felt himself sink in another couple of inches.

He struggled. He was stuck fast. Then he remembered something Freddie Law told him at the start of that fateful night. ‘We can't get round the other side without crossin' the Cranlarich bog. One false step on there and ye've had it.’

The ground beneath him shifted. He pulled against it, and felt a shoe come off. He was knee deep. Panic welled up inside him and he knew that he must not give way to it.

Unwittingly he had blundered into the infamous Cranlarich bog from which it was reputed there was no escape for Man nor beast!

Chapter 9

The mud was above John Ryland's knees, and he realised that if he did not act quickly he was lost. There was no question of anybody being around to give him assistance if he shouted. He certainly did not want to attract the attention of the crabs.

He remembered talking with a wildfowler once who had found himself in a similar predicament out on the Solway marshes. The fellow had walked into quicksands on the edge of the Nith estuary, and had been stuck for three hours. He had escaped by lying flat on his back, thereby resisting the sucking pressure, and gradually worming his way out.

Ryland lowered himself down, until he was lying flat from the knees upwards. The ground was soft and cold. He wondered if the idea would work. At the moment he felt as securely trapped as ever, but he knew it would take time. Perhaps he was only prolonging the end, but, in any case, he fully believed in the old saying that whilst there was life there was hope. He hoped and prayed.

Time passed. The initial noise from Cranlarich Hotel had abated. Occasionally he heard crashing sounds, but there was no more screaming. He shuddered. Had they all been taken by surprise? And what of the laird?

He had no means of telling the time because in the rush to get here he had forgotten to put on his watch. An hour … two? The moon was becoming obscured by clouds, and no longer could he discern the shape of the hotel in the distance. There were no lights showing from the windows.

He felt his feet moving an inch or two, no more. His plan was working but it was painfully slow. He was sweating, too, in spite of the damp and cold.

The clicking started again. The noise grew in volume. The crabs were coming back. He listened to their progress. They were passing several hundred yards to his left. It could be coincidence, their nearest point of access to Loch Merse, but was it possible that they were aware of the danger of the bog and avoided it?

The clicking died away after about twenty minutes and he knew that the crustaceans had returned to their lair.

Slowly his legs were coming free, the bog reluctantly relinquishing its hold. He took his time.

The silence was broken by a new sound, a fierce crackling. At first he could not identify it. Suddenly he knew. Fire!

John Ryland raised his head. The Cranlarich Hotel was ablaze, the flames leaping high into the sky, turning the approaching clouds a deep orange. He could smell the smoke, too, sharp and acrid.

He wondered how the building had come to be on fire. Possibly the crabs had somehow caused a short circuit in their rampaging. Well, at least he knew for certain now that the creatures existed. But first he had to escape from the bog. His feet were almost free. Another few minutes and he would be clear.

His bare muddy feet came out of the sucking bog with a final gurgle as though the mud resented losing its victim. He breathed a long sigh of relief, but knew that he had to keep flat. He started to crawl, using his elbows and toes to propel himself along. Twenty yards and he would be back on the edge of the big wood.

With a loud sigh of relief Ryland rose to his feet and stood on firm land. Purely by luck he had got as far as he had before the bog snatched at him. He wasn't going to chance it again, even in broad daylight when he might be able to follow an existing sheeptrack through the mire. The only way he was going to Cranlarich was by the long route, an even further trek to the north until he reached the rutted road.

He turned to survey the burning hotel. It stood out stark and terrible, a massive funeral pyre, almost unrecognisable, a mass of flames and shooting sparks. He wondered if any of the villagers had seen the blaze. If they had, there was no sign of the alarm having been raised. They would let it burn, and pray that the hated laird was being cremated with it. None would raise a finger to help him.

It started to rain. Ryland grimaced. He was saturated already so it really made no difference. His dilemma was whether to return to the village or to go on up to the hotel. Not that he would be in time to help, anyway. He knew Christine would be worried about him. But, on the other hand, having come this far, and having faced the dangers which the night held, he wanted to see the business through. He wanted to gaze on the smouldering remains of the Cranlarich Hotel as daylight broke, to see for himself. After that the giant crabs would have to be dealt with.

With the blazing building acting as a beacon, he set off. He followed the fringe of the wood rather than take the shorter route through its interior in pitch blackness. Even so, the terrain was heavy going, thick bracken which had barely died down even though autumn was well advanced, and dense patches of briars. It rained steadily, the downpour increasing until, when at last he reached the rough track which served as a vehicular access to the estate, it was torrential.

He took the winding road, the glow from the fire enabling him to follow its winding course, the mud ankle-deep, the numerous potholes already filled with water.

Suddenly, he stopped. Fear gripped him, and his instinct was to turn and flee. He spied a movement ahead of him, something crawling towards him, unrecognisable. It saw him and stopped. He backed away. Another shower of sparks from the fire illuminated the scene for a few seconds, and during that space he saw outstretched arms, legs, the head raised, all covered in mud. A man!

Sheer relief flooded over him.

‘Who … who is it?’ he called.

‘McKechnie,’ came the reply, hoarse and cracked. ‘And who the hell are you?’

‘Ryland.’

There was a sharp intake of breath from the man on the ground. ‘You've no bloody business on my land.’

‘By the look of you it's a good job I am.’ John Ryland shone his torch on McKechnie. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Fire started … I had to jump from the study window.’

‘What about the others … your servants?’

‘Don't know … no chance … fire had got under way …’

‘Well, we'd better see about getting you down to the village.’

‘I can manage.’

‘Don't be bloody stupid.’ Ryland grasped the other, dragging him to his feet. ‘Now lean on me, and don't argue. It'll be hard going, and this rain doesn't help matters. And let's just hope we don't meet any crabs on the way.’

‘Don't start that bloody nonsense again.’

‘You can't deny it this time, McKechnie. They came out of the loch and wrecked your place, for some unknown reason.’

‘I suppose you saw 'em,’ the laird's lips curled in a sneer.

‘No, but I heard 'em clicking.’

‘That's no proof. I never saw anything.’

Ryland bit back his reply. Bruce McKechnie was obviously determined to deny the existence of these creatures even now. There was no point in arguing about it out here in the torrential rain. He draped one of the laird's arms around his own neck, gripped him by the waist, and the long journey back to the village began.

Dawn was trying to break through the low cloud just as they reached the main street of Cranlarich. On their left stood the stone-built Royal Stag, dismal-looking in the half-light. One of the attic windows was lighted. Christine Blacklaw's room.

‘I'm not going there.’ McKechnie started to struggle.

‘Well, there's nowhere else so you'll have to make the best of it. Anyway, you're in no fit state to argue.’

Even as they reached the door it was opening. Christine Blacklaw stood there, dressed in a sweater and jeans, an anxious look on her pert features. As her gaze fell on the laird, her expression hardened.

‘John,’ she turned towards Ryland, ‘I've been so worried. Are you all right?’

‘I'm OK,’ he smiled reassuringly and leaned forward to kiss her. ‘A little bit of bother …’

‘You're saturated … and … and what's the matter with … him!’

‘He's hurt his ankle, jumping from a window to escape the fire … after the crabs had wrecked his place.’

‘You're bloody mad, the pair of you!’ McKechnie shouted hysterically, leaning with his back against the wall, incapable of further movement.

‘The first thing we're going to do is to get you off our hands,’ Ryland snapped, ‘and at least our consciences will be clear then, though I don't give a sod what happens to you after that. Then I think it's time we had a word with the police and told them all we know.’

The laird glared at them but did not speak.

‘I'll phone for a doctor.’ Christine went back into the house. ‘Mr McKechnie can please himself whether he comes inside or stays there.’

Bruce McKechnie was seated in the Dumfries police station with an air of forced tolerance in his expression. A walking stick rested beside his chair, and his injured ankle was heavily bandaged. There was no break, as he had at first suspected, but merely a bad sprain. A few days' rest was all that the doctor had prescribed.

Chief-Inspector Broomhall sighed and looked up from the file on his desk.

‘This is a very strange business, indeed,’ he scrutinised the other carefully. ‘We have no fewer than eight persons missing now. The original two guests at your hotel, Ryland and Barrett, the poacher, Law. And your whole staff, the gamekeeper and manservant and three female servants.’

‘My servants perished in the fire,’ McKechnie said uneasily, ‘the whole place was gutted, burnt to the ground with everything and everybody in it.’

‘No.’ The policeman shook his head slowly, his eyes riveted on the man seated opposite to him. ‘I can assure you that your staff did not perish in the fire. Even in the worst inferno it is possible to ascertain from the ashes whether or not humans died. There were no deaths in the blaze, that I can assure you, Mr McKechnie.’

‘They must … well, in that case where are they?’

‘You tell me, and we might be getting somewhere. At the moment we are listing them as missing. We are following up every clue, although there aren't many. The fire was thorough.’

The laird felt a faint sensation of relief, but it was only momentary.

‘Tell me, where did your late gamekeeper go after he left you?’

‘I haven't the slightest idea. I paid him his wages, gave him his cards, and he left.’

‘I see,’ Broomhall frowned. ‘By the way, I've interviewed Mr Ryland, the brother of one of the missing men. He's convinced that there is … er, something in Loch Merse.’

‘He's mad,’ McKechnie snapped. ‘I wouldn't pay much attention to anything he says.’

‘In my profession,’ the Chief-Inspector rapped, ‘we have to pay attention to anything which anybody says.’

‘He's got an obsession about giant crabs. He freely admits that he hasn't seen them. But he's heard them,’ McKechnie sneered.

‘Hmm, well, I'll admit that it is a bit of a far-fetched theory. Nevertheless, our frogmen have searched Loch Merse as thoroughly as is possible. I shall, doubtless, have to interview you again. With the Cranlarich Hotel virtually uninhabitable, I should be grateful if you would let me know where you will be residing in the meantime.’

‘If you insist,’ the laird muttered. ‘As a matter of fact we have a bothy on the top grouse moor in which we serve lunch for our shooting parties. It is quite habitable and I shall be living there until more permanent quarters are available.’

The policeman nodded and made a note on his pad. ‘By the way, do you know a man by the name of Sandy Cline?’

‘He's one of my employees,’ McKechnie stiffened. ‘Used to keep his own sheep, but he's semi-retired now. Helps look after the grouse moors. Why do you ask?’

‘According to John Ryland, this man Cline has also seen the giant crabs.’

‘Oh, what rubbish!’

‘Possibly. But we cannot overlook anything, Mr McKechnie. As a matter of fact, Detective-Inspector Page has gone up there to interview him this afternoon!’

Detective-Inspector Page had left his car parked by the blackened ruins of the Cranlarich Hotel. Police were still working amidst the debris, collecting buckets of ash from various places, checking on the masonry which still stood, examining the area within a radius of several hundred yards.

The rain had eased up now after two days of continual downpour, and the sky was leaden with heavy drizzle. More rain was forecast.

Page picked his way carefully along the muddy track, attempting to avoid the deepest puddles. To his left, on the meadowland which stretched right down to the loch itself, he noticed a number of deep ruts, as though a plough had attempted to work on the land and then the project had been abandoned. The uneven channels were filled with water. The policeman noted them in passing, but dismissed them from his mind.

A quarter of an hour later he came upon the cottage he was seeking. It was strangely silent, almost forbidding in spite of its beautiful setting. A pile of newly cut wood was stacked beside the front door but no smoke came from the chimney. The curtains were still drawn.

He knocked on the door and waited. There was no answer. He knocked again.

The drizzle was heavier now, turning to rain. He cursed. Surely the old man had not gone out on a day like this. Page did not relish tramping through the hills looking for him. Neither was he enthusiastic about a long wait. He tried the door. It was unlocked, creaking open an inch or two. He pushed it until he could see inside.

The living room was gloomy, and he could barely discern the details. Shrugging his shoulders he stepped over the threshold. The atmosphere was damp and stale. A faint odour caused him to pause; one that was familiar but it took him a few seconds to place it. Hardened as he was, he shivered as he recognised the smell of death.

He went through into the adjoining room. The aroma was stronger here, nauseating. The bed stood in the corner. A still form, half-covered by a blanket, lay upon it, an arm dangling over the side.

Page looked down on the pallid features of Sandy Cline, the eyes closed as though sleeping.

The Detective-Inspector turned away and walked back outside. Whatever Sandy Cline knew he would take with him to the other side of the grave. At least, Page reflected grimly, the shepherd had not disappeared off the face of the earth. That would have been just too much for Chief-Inspector Broomhall.

Don Phinney had worked on the Record for his entire career in journalism. Even now, at fifty years of age, greying and thickening around the waistline, he had not lost his zest for the sensational. His conventional appearance, loose-fitting raincoat and wide-rimmed trilby hat, belied his unconventional stories and feature articles.

Pulling down the brim of his hat, he glanced from the mist-enshrouded Loch Merse to the young man who stood at his side.

‘Sure, there's a good story here, Mr Ryland,’ as he spoke the cigarette stuck to his lower lip bobbed up and down, ‘but the question is just in what form do we present it, and how far can we go? This man Cline died in his bed from natural causes. Maybe he could have told us something. Maybe he couldn't. We'll never know. At any rate, several people have vanished into thin air, and that's enough to make the front page alone.’

‘But the crabs,’ John Ryland insisted, ‘I know they exist.’

‘But the fact is you haven't seen them.’

‘No, but I've heard them. Freddie Law saw one. Sandy Cline saw several.’

‘One is dead, the other is missing. So that rules out any concrete evidence there.’

‘But the claw marks leading from the loch to the Cranlarich Hotel and back again?’

‘Something, sure. But there's no means of identifying them after the torrential rain we've had these past few days.’

‘But I've already told you, I heard 'em that night. The clicking was nearly deafening. Somebody fired a couple of shots at 'em. That was probably Joe Kinlet before they got 'im. Just as they got my brother and Paul Barrett, and all the others. They're there, I tell you!’

‘OK, OK.’ Phinney lit another cigarette with the remains of the first, and puffed out blue smoke into the damp atmosphere. ‘I won't argue with you. There's something there. But why crabs? They don't sound feasible. Now take the Loch Ness Monster. Somebody's only got to see a few ripples in the water and half the population comes up for a looksee. Suppose, just suppose, that as both Loch Ness and Loch Merse have underwater passages linking them to the sea that Nessie had decided to change her home …’

‘But that's ridiculous.’

‘No more ridiculous than your giant crabs.’

‘What you mean is, Phinney, Nessie would sell more copies of your paper than the crabs would.’

‘I didn't say that.’

‘No, but it's true. Fair enough, you print what you want, but in the meantime I'm going to come up with something that will make you look bloody stupid.’

Within twenty-four hours the Record was carrying Don Phinney's special feature article on its front page.

NESSIE MAKES THE TRIP TO LOCH MERSE. IS SHE RESPONSIBLE FOR MISSING PEOPLE?

Other leading dailies picked up the story.

SPORTING ESTATE DEMOLISHED. IS THE MONSTER OF THE LOCH TO BLAME?

John Ryland read the article through in the packed lounge bar of the Royal Stag. Christine was behind the bar serving customers as fast as she could. No longer were her duties confined to the evenings. Suddenly, it seemed, Cranlarich had become the capital of the world. Traffic jams, several miles in length, built up as far back as Gretna Green. The winding road from there onwards was virtually at a standstill with caravans and trailers packed with camping gear. The valley itself was overcrowded, lines of tents to be seen on the area around the loch in spite of the bad weather conditions.

‘Bloody idiot!’ John Ryland spoke his thoughts aloud as he finished reading the purely speculative account, folded the newspaper, and tossed it on to the bar in disgust.

‘Who?’ Christine looked up from pulling a pint. ‘McKechnie?’

‘No. Phinney. What a load of crap.’

‘So what? It's good for business, and it'll certainly teach Bruce McKechnie a thing or two. He can't very well chuck ten thousand trespassers off his estate, and neither can the police.’

‘That isn't what I'm thinking about.' He lit a cigarette. ‘It's the vulnerability of all these people that worries me. Hell, if I tried to tell 'em the truth, to warn 'em, I'd be ridiculed. Just suppose the crabs went on the rampage at night. They'd massacre thousands. Folks wouldn't stand a chance. And we surely haven't seen the last of those horrors!’

Christine Blacklaw paled. She knew he was right. Loch Merse and its surrounding area was a terrible death trap, human beings the bait, the crustaceans lurked nearby, waiting to move in for one of the most terrible slaughters in the history of Mankind.

Chapter 10

Bruce McKechnie moved amongst the crowds of sightseers which thronged Loch Merse. Wearing rough working clothes he had no wish to make his identity known, cursing all around him beneath his breath. His ankle ached, and he still walked with a limp.

The skies were clear but there was a chill in the air. There had been a sharp frost the previous night but it did not appear to have deterred any of the campers. If anything, their enthusiasm was greater, shown by an excited buzz of conversation as they crowded close to the shore.

A large motor launch was moored some hundred and fifty yards out on the water. A winch protruded from the stern, and attached to this was a steel spherical object roughly the size of a small car, three large portholes enabling the spectators to see that two men sat inside it. It was a bathysphere, transported from London to Cranlarich only the day before. The search for the Loch Merse monster was really in full swing.

The laird lit a cigar. Damned fools. The crabs would make short work of that if they got their claws around it. He wondered why there had been no sign of the crustaceans since the destruction of the hotel, now two and a half weeks ago. It could not have been due to the numbers of people around. That would have made no difference to the monsters. Maybe the moon had something to do with it. He had read somewhere that crab movements were controlled by the moon. It had been full when they had come ashore in numbers. Another ten days and it would be full again.

Possibly the creatures did not like the cold weather. There was just a chance, and he hardly dared to hope that it was true, that the drop in temperature recently had sent them scuttling back to the sea where it was warmer.

Well, the bathysphere would delve into the depths of the loch, a search that would be more thorough than any carried out by frogmen. If the crabs were down there, then surely they would be found … even if the searchers never came back to tell the tale!

He thought about his own future. As a sporting proposition Cranlarich was finished. This whole situation could have been turned to his advantage, given warning and time to prepare. Ten thousand people would have paid to come in here and view the monster crabs. But it was too late. They were in, and there was no means of getting them out.

Refreshment stalls of various kinds were making a small fortune - at McKechnie's expense. He had nothing to show for it except the inconvenience. Only the nonappearance of the crabs would bring all this to an end. Folks would lose interest, go back home. Maybe he could prepare for a future event, a pay-check on the rutted road, his own stalls, toilet charges, levies for caravans. Christ, he had missed out on the biggest money-spinner that had ever come his way.

He hated John Ryland more than he had ever hated any man. And those he had hated most in the past had died. People who had stood in his way. Anger welled up to a new peak as the laird stood watching the preparations for launching the bathysphere. Somehow he would have his revenge on the man responsible for all this. He considered the various ways in which he could kill Ryland. Perhaps, with luck, the crabs would do it for him.

John Ryland watched as the bathysphere vanished into the water, his arm around Christine Blacklaw. There was a hush among those who lined the banks. It resembled a funeral with a spherical steel coffin and two men being lowered into a watery grave.

‘It's awful,’ Christine whispered. ‘If those crabs are really down there …’

‘Could be they've gone,’ Ryland answered her, ‘they haven't been seen for over a fortnight now. I can't believe that they've really gone back to the sea. They're just lying low, biding their time. Waiting … for something!’

The bathysphere was down, the cable taut, unravelling. The launch was directly above what was supposedly the deepest part of Loch Merse. Some said that the subterranean tunnel was down there. None really knew. Perhaps the two scientists might solve more than one age-old mystery.

Some of the watchers had binoculars trained on the launch. They saw the crew busying themselves with various bits of apparatus, peering over the side. A hubbub of conversation rippled through the crowd. This was the highlight of the whole hunt for the Loch Merse monster. Many were disappointed because they had not caught a glimpse of it so far. Those two men who had braved the depths would come up with the answer, they hoped. Would it be as elusive as the creature in Loch Ness? Was it, indeed, the same giant reptile that had been sighted by the fortunate few? The press claimed that it was. Was it responsible for the vanishing people? If so, it was best viewed at a distance.

People were moving back from the water's edge as though they expected the monster suddenly to rise up. Others, more daring, jostled for the vacant places. The refreshment stalls were forgotten. An hour, maybe two, and the truth would be known.

Ryland glanced about him. A sea of faces met his gaze, all oblivious of everybody else. Only one thing mattered. A child was crying. Its mother ignored it. Somebody shouted for it to shut up. Tension was building up to a climax. Nobody could relax. A haze of cigarette smoke drifted in the windless atmosphere. Some smoked, others fidgeted aimlessly.

McKechnie lit his third cigar in succession. For possibly the first time in his life he had bowed to the masses, followed them, shared their feelings. He hated himself for it. This should have been his own private show on the land he owned. A personal performance, himself directing operations. As it was, he was a nonentity, one of them, the mindless public he despised.

The die was cast. The men were down. Their verdict, if they returned, would be his fate. Either he would be left in peace to rebuild everything which the crabs had destroyed, or else he would be cursed with sensation seekers throughout the months, years even, which lay ahead.

Time passed. The crew of the launch had gone below deck. Radio contact with the divers below was imperative. Nobody cared whether they lived or died except those directly concerned with the operation. The monster was the star performer, and so far it had not appeared on the stage.

The sun was starting to dip behind Criffel, a deep orange ball that promised frost before morning. Nobody cared. Something must happen soon. They would not leave the bathysphere down there after darkness had fallen. Time was already running out. No more than an hour of daylight was left.

‘Something's happening,’ Christine clutched Ryland's arm. ‘Look … out there!’

Close to the launch the water swirled, the swell causing the craft to bob up and down. Men were on deck, checking on the automatic winch, the steel rope winding up into a coil, whirring and creaking. The water foamed. A shape emerged.

Shrill squeals came from women in the waiting crowd. Others gasped, then a sudden hush.

The water spouted high into the air, a fountain which engulfed the spherical steel object following it, the rays of the setting sun glistening on the drops and glinting on the hard surface. Faces pressed against the portholes, their expressions indiscernible. Up, up, it rose, creaking and swinging, level with the deck.

The crew crowded round, hauling the gently spinning giant ball towards the side.

The crowd pushed forward, some spilling into the water with curses. Men stood knee-deep, heedless of the cold, like a football crowd invading the pitch trying to reach their heroes. Only the depth of water prevented them from going in further.

The divers were out of their prison, surrounded by figures in heavy sweaters and slacks. No sign, no indication was given to the spectators. No action on the part of the central figures in the drama could be interpreted as either success or failure.

The deck was empty. Everybody had gone below.

‘Well, what do you make of that?’ Christine Blacklaw breathed.

‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ Ryland shook his head. ‘It's all been discussed between crew and divers over the radio on the way up. There'll be an announcement later, probably on the radio and TV. One thing's certain, they didn't tangle with the crabs. We'd better make tracks, if we can force our way through this lot of idiots.’

Radio and television transmission were poor in Cranlarich, the hills acting as a barrier against all forms of communication with the world beyond. The newscaster's voice was staccato amidst the incessant crackling.

‘This afternoon in … Scotland … bathysphere was lowered down … searching for the monster … two and a half hours … nothing was sighted … Crowds … already … leaving … traffic jams building up at Gretna. If, indeed, … was Nessie, she is believed … have returned home …’

Bruce McKechnie switched off the transistor radio which stood on the windowsill of the sparsely furnished bothy. He stared at his own reflection on the rain-spattered pane, and laughed aloud. A mixture of mirth and self-satisfaction. Bitterness, too.

‘The bloody fools,’ he muttered, ‘Serves 'em all right. God knows where the crabs are, but they sure know how and when to keep out of the way!’

Within three days only a handful of people remained camped on the Cranlarich Estate. The weather was much colder now, and there had been some sleet showers. Each day saw a new departure, a caravan hitched, a trailer loaded, cars bumping down the muddy track, drivers hunched over the wheels, disillusioned. Another hoax? A false sighting? They were always happening, but perhaps next time …

Martin Bryant had been in Spain when he had read the Loch Merse stories. The newspapers were a week old. Anything could have happened by now. It might all be over, the monster seen and photographed.

He swore, and pursed his lips, a sign that he was having difficulty in making a decision. It was just his luck. A score of trips to Loch Ness had yielded nothing, and now, just when he was out of the country on business, this might be the big one.

Tall and thin, even an expensive made-to-measure suit hung badly on his frame. Thick-rimmed glasses and a balding crown revealed all too plainly that he was on the wrong side of forty, in spite of his efforts to convince various girlfriends that he had just turned thirty-five. A good job with prospects, an even better salary, and frequent travel abroad were nothing when compared with the chance to set eyes on the mythical Nessie. It was a lifetime's ambition, and suddenly he felt that he was about to be thwarted. He realised how Scott must have felt when he saw the Norwegian flag. Second best is an also-ran, no matter how much you try to convince yourself that it isn't.

He got up from the table and made his way to the rear of the hotel where a number of telephone booths were situated. He had to wait several minutes until one became vacant. It seemed like hours. He muttered an insult to the man who stepped out and held the door for him, and his fumbling fingers dropped coins on the floor. Nervous tension built up. He felt like screaming when at last the managing director of his firm spoke on the other end of the line. Lies. All lies. Convincing ones, though. The deal had fallen through. He hadn't even tried to negotiate. Fuck the deal. Fuck the firm. There were airport delays. They were happening all the time. It might take him several days to get back to England. Lying again. He'd go straight to Glasgow and try and get that other deal fixed up. Yeah, he'd go to Scotland all right. It was a big deal, the biggest yet. More important than the fucking firm and its three million pound profit last year.

Sweat rolled down his face. One down and two to go. There were no delays at the airport. A plane was leaving in three hours for Heathrow. He booked a seat.

One to go. His shirt was sticking to him. He dropped some more coins on the floor. Someone was tapping on the door. Impatient sod. Fuck off. He placed a call to England, Birmingham, a Ronald Tapper. The phone rang and rang. Bryant cursed aloud and played shove halfpenny with three pesetas on the ledge until he dropped two of them. He was answered at last. God, the relief, even to hear Tapper's wife. Sorry, Ron's away. In Scotland? Yes. Any news? No, nothing. Half the population's there. Good, I'll join 'em.

He landed at Heathrow later that day. Once through the customs he picked up his car. A loud sigh escaped his lips as he eased his way north. He left the radio on. There was news on the hour. Fuck the pound. He wasn't interested in either its rise or fall. Nor in the prospects of an election in the spring. Just give us the monster! Crowds were still there, but had seen nothing. That was good. No news was good news. Hold on just a bit longer, Nessie.

Traffic was starting to build up on the M6 so he took the route through the Lakes. A lot of other people had thought of this, too. A long wait ensued at Ambleside due to roadworks. He rejoined the main north road at Carlisle. It was a total snarl-up. Jesus Christ!

The news was broadcast again. The bathysphere was back up on dry land. A negative report. Despair struck at first, followed by elation. The experts hadn't found the creature. That was great. Half the twits who had been fouling up the hunting ground were already on their way home. The rest would follow tomorrow. His chances were increased. Cars ahead of him were doing three-point turns in the stationary queue, swinging around, and going back the way they had come. Giving up already.

Martin Bryant sat it out. He knew it wouldn't be long. A few hours and he would be in Cranlarich with a perfectly free field to work in. He checked his equipment to pass the time. Binoculars with infrared lenses, telescope, cameras. Personal items didn't count. All comfort would be sacrificed in his quest.

There were vacancies at the Royal Stag. He booked in and told the attractive dark-haired girl that he was an ornithologist. He could tell that she didn't believe him. Well, fuck her. No, not literally, he hadn't got time. The feller helping her behind the bar was eyeing him suspiciously. Sod 'em both.

Bryant ate some lunch in the bar and then went out to look the ground over. The loch looked peaceful enough. The launch and the bathysphere were gone. A couple of tents remained on the far side. A caravan was just pulling away. In all probability those remaining campers would be jacking it in soon. Excitement coursed through his whole body. The hunt was on. There was no smoke without fire, no matter what anybody said. Mostly it was lame excuses to cover up failure.

He made some plans. The moon was just coming up to full. Ideal. There was more likelihood of seeing the monster by night, when everywhere was quiet, than by day with the whole place teeming with bloody idiots who wouldn't recognise a monster if they saw it. The other side of the loch would be a better vantage point on higher ground. The road appeared to go round like a horseshoe, right up to the ruins of the building below the mountains.

Funny business that, he ruminated. Of course, Nessie hadn't wrecked it. That was stretching the imagination a bit too far. More likely the fellow who owned it had set it on fire to get the insurance money, and then he'd bugger off out of the country. Spain, probably. You either went to Spain or South America, depending upon what you'd been up to. Insurance fiddlers and tax dodgers usually chose Spain.

Martin Bryant felt highly satisfied with his afternoon's reconnaissance. The sky was clear, not a cloud in sight. It was damned cold, but if he could find a suitable point on that roadway opposite he could watch from the car. He dismissed the rumours about the missing people. Plenty of folks seized an opportunity to disappear. Probably this was an insurance fiddle, too. Nessie wouldn't hurt a fly. She hadn't around Loch Ness in all the years she'd been there so why should she start now?

He went up to his hotel bedroom and lay down on his bed. There were several hours to go before he needed to set out. There was no point in going before the moon was up. He needed some rest, but sleep evaded him. He remembered the time when he'd gone on his first seaside holiday with his parents. He felt just like that now, unable to sleep for thinking about it. And then he'd dozed off on the train and hadn't woken up until after they arrived. It was dark then, and he'd had to wait until the following day for the first glimpse of Weston with the tide out. An agonising few hours had followed before he actually saw the sea itself. There must be no nodding off this time.

The girl and her boyfriend were stealing sly glances at him all through dinner. Hell, he wasn't a freak. What was up with them? He hadn't told them why he was here, and he didn't mean to, either. None of their fucking business. Still, he'd slip out of the hotel as unobtrusively as possible when it was time. No point in attracting further unwanted attention to himself. Oh, yes, they knew why he had come, the real reason.

It was ten o'clock when he left the bar, went up to his room, donned a polo-necked sweater and jeans, and crept back down the stairs. Voices and laughter erupted in the bar. He glanced in. The old chap, the landlord, was serving. There was no sign of the other two. He sniggered softly to himself. They were probably busy screwing somewhere. Serve 'em right if she found herself in the family way. That would stop 'em minding other people's business.

He backed the Cortina out into the road. He was tense, excited, his movements jerky, grinding the gears and stalling the engine. The headlights showed a deserted street, lights showing in some of the upstairs windows of the terraced cottages. Most of the inhabitants of Cranlarich were retiring to bed. The crowds had gone. Life would revert to normal in a few days.

He drove out of the village, and on to a straight stretch of road. Bryant's foot was hard down on the accelerator. The bend at the end, where the tarmac turned sharply at right angles to head towards the Estate, caught him unawares. Tyres squealed. He skidded, caught the grass verge on the opposite side with a rear wheel, and somehow kept the vehicle under control. Brakes screeched, and he slowed down, momentarily shaken.

From now onwards the bends were frequent, and he maintained a steady 30 mph. The road began to climb, becoming more uneven, the original surface petering out and being replaced by loose shale. Away from the trees the moonlight flooded the countryside, sparkling on the frosty grass. He switched off his headlights. They were superfluous. Just sidelights stayed on to comply with the law.

A dip appeared, which meant shadows again. He flicked the dip switch, the harsh beams of light illuminating the ground ahead of him. There seemed to be a patch of blackness, moving. God, there was something stuck in the middle of the road! Tyres screamed again. Was it a straying cow. No, the shape was wrong. He skidded, stopped within a yard of it. Oh, Jesus God!

Click-click-click!

There was no mistaking the species, an outsize crab. Horrible. Watching him. He threw the gears into reverse, the engine screaming its protest.

Crash! The impact at the rear threw him forward.

Broken glass tinkled. He turned his head. A pair of eyes was focused on him through the rear window. Glinting pinpoints of red pierced the darkness. Whatever it was he had backed into it, something solid and unyielding, jamming him securely between it and the crab in front. Shapes were materialising out of the shadows on either side. Lumbering things that hissed and clicked as they moved, their eyes like fireflies in the night.

Metal scraped. Glass showered into the car. A pincer was thrust through the nearside front window, groping blindly. Martin Bryant screamed in terror and wriggled down on to the floor. Click-click. The claw snapped the air where his head had been only seconds before. The crustacean hissed angrily at being thwarted.

Bryant trembled with fear. There was nothing he could do. No way he could drive off to safety even if he could operate the controls. The steering column fell on to him with a loud snap. He tried to get down even lower.

The car was moving, rocking from side to side. A door bulged inwards. More glass fell on him. The vehicle was airborne as though a winch was lifting it clear of the ground, and up, swaying, rolling, turning over. Martin Bryant clutched desperately at the handbrake. The rachet protested, then broke. He was falling, sprawling on the inverted ceiling.

The car hurtled downwards. The impact knocked the breath from his body. Glass flew everywhere. A warm stickiness covered his face. He tasted blood in his mouth. He was too frightened even to scream.

The Cortina swayed on its roof.

Click-click-click.

Pincers delved in through the broken windows, a forest of claws, snapping, searching. Everywhere. There was no escape. He whimpered. One of them had him by the ankle. He was dragged by the leg, jammed in the window. His hands were caught from the opposite side. A tug o' war commenced, his body stretched beyond the limits of endurance.

He managed one solitary scream, and then he passed out. Brief unconsciousness that slid swiftly into death as his body came apart. His legs and arms were torn off. The trunk was grabbed and pulled from both sides. The head came away by the neck, but the bloody torso was too large to pass through the small opening. Crabs jostled each other, tearing at the flesh. They became more angry and frustrated by the second. Seldom were they ever thwarted, even of the remaining morsels, in one of their grisly banquets.

They paused, hissing. Munching, slurping, they eyed that which still eluded them. Then the big one shambled forward, the others falling back, not daring to question the authority of their leader. Powerful claws secured a grip on the upturned door. Crustacean muscles took the strain beneath the shell. Nothing could withstand such pressure. The door was torn off its hinges, and cast aside.

The crab reached inside with one pincer and lifted out the human remains, the mouth opening up to surprising dimensions and fastening over the bloody stump of Martin Bryant's neck. The creature slurped its delight, crunching on bone, chewing and swallowing.

The circle of watching crabs remained motionless. None dared to interfere. Their first kill tonight was claimed by their leader.

But they knew there would be others.

Chapter 11

‘Where are you going?’ Christine Blacklaw was surprised to see John Ryland donning his thick sweater and jeans instead of undressing and joining her in bed. She was disappointed, too.

‘I'm going to take a quick look around. I want to know what that guy Bryant is up to.’

‘Whatever for? He's a monster hunter like all the other idiots who have been cluttering the place up these last few weeks. What's so special about him?’

‘Nothing's special about him, but the moon is full now and well … he might get into trouble … like walking into the Cranlarich bog like I did.’

‘Or meeting up with the crabs.’

‘Possibly.’

‘If you're going out, then I'm coming with you.’

‘Don't be bloody stupid. I'm just going to check on him and then I'll be right back. He's driven off towards the Estate.’

She was out of bed, moving lithely towards her clothes draped over the bedside chair, her naked breasts swaying provocatively. But for once their appeal was lost on him.

‘Look, I'd sooner you stayed here,’ his protest lacked conviction. He knew that if her mind was made up there was no way of stopping her.

‘If you go, I go.’

‘All right.’ He saw no point in arguing further. ‘I don't expect we shall see anything very interesting. I'm only going up as far as the hotel by road. That's the way that Bryant feller drove off. He's certainly no birdwatcher, I'd lay a hundred quid on that. He's so furtive, though, just as though he knows something.’

Christine fastened her jeans and smoothed her hair. ‘I'm ready when you are,’ the said.

They went downstairs, and out to the rear where Ryland's Volvo was parked. The engine purred into life, and they swung out into the road.

Bruce McKechnie made his way slowly across the moonlit moor, following an established sheeptrack over which the heather had not yet grown, in spite of the absence of the grazing flocks this last year. His ankle still pained him, and he took care that he did not step into one of the many rabbit holes.

He was clad in a sheepskin-lined thornproof coat, the hood pulled up over his head. His torch remained in his pocket. The moonlight was sufficient for him to see his way, and he was taking care not to advertise his presence. Not that his movements were anybody else's business, but there were a damned sight too many nosey parkers still around for his liking. That Chief-Inspector fellow had been to see him again that morning. They were still trying to trace Jock Rouse. Best of bloody luck to 'on. But, incredibly, nobody had actually seen the giant crabs. Even the bathysphere had failed in its search of the loch. The laird wondered if perhaps the creatures were lurking in the tunnel itself, only emerging during the times when the moon was full. They might be around tonight. Well, dynamite had failed, but they wouldn't survive that which he had in store for them now. Christ, why hadn't he thought of that before? So simple. Effective. Deadly.

The gamekeeper's cottage bore signs of having been subjected to methodical police searching. McKechnie shone his torch around the living room. Items of equipment had been placed as though for the purpose of compiling an inventory. The law had possibly been trying to determine why certain things had been left behind, maybe hoping that it would give them a clue to the missing man's whereabouts. Wellington boots in the corner could mean that the missing man had not gone to a damp or muddy place. Everything that remained belonged to Joe Kinlet. Rouse's possessions were deep in the Cranlarich bog.

McKechnie wore gloves, for two reasons. First, no fingerprints must be left here in case the CID checked again. Second, the stuff he was searching for was highly dangerous. Of course, the police might have found it and taken it way with them. If they recognised it for what it was. An unmarked plastic five-gallon drum containing a fine white powder was what the laird sought. It had been found by Jock Rouse last year after they had disturbed a gang of salmon poachers on the estate's leased river bank near Annan. It should have been handed over to the police. It had not been, on the laird's instructions.

He found it within a few minutes, tucked away in the cubbyhole beneath the stairs amidst a store of cleaning materials, untouched. It was heavy. He dragged it outside and went across to the shed on the other side of the clearing. There were plenty of empty containers here, of various sizes. He chose one, took it outside, and proceeded to pour a quantity of the white powder from the larger can into it. That done, he screwed down the cap, returned the drum to its former place, and set off in the direction of Loch Merse.

‘Cyanide,’ the word rolled smoothly off his tongue as he voiced his satisfaction. ‘Nothing can escape it. Not even the crabs. They'll die quietly and nobody will be any the wiser.’

He stopped once, listening. He thought he heard a car in the distance, but sounds carried a long way on a still night and it could even have come from the village itself. The ruins of the hotel loomed up before him, a stark reminder of the sheer strength and cunning of his enemies. They could demolish in an hour a building which had stood for centuries. They could survive dynamite. But cyanide was an altogether different proposition.

The loch shimmered below him. Nothing moved. That was the way he wanted it. He didn't wish to encounter the crabs at close quarters. Hell, if only he'd thought of poisoning them before, most of his problems would have been averted. Now it was revenge on his part, a last desperate throw.

He began to hurry. The sooner his task was completed and he was back in the safety of the bothy, the better. Throw the stuff in, that was all that was necessary.

Fifty yards from the edge of the loch he halted. He could hear that car again. There was no mistaking it this time, climbing up from the road below, taking the first bend too fast. Who the hell could it be at this time of night? The police? Ryland?

The thought of Ryland made him angry. The guy wouldn't give up. He was still hanging around the village. And certainly the laird did not wish the younger man to find out what was happening tonight.

The car was slowing. The engine roared again, reversing. A crash made him jump. McKechnie stood there in the moonlight, a puzzled expression on his face. He heard more crashing, and then the most dreaded sound of all, coming from the narrow road above.

Click-click-clickety-click.

He was too late! They were already out of the loch, rampaging through the nearby countryside, up there on the road. And McKechnie knew that they had ambushed a car. Even as he listened he heard more crashing, metal being ripped asunder as easily as if it was thin paper. Whoever was in that car had no chance. They would be dead already. Probably eaten by now. Someone else for the missing persons file which the police were compiling. People who would never be seen or heard of again.

He hoped fervently that it was John Ryland. The crabs did their work thoroughly. McKechnie smiled. He would have liked to watch this one, that arrogant bastard screaming for mercy. It was a thought to savour.

His smile faded into a frown. The cyanide ought to have been put in the loch earlier. But it did not matter. The crustaceans would be returning. They could not stop on dry land for more than a few hours. Loch Merse would be poisoned by the time they came back. It would still do the trick. They were hellish tough bastards. Maybe they had even survived in the close proximity of that Soviet underwater nuclear experiment in the Arctic.

The click-click came nearer, behind him!

He whirled round, and the sight which greeted him caused him to drop the can of poison, staring in disbelief. A crab. Just one. Between himself and the water, coming towards him. Something was wrong with it. The way it moved. Slowly, mechanically, like a clockwork toy that was winding down. And it only had one front pincer. It moved jerkily, clumsily.

It had seen him, singled him out as its immediate prey. He was caught in the open. Not even this one could be outrun. He turned to flee, wondering even as he did so how it came to be on its own. Deformed or wounded? Possibly a victim of the blasting. It had lost a pincer, and it wanted its revenge on the man who had dropped explosives into the loch.

He ran breathlessly, giving way to panic. Damn that ankle. He fell, and picked himself up. The pain was shooting up his leg. He slowed to a shambling limp, dragging one foot. He knew that he would never make it back to the higher ground. There was only one course open to him, to keep parallel to the road, chance his luck with the bog.

The crab was closing in on him, overhauling him steadily, a yard at a time. His feet squelched in mud. Jesus! Keep to the top side, there's firmer ground there.

Suddenly he knew that he was in one of the sucking bogs. His injured foot sank in up to the calf. He hadn't the strength to extricate it. He tried the other one. That wouldn't move, either. He fell awkwardly, trapped in the mire, twisting his body in an effort to see how close his pursuer was.

It had not gained on him since he last looked. He couldn't understand it at first. The crab seemed to be floundering. The ground sucked and gurgled. The creature hissed. Those eyes glowed, but not with hate alone. Fear! The single front leg waved in the air, a frantic gesture of panic and helplessness.

Then the laird understood. Like himself, the giant crab was caught in the shifting mud. Invincible? Not now. He laughed aloud in spite of his own predicament. One thing even you can't overcome, my friend. The Cranlarich bog. You're too fucking heavy. You'll go down before I do.

Man and crab regarded each other steadily. Both knew that they were going to die. But even in the few minutes of life which remained for them there was going to be no truce. The crustacean hissed its hatred. McKechnie cursed it.

‘You fucking big slob. Your mates won't even have a cyanide bath now. Maybe it wouldn't do any good, anyway. But I've discovered one thing that will kill you now that it's too late. The bog. I ought to have lured the whole lot of you in here. Never thought of it.’ He began to laugh insanely.

The crab reminded him of a sinking ship with bows skyward. That single claw raised in a last defiant gesture. The hissing had died away. It accepted its fate. The quagmire slurped hungrily. Just the pincer remained in view, twitching, then motionless, then gone.

The laird gave up the struggle. The mud was up to his neck. It wasn't cold any longer, either. It was like wearing a thick overcoat, one that covered every bit of the body, warm and clinging. It pressed down heavily.

He sank another few inches and tried to spit the mud out of his mouth but it was impossible. He took a deep breath, clinging to life for just a few more seconds. Strange thoughts flashed into his mind. He no longer panicked. He wondered about the others who had perished in the bog from time immemorial. Maybe they would all meet down there in the muddy depths. Hell, he hoped he didn't come up against that shepherd fellow. He couldn't recall the man's name. The one he had pushed in here. It was a frightening thought. The beginnings of panic reared again, but only for a few seconds. With hardly a bubble to mark his passing, Bruce McKechnie, laird of Cranlarich, embarked upon the long journey down through the black mud to join his ancestors.

‘Oh, my God!’ Christine Blacklaw clutched at John Ryland's arm as he brought the Volvo to a standstill. ‘That's … that's Bryant's car!’

‘What's left of it,’ Ryland replied, staring at the heap of twisted metal revealed in his headlights.

‘But … but how's he managed to crush it up like that? It's as if a twenty-ton weight has been dropped on it. It's flattened.’

‘I'll take a look. You stay here.’

‘No, I'm coming with you.’ She was already getting out of the car.

Leaving the engine running, the headlights illuminating the scene, they approached the wrecked Cortina. They gazed in disbelief. So little remained of the vehicle. A scrap metal pulper could scarcely have done a better job.

‘What do you … any ideas, John?’

‘A few.’ He pointed to some dark stains on the scratched paintwork of what had once been a window frame. ‘Unless I miss my guess that's blood.’

‘Oh!’ she took a step backwards. But it was logical. Anybody who had been inside that car could not have escaped without some loss of blood. ‘Maybe he's wandered off dazed somewhere.’

‘I don't think anybody could wander off out of that,’ he replied grimly, ‘and I don't think there's much point in us hanging around here. We'd better get back to Cranlarich and report to the police that there's been an accident.’

She wasn't listening. She was staring past him, beyond the light cast by the headlamps. Trying to speak, the words, the screams formed on her lips but no sound was forthcoming. Her hand came up, pointing.

‘What is it?’ he looked round. ‘Oh, God!’

They were in the centre of a circle. A circle of motionless creatures that watched them intently with flickering red eyes, squatting, silent. That the crabs had been there all the time Ryland was certain. His attention, his alertness, had been focused on the squashed car in the road. He knew now, without any doubt, what had happened to Martin Bryant. And also what was going to be their own fate. Oh, Christ, if only he hadn't given way and allowed Christine to come along.

He looked at the crabs in turn, counting them. Fifteen. Probably there were more in the undergrowth. They were cunning devils, regimental, too. That big one on the left was undoubtedly their leader. Ryland wondered whether it was male or female. How did one sex a crab? It wasn't important, anyway.

Christine followed his gaze. Her fear had numbed her body but not her brain. She was glad she had not let Ryland come alone. Life wouldn't be worth living without him. Perhaps there was such a thing as a life after death. If so, then they would both be very happy. She remembered having read somewhere that there were no marriages in heaven. So long as they were together it didn't really matter. A pity about her unborn child. She knew she was pregnant though there were no definite signs yet, it was far too early.

‘Keep still,’ he sought desperately for some avenue of escape.

Her hand squeezed his. She couldn't speak but she hoped that she conveyed to him the fact that she did not really mind.

He glanced behind him at the Volvo. The engine ticked over smoothly. Something moved behind it. He could not see beyond the glare of the lights, but there was no mistaking the scraping of crustacean claws on shale. One of the bastards had positioned itself in the road. They were completely surrounded.

Subconsciously his mind listed the victims of these impartial killers from the deep: Jock Rouse. His brother and Paul Barrett. Freddie Law, Canvers, Joe Kinlet. The three women who had worked up at the Cranlarich Hotel. Nine, in all. And now themselves. That made eleven. All without trace. Nobody had seen the crabs and lived to tell the tale. Remarkable. Just as though some strange force was protecting and guiding the creatures. Maybe in that case old Sandy Cline should be counted amongst the victims.

John Ryland pulled Christine Blacklaw to him. An embrace that said all, shut out everything. Two people in love in a world of their own. A higher plane where huge crabs did not exist, oblivious to everything else. Euphoria.

Epilogue

Spring came earlier than usual this year, the Welsh coast basking in tranquillity.

The tourists were flocking westwards at the start of the Easter holiday weekend. Traffic came to a standstill over Dinas Mawddwy. Engines overheated. The resorts filled up from Colwyn Bay down to Aberystwyth. Shell Island had a premature influx of caravanners.

The long golden beaches were crowded. A few braved the sea, but Nature in her kindness had not catered for the pleasures of bathers. The water was cold. It would not rise in temperature for several weeks yet. The holidaymakers contented themselves with games of football and cricket. Children dug sand castles by the thousand. And the weather showed no signs of breaking.

Queues of cars, caravans, and charabancs crawled into Barmouth early on that bright Sunday morning. Parking spaces were filled. Many moved on in search of quieter places.

Milton Hogarth arrived in Barmouth on Good Friday morning. His bearing and personality reflected some status in life higher than that of the average wage earner. He had just seen his fortieth birthday. Jet-black hair waved naturally and fell to the collar of his open-necked sports shirt. His body was muscular with hardly a ripple of surplus flesh. Golf, tennis, and badminton had ensured his physical fitness over the years.

There was something of the debonair cavalier about him. The slim pencil moustache, eyes that twinkled and said plenty, especially to attractive girls ten or fifteen years his junior.

Yet, now his carefree attitude had lessened considerably. Those blue eyes were thoughtful, almost furtive. He smoked excessively, walking aimlessly up and down the promenade. He was a man for whom time was running out. Four days, five at the most were all that remained for him of the life he knew. On Wednesday morning the Official Receiver would be arriving at the offices of Hogarth Industries in the midlands. By Wednesday afternoon it would all be over. Liquidated. No longer would he be able to live with the reputation which he had created out of nothing in his various clubs. He could not complain. He had had a good run. The axe had been falling for years. He had stayed the course longer than most would have been capable of doing. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Juggling. Convincing stories told to a gullible bank manager.

He smiled faintly to himself. It was not the end. It was only the beginning. The beginning of a new life. When they found his clothes lying on the beach a search would be started. He had planned so carefully these last few days. The report of the maroon and the launching of the lifeboat would signal that the past was behind him. Milton Hogarth was dead and he could just walk into a new identity. Ralph Johnson. Nothing spectacular about the name. Common enough, but it wouldn't raise eyebrows like the conventional Smith or Jones. He would blend in with the crowds, read about the disappearance of Milton Hogarth in the newspapers. But he had one advantage over the man in the street. Hogarth had cash, plenty of it. It was all in five pound notes, the proceeds of prudent hoarding over these last few years, stashing away the money which would now send Hogarth Industries bankrupt. His partner, Ken Jenkinson, would be left steering the boat alone. Hogarth laughed softly to himself. It was simple. No need to get nervous like this. It couldn't go wrong. He went over his plans again.

Drive up to Llanbedr tomorrow evening. Park the car with the bag of money locked in it. Walk out on to Shell Island. Leave his clothes in the dunes. A nocturnal swim would be necessary, just in case anybody was around on the beach. He shivered at the prospect. Damn it, there had to be a full moon. It would have been far easier in pitch darkness. Then there would have been no need to go into the water at all. Come ashore further down the island. Creep back to the car. A change of clothes, pick up the money. A long walk to Harlech, maybe sleeping rough somewhere the first night. Then book in someplace as Ralph Johnson. The moustache would be gone. His hair cut short. Somebody was going missing every day somewhere. Just a routine enquiry on the part of the law would follow, nothing intensive. After Wednesday his disappearance would be attributed to suicide. Sod 'em all. Fuck the Official Receiver and all his minions.

Hogarth went down on to the beach. The Cardigan Bay scintillated in the bright spring sunshine, an inviting deep blue, tempting the holidaymakers into the water then sadistically rejecting them with its icy cold. He shuddered.

A carnival atmosphere reigned with the noise of the resident fairground in the distance, candyfloss and ice cream in evidence all around. People laughed, enjoying the unexpected sunshine. Hogarth took a deckchair and tried to relax. It was impossible, going over every detail in his mind, afraid in case he overlooked something. There did not appear to be any flaws. The prospect of a series of rented accommodation over the next few weeks did not appeal to him, but he had to allow time for his new identity to submerge the old one. Milton Hogarth had to die in every respect. He must convince himself of that. Ralph Johnson must be a different character altogether, new mannerisms, different habits. He attempted to create a few in his own mind. After a time he gave up. He was too tense. God, he wanted to get this whole business over and done with.

It was ten o'clock when he strolled out of his hotel aimlessly. Maybe people were watching him. In all probability they were not. The eyes of every passer-by seemed to bore into him. He decided it was just his imagination.

Forcing himself to remain calm he walked along the Marine Parade, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his slacks. A couple of girls lolling on the sea wall glanced in his direction. He met their gaze, then looked away. Scrubbers. Out to get themselves screwed. Probably weren't even charging for it. Tempting, if you were in the mood. Milton Hogarth was not in the mood and he didn't have the time. There would be plenty of women later, all lining up to open their legs for Ralph Johnson.

His TR2 was parked down by the harbour where he had left it earlier. Jesus, there was a scrap of paper held under the windscreen wipers. He knew what is was without looking at it. A parking ticket. The irony of it caused him to smile. They could apply to the Official Receiver for payment of the fine. Ten-per-cent if they were lucky. Serve the bastards right.

He drove off under the bridge and turned left, taking the Harlech road. The powerful engine was eager, but he held back. There was no point in rushing. He had the whole night at his disposal.

He drew in to Llanbedr. He slowed down, saw the sign for Mochras, and took the lane to his left. He could have driven right on to Shell Island but there was no point. Anyway, the less attention he attracted, the better. A couple of hundred yards or so further on he pulled on to the grass at the side of the road and switched off the engine and lights. A loud sigh escaped his lips. A moment of indecision. This was the crossroads. There was still time to go back. Milton Hogarth could live if he wanted to.

He made his final choice and got out of the car. He locked the door and checked the boot. His whole future lay in one attaché case. He couldn't take any chances.

He walked quickly along the tarmac track. The moon was up, climbing over the bay, bathing the hills in its silvery light. A perfect setting for romance or intrigue. He would have preferred the former.

The RAF testing base was on his left, tall mesh fences and Nissen huts. Deserted. Like hell! There were guards, Alsatian dogs lurking in the shadows. He'd heard rumours. He didn't wish to find out whether they were true or not.

He strode on to the causeway and up on to the island, past the farmhouse. He heard voices, campers reluctant to bed down for the night. He hoped none of them had opted for a moonlit swim. If so, then he would have to wait in the dunes until the beach was empty.

Heading south, he followed the narrow hard road. There were cars and tents on either side. A magnificent view of the bay, spread out before him, peaceful, shimmering. Not a soul in sight.

He was trembling as he removed his clothes, folding them neatly and placing them in a pile where they would be easily seen. He stood there in his bathing trunks. God, it was damnably cold!

Hogarth walked down through the dunes, the fine sand warm beneath his feet. He reached firmer ground. Wet and cold, it squelched beneath him as he neared the tideline. Was there any need really to go for a swim? He paused and thought about it. Yes, there was. The tide was going out. He had left a trail of footprints which would still be there when daylight came. Tracks leading back in the same direction would tell the truth. It would be necessary to swim round the headland and come up on another beach. Then back to the car.

He was almost at the water's edge when a movement attracted his attention. A rock on the fringe of the tide appeared to move. An optical illusion, he told himself. It was the waves that moved, not the …

Christ! It was the rock, heaving itself up out of the sea, creeping shorewards. Crazy. He stared. It couldn't be. But it was. A rock that had legs, scuttled. Eyes glowed, red ones. Another followed it, and another. Four … five … six … Crabs! They looked as big as donkeys. Unbelievable. It couldn't be true.

Click-click-click-clickety-click.

Hogarth backed away. The creatures were still coming out of the sea, dozens of them. They altered direction, heading towards him.

He wanted to run. He could not understand why he didn't. His brain was in a whirl, trying to comprehend. He failed. This was Shell Island, Wales, a modem holiday resort. An occasional shark was seen out at sea. Nothing else. But these crabs …

He started to laugh. Of course, it was something to do with that RAF base on the other side of the island. Some ridiculous night exercise taking place. An amphibian attack that would take any enemy by surprise.

He was still laughing at his own joke. They didn't scare Milton Hogarth. Not one little bit. They were close now, barely ten yards away. Pincers raised, clicking. Halting as though in response to some silent order. Watching him.

His laughter died away. Those eyes bored into him, live coals that glowed. Evil. He swallowed. These things were real. Horrors that actually existed, terrible to behold on a deserted moonlit beach.

They moved in, surrounding him. A pincer touched his bare leg. As sharp as a knife, it gouged the flesh. He felt the warm trickle of blood. He continued to stand there. There was nothing else he could do.

Everything else was forgotten, the faked suicide, his new life. He was only too well aware that the life of Milton Hogarth was ended.

One of the crabs moved in on him, the big one, half as big again as the others. Its pincers shot forward and crunched on bone, severing Hogarth's left leg. For a second he swayed uncertainly on his right one before toppling backwards. Other claws were there to catch him, holding, cutting.

The mutilation was completed in minutes. Limbs were shared amongst the crabs, those at the rear of the circle pushing their comrades aside as they searched for scraps. Nothing remained. Blood seeped into the wet sand and disappeared. Milton Hogarth was erased from the face of the earth.

Within a week the weather had changed again. The warmth of the sunshine was replaced by cold and sleet. The Easter holidaymakers returned home, satisfied that they had made the best of the freak early heatwave. It was July before the weather brought the holidaymakers back to the Welsh coast. They came in their thousands, thronging the beaches and camping on Shell Island.

And then the crabs returned.

The End

Thank you for purchasing this ebook.
I hope you enjoyed the read!.
Guy.

This ebook is the twelfth book to be published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 it is expected to have all books available by the end of 2012.

The list of books so far published is :

1. Werewolf by Moonlight.

2. The Sucking Pit.

3. The Slime Beast.

4. Night of the Crabs.

5. The Truckers 1 - The Black Knights.

6. The Truckers 2 - Hi-Jack!.

7. Return of the Werewolf.

8. Bamboo Guerillas.

9. Killer Crabs.

10. Bats Out of Hell.

11. The Son of the Werewolf.

12. Locusts.

13. The Origin of the Crabs.

The next book will be :

14. Caracal.

"When Bilal, a young Pakistani, signs various official documents in order to get to Britain ('the promised land'), he doesn't realise that he's being manipulated for cheap labour and will soon become an illegal immigrant on the run from the authorities. He also fails to realise that his pet caracal - a wild cat that is often domesticated back home - will return to its natural wild state if and when it doesn't receive the necessary training. And in the Welsh border hills there's plenty of space for it to hide. After it mauls a few sheep and pheasants, the hunt is on before it graduates to human meat."

To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.
View Ebook Catalogue

Best regards,

Guy and all at Black Hill Books.