The Blackhouse by Peter May Page A

building shook. And then nothing. The tyre remained standing upright, wedged solidly in the window opening like some bizarre modern sculpture. We arrived, gasping for air and shocked to silence, about thirty seconds after impact, and just stood there looking at it in abject horror. Lights went on in the nearest houses, about a hundred and fifty yards away.
    Donald was shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t believe it,” he kept saying. “I don’t believe it.”
    â€œGot to get the fuck out of here,” Murdo Ruadh gasped.
    â€œNaw.” Angel put a hand on his brother’s chest to stop him going anywhere. “We just run off, they’re never going to give up till they find out who it was.”
    â€œWhat’re you talking about?” Murdo looked as if he thought his big brother had lost his mind.
    â€œI’m talking about a scapegoat. Someone to take the fall and not rat on the rest of us. They’ll be happy as long as they’ve got someone to blame.”
    Donald shook his head. “That’s crazy. Let’s just go.” We could hear voices now in the distance. Voices raised in query, wondering what on earth had happened.
    But Angel stood his ground. “Naw. I’m right on this. Trust me. We need a volunteer.” His gaze fell on each of us in turn. And then stopped on me. “You, orphan boy. You’ve got least to lose.” I didn’t even have time to object before a big fist hit me full in the face and my legs folded under me. I hit the ground with such force it knocked all the wind out of me. Then his boot in my stomach curled me up into a helpless foetal position and I vomited on the gravel.
    I heard Donald shouting, “Stop it! Fucking stop it!”
    And then Angel’s low, threatening tone. “You gonna make me, God boy? Two’s better than one. It could be you next.”
    There was a moment’s silence, and then Calum wailing, “We gotta go!”
    I heard footsteps running off into the distance, and then an odd peace settled on the night along with the frost. I couldn’t move, did not even have the strength to roll over. I was vaguely aware of more lights coming on in nearby houses. I heard someone shouting, “The store! There’s a break-in at the store!” The beams of torches pricked the night air. Then hands pulled me roughly to my feet. I could barely stand. I felt a shoulder support me under each oxter, then Donald’s voice.
    â€œYou got him, Artair?”
    And Artair’s familiar wheeze. “Aye.”
    And they dragged me, running, across the road and into the ditch.
    I’m not sure how long we lay there in the ice and mud, hidden by the long grass, but it seemed like an eternity. We saw the locals arriving in their dressing gowns and wellies, beams of light flashing around the road and the shop front. And we heard their consternation. A six-foot tractor tyre embedded in the shop window and not a soul around. They decided that no one had actually broken into the shop, but that they had better call the police, and as they headed back toward their houses, Donald and Artair got me to my feet and we staggered off across the frozen peatbog. At a gate in the shadow of the hill, Donald waited with me while Artair went off to retrieve my bike. I felt like hell, and worse. But I knew that Donald and Artair had risked being caught by coming back to get me.
    â€œWhy’d you come back?”
    â€œOch, it was my stupid idea in the first place,” Donald sighed. “I wasn’t going to let you take the blame for it.” And then he paused. I couldn’t see his face, but I heard the anger and frustration in his voice. “One day I’m going to rip that fucking Angel Macritchie’s wings off.”
    They never did find out who had run the Swainbost tyre through the window of Crobost Stores. But they weren’t about to give it back to the Swainbost boys. The