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  Paul read the second sheet, shaking his head as it became clear what was happening. ‘Richard, these threats are escalating. This one says “soon”.’ He glanced up. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  Richard reached into his back pocket a third time.

  ‘Tell me you don’t fucking have another one,’ groaned Paul.

  ‘Naw,’ said Richard. ‘I’ve got an itchy arse. Of course I’ve got another one.’ He pulled it out and handed it over. ‘4.09 this morning,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what’s worse: him being a psychotic, or him being an insomniac.’

  Paul could only shake his head in disbelief as he read the third message.

  ‘I know,’ said Richard. ‘It’s fucked up, right?’

  Paul’s head jerked up. ‘No, Richard. You’re fucked up. Quinn was right, you are a shit-for-brains arsehole.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘You knew it was all connected and yet you stood there and lied. To the policewoman … to Quinn … to me. Why?’

  ‘It’s this deal,’ said Richard. ‘We can’t jeopardise it. If the film company find out they’ll think we’re trouble.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck sake, you have definitely lost – ’ Paul paused. Controlled his thoughts. ‘No, not perspective,’ he corrected. ‘You’ve lost your fucking mind. Fuck the deal and fuck the film company. I was fucking assaulted, you fucking fuck!’

  ‘That’s a lot of fucks for one sentence,’ said Richard. ‘I counted at least six.’

  ‘FUCK! OFF!’ How many in that sentence?’ Paul spat back. ‘Don’t you fucking dare play this down. We need to do as they say.’

  ‘Paul, this is a chance in a lifetime for us.’

  ‘And one we won’t be alive to appreciate. You heard Quinn. This is much bigger than us. Something is seriously terrifying about all of this and we need to get out, before it’s too late.’

  ‘Yeah, but Quinn also said we should sit tight.’

  ‘Well, fuck that.’ Paul turned and headed back into the bedroom. A desperate Richard followed him. ‘But it’s two days away,’ he pleaded. ‘We can’t pull out now. We’ve put so much into this. The pitch is ready, the script is so fucking tight, and I even got us a couple of sharp suits.’

  Paul snapped the curtains shut and swivelled round, his face barely an inch from Richard’s. ‘You honestly think I can go and pitch our shitty film to some big-wig producers now?’

  Richard’s eyes were like beach-balls. ‘But those trolls are after me, not you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some arsehole’s got a grudge against me. He’ll have seen me in the videos and somehow, I don’t know, got my email off social media.’

  Paul was flabbergasted. ‘Can you hear yourself? Can you seriously fucking hear yourself?’

  ‘I bet they thought it was me in the flat,’ said Richard. ‘I have enemies.’

  Paul slapped Richard across the face. ‘Shut the fuck up!’

  For a split-second, Paul thought Richard was going to cry. Don’t fucking cry. But then whatever switch had been flipped by the slap suddenly righted itself, and it was as though nothing had happened.

  ‘Listen,’ said Richard, back in full-on obsessive mode. ‘We’ve got two more days. If you don’t want to do it, I’ll pitch on my own. If it’s a goer, we come clean with the production company and the police. If it sinks, we pull everything and walk away.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough.’ Paul pushed his way past Richard to the door.

  Richard ran ahead of him and blocked the doorway. ‘But in theory,’ he said, ‘you’re okay with me doing the pitch on my own?’

  Paul’s anger had gone. Now there was only pity. ‘Do what you like,’ he said, and bent down under the bed. From it, he pulled out a holdall. ‘If you want to throw yourself to the wolves,’ he said, stuffing the bag with clothes from the bedside drawers, ‘then you go for it, buddy.’ He had to get away from this madness. His nerves were shot. The new emails, threatening all sorts, were the last of last straws.

  ‘I’ll let you know how it goes!’ Richard shouted after Paul as he left the flat.

  ‘I couldn’t give a shit!’ Paul shouted back, almost falling down the stairs in his hurry to escape. ‘And I’d change the locks if I were you!’

  When he reached the city centre, Paul thought about carrying on to his parents’ house, but changed his mind. Instead, he rang Aunt Doris and asked if he could stay a couple of nights in her caravan up at Loch Gilpen. He’d stayed there before as a kid, and also with Richard, so figured it was a familiar and safe place to hide until the chaos subsided and he could put his head back together. Twenty minutes later, he was on a train to Oban.

  10

  ‘Well well well, look what the cat dragged in!’ grinned the balding six-foot landlord, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He ran a dishcloth around the inside of a pint glass as Paul approached the bar. ‘We don’t normally see you up here this time of year.’

  ‘Aye well, a change is as good as a rest, as they say.’ Paul dropped his holdall onto the floor and reached over the bar for the man’s hand. ‘Plus, I needed to get away from the city for a while. Good to see you again, Duncan.’ The two men shook hands.

  ‘Always a pleasure, Paul.’ Duncan drew his hand away. ‘Now, what would you like?’

  ‘Just the keys for the caravan. I need to dump my bags and sort myself out.’

  ‘Gimme a minute.’ Duncan disappeared through a side door. Paul scanned the cosy, but run-down lounge. It was quiet. A roaring log fire in the corner tempted him over but he resisted. An elderly man with a sheepdog practically the same age as him lying at his feet raised his glass in Paul’s direction.

  Paul smiled. ‘Hey, George, how’s tricks?’

  ‘Och, ye know. Life in the fast lane as usual.’

  ‘Can I get you a pint?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to offend you, son. 80 shilling, ta.’

  The side door opened and Duncan reappeared. ‘Mary’s put the lights on for you. If you don’t have enough gas,’ he said, handing Paul the keys, ‘let me know and I’ll bring a new bottle over.’

  Paul shoved the keys into his pocket. ‘Thanks. I’ll be back later for a pint. Are you still doing food?’

  ‘I’m sure we can find some road-kill for you.’

  ‘Just a wee bit of bother back in the smoke, you know?’

  ‘So you thought you’d come here to escape trouble. You’ll be lucky.’ Duncan smiled.

  Paul picked up his holdall. ‘Oh, and a pint for George. Keep him hydrated.’ He rustled up some change and dropped it onto the bar.

  ‘I’m sure if he sat there long enough,’ said Duncan, ‘somebody would buy him his tea and pay his rent. Old codger.’ He palmed the coins and headed back to the pumps.

  The small caravan park was tucked away at the end of a narrow path along the edge of the loch. There were eight caravans in total, but only one near the entrance was lit: Aunt Doris’.

  The caravan was freezing. Statics are not designed for Scottish weather. And, if anything, it was even colder inside than out. Dropping his holdall in the compact kitchen, Paul traipsed back outside and turned the gas on. Movement in the shadows on the far side of the park caught his eye. Probably a deer looking for scraps. Back inside, Paul fired up the hob and turned the gas heater up full. The caravan warmed up quickly. It was an old-fashioned static, but his aunt had maintained it well, and once it rose above arctic temperatures it was always a welcome retreat from whatever shit the city had thrown at you. He’d sleep in the living room by the fire tonight, but first he needed a wash and a change of clothes. And something to eat.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ said Duncan, handing over a pint to a freshly-cleansed Paul, ‘but you don’t look too good. Is something bothering you?’

  ‘Trouble in the city,’ said Paul, gulping down his beer.

  ‘Aye, trouble magnets, those cities,’ grinned Duncan. ‘But if ye need tae share, I’m no going anywhere.’

 
‘It’s just some idiot giving me grief,’ said Paul.

  Duncan noticed the way Paul’s hand shook as he picked up his pint. ‘It’s not like you to let arseholes ruin your day,’ he said.

  ‘There are arseholes,’ said Paul, ‘and then there is this arsehole.’

  Duncan nodded. ‘Ah, King Arsehole. El presidente de bawbags. That kind of arsehole can be very trying indeed.’ He wiped imaginary dust off the bar with a cloth and a wry smile.

  ‘I just needed to get away and think it through.’

  ‘Well, if it’s thinking you’re after,’ said Duncan, ‘you’ve come to the right place. There’s bugger all else to do here, unless you’re into sheep.’ He threw Paul a wink. ‘The key is to never give in to the arseholes. If you roll over, arseholes like whoever these arseholes are that are bothering you, will never stop doing their arsehole things, because that’s what arseholes do.’

  ‘Never a truer word,’ laughed Paul. ‘And may I say, a very elegant and liberal use of the word ‘arsehole’. Cheers.’ He raised his glass.

  Paul ordered fish and chips and found a table in the corner, by the fire. George and his dog had gone and the bar was deserted, allowing Paul to enjoy his meal in peace. He definitely felt a lot calmer about the threats and the attack now, although that may have had something to do with the three pints he’d just downed. He’d been through a nightmare, no question, but hopefully if Richard pulled the videos from the web then that would be an end to it. In some ways, Richard’s demented obsession with fame and fortune had caused Paul even greater anxiety than the stalking and the break-in, so there was a relief to be had in being rid of him for a while. They had been sharing each other’s space for too long, and perhaps the events of the past few weeks would prove the catalyst Paul needed to make some big changes to his life. Finishing his pint, he bid Duncan goodnight and trudged back to the caravan.

  In the morning, Paul headed out of the village and up the forestry road towards Gilpen Point. It was a long walk up a steep and winding hill, but it was worth it for the spectacular views and the space to breathe and think. Over the years, the cliff tops had helped Paul solve all sorts of problems in his life, from break-ups and bad decisions to lost opportunities and the endless stream of rejection letters. They were literally his rock, his reliable old friend, and he was in dire need of one of those right now.

  Climbing over the worn stile at the bottom of the path, Paul made his way slowly up the hill, going over everything that had happened to him and Richard since they’d started their project. He sieved through the details in his mind, trying to work out who might have it in for them. As he walked, the path became steeper and narrower. The clean, crisp autumnal air flowed into his lungs and he felt more alive and relevant than he had in months. The higher he climbed the stronger he felt. Whoever was behind both the threats and the burglary was trying to scare them off and force them to stop. But why? Maybe Richard was right, and it was a jealous enemy of his who’d taken things too far. Climbing higher, Paul’s resolve hardened. Duncan’s right, he thought. I shouldn’t be running away. When did I become so fucking timid?

  At the top, Paul found a flat slab of rock that pushed out over the glistening loch far below and plonked himself down on it, dangling his legs over the side, like he’d done so many times before. The visibility was unusually good, and he could see all the way up the length of the loch, past the village, and out to the firth beyond. To his left, the snow-tipped mountain range extended upwards like a great sleeping beast, gathering its strength for future battle. He took a long, deep breath and roared into the wind.

  ‘Fuck off!’

  A seagull swooped down and wailed as it passed, as though agreeing with the sentiment. Paul smiled and lay back on the rock, and as he stared into the emptiness above, he could feel his crushed personality spring back to shape and reform.

  ‘I’m not going to just roll over and take this shit from a troll like you,’ he said aloud, kicking his feet against the side of the outcrop. ‘Threaten me again and I‘ll fucking end you, you tosser.’ He leaned out over the edge. ‘Wanker!’ he bellowed, his defiance resounding across the estuary. He was furious. Furious that someone could back him into a corner and force him to run away. He sat up. No, he thought. I’m not going to let the cunt get away with this. He stood up. Why should we give it all up for this creep? No fucking way. He lifted up a rock and lobbed it over the side of the cliff, sending it on its way with a hoarse ‘Ba-a-a-a-asta-a-a-a-ard!’ and watching it smack the surface of the loch before sinking. With renewed vigour, he set off back down the path to the village. He wasn’t going to run any more. He’d return to Glasgow and track down the bastard or bastards threatening him. Make them pay.

  That evening, at the hotel, Paul checked his phone. He had two texts, one from Richard – ‘I’m going in, wish me luck’ – and one from a private number. Paul opened it up. ‘Last chance to save your skin,’ it said. ‘Wipe your files now.’ Paul’s rage returned. The stalker had his mobile number now, confirming what Paul had known all along: that this wasn’t about Richard’s past coming back to bite him. It was far more serious. Paul downed his pint and told Duncan he was heading back to Glasgow first thing. He had some unfinished business to take care of.

  ‘That’s more like it, Don Corleone,’ grinned Duncan. ‘Don’t forget to batten down the hatches tonight, though. It’s going to be a bit wild. Hopefully, we’ll all still be here by the morning.’

  Back at the caravan, Paul did a quick tidy-round and gathered up his stuff. He had an early start in the morning and needed to sleep. The wind was already picking up, rattling the window sills and doorframe, getting louder by the minute. It didn’t seem to Paul as though it would die down anytime soon. Shit. He grabbed his jacket.

  Outside, Paul shone his torch beneath the caravan. It looked secure enough, but who knew how strong this wind would get? Once again, movement on the far side of the park caught his attention. There was a figure shifting in and out of the shadows. Paul shouted into the wind. ‘Hello?’ The figure disappeared into the trees. Paul followed the path down to the edge of the forest and peered into the black. He was about to venture further when a young doe suddenly burst from the undergrowth and careered past him. Paul yelled, and almost lost his footing.

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’ he roared. When he’d calmed down he returned to the caravan, and a warm bed.

  A loud thump startled Paul awake. The lamp had gone out and the room was pitch black. Outside, the wind sent thin shrieks through the caravan’s ageing sides. Another thump, louder this time, had Paul jumping up and fumbling for his trousers. It was coming from the back bedroom. Scrambling in the dark, Paul rummaged under the sink for the torch. Fuck. He must have left it outside. He gave up and edged towards the bedroom. Through the half-opened door he watched as a shape shook the window frame from outside, trying to force it open. Not again! Paul ducked down and retreated to the living room in search of a weapon. A flash of lightning and a deafening crack of thunder caused the caravan to rock sideways, taking Paul with it. He steadied himself, grabbed a broom handle, and inched back towards the bedroom. As he got there, the window flew open and a body plunged through the flapping curtains. Paul raised the broom, poised to strike.

  ‘Wait!’ a muffled voice cried. But it was too late. Paul brought the handle down on the back of the intruder’s head, causing his body to slump forward, half in and half out of the window. When he groaned and tried to get up, Paul raised the handle again, a second strike imminent.

  ‘Paul!’ the intruder moaned. ‘Don’t! It’s me!’ Staring wide-eyed up at Paul from the confines of a zipped-up hoodie was his terrified best friend.

  Paul lowered his weapon. ‘Fucking hell, Richard! What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘Help me in,’ said Richard. Still stunned, Paul dragged him through the window and onto the floor, where he lay slumped like a half-drowned rat.

  ‘What the fuck, Richard?’ said Paul, battling with the window. SLAM! ‘I mean,
seriously!’

  Richard rubbed the back of his head. ‘You could have fucking killed me.’

  ‘You stupid bastard. What were you doing?’

  ‘I was trying to get in.’

  ‘There’s a fucking door. That you knock on.’

  ‘I tried the door, but – ’ He winced, as a searing pain shot through his head. ‘Christ, it’s hellish out there. I thought I was going to die.’

  The power came back on with a click and the caravan lit up. Richard’s condition genuinely shocked Paul. He looked to be in the early stages of hypothermia. ‘You need to get warm,’ said Paul. ‘Come on.’ Helping his friend to his feet he guided him over to the fire. ‘How did you know I was here?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s where you always go when you’re in trouble,’ said Richard. ‘I got worried when I couldn’t reach you. I wanted to tell you how I got on yesterday.’

  ‘It’s the middle of the fucking night,’ said Paul, crossing to the sink and filling the kettle from the tap.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting a bloody hurricane. The taxi driver had to change route about three times just to get round fallen trees.’ He looked up. ‘You got anything stronger than coffee?’

  Thirty seconds later and Richard was sipping brandy from a chipped East 17 mug. ‘I need to tell you what happened,’ he said, between shivers.

  ‘Before you do,’ interrupted Paul, ‘I want to say I’ve been thinking about everything that’s happened lately. Why should we pull the plug? Who are they to tell us what to do? This is our one chance at success. We should fight back. Bring the fuckers down.’

  Richard raised his eyebrows. ‘Them’s fighting words,’ he said. He nodded at the brandy bottle. Paul took the hint and topped up his friend’s glass.

  ‘What made you change your mind?’ asked Richard.

  ‘I’m just tired of being a victim and a coward,’ said Paul. ‘You know, running away from opportunities.’