The village dwindled to a speck in the rear view mirror, smoke clouds absorbed by the grey of a dull sky. The silver Mondeo dipped over the brow of the hill, tearing along the road that slicing acres of golden fields spread like liquidised nuggets. Cropped wheat was tightly bound in bails, the stench of manure heavy on the breeze. Mac MacDonald wound up the window.

His brother Carl “Scotch” MacDonald was sat in the passenger seat, white water knuckles digging into the velvet car seat.

“Stay calm Scotch, all right. Leave this to me,” Mac uttered.

“I can’t help thinking what that dirty bastard…”

“Don’t think about it.”

Scotch’s neck reddened as the anger rose in him like mercury in a thermometer. The stench of whisky weighed on his breath.

The road ahead was consumed by the darkness cast by the dense foliage of trees that swayed gently in the breeze. Mac inhaled deeply and counted to ten, trying to forget the tears that spilled down his little girl’s red cheeks.

Old man Drummond’s cottage flashed through the greenery like the picture on a faulty TV. Mac reduced speed and pulled into the limestone driveway, worn to nothing more than a dirt track. Pebbles grated and crushed under the wheels. Wind chimes swinging from nearly naked branches were tied to a cluster of apple trees, clinking in a melody of sorcery.

Mac stepped from the car and his size tens sank into slush. Damp, orange-brown leaves shaken from windswept branches clung to his shoe. He flicked the Marlboro stub to the forgotten ground and took another cigarette from the packet. He flicked the lid of his zippo and sparked the fire.

Amongst the trees, away from the smog of the city, the air was crisp and fresh, nature he had not appreciated since he was a child. Wind sloshed eerily in the branches, plump pigeons cooed and strutted around the unkempt garden. A rocking chair on the porch swayed on the wooden porch covered with pigeon droppings and worn by timeless winds.

“Just look at this sh*t hole,” Scotch said.

“What did you expect, a palace?”

The age-old iron-gate wept as it swung open. Mac rapped his knuckles against the washed out oak door and released smoke through pursed lips. The house was hushed and haunting.

Mac cupped his hands to his forehead and leant against the glass to shadow the light reflecting off the window. On a wooden table in the centre of the room was a plate of bones. They were small and unfamiliar. A chair with a flimsy cushion strapped to the seat had been left askew. There was a portly kettle on the sideboard and jars for coffee, tea and sugar. A stained tea towel was folded on top of the hob.