The Exiled by William Meikle

this for a lark.
    He turned and reached for the door, meaning to make a quick escape. His hand met only empty space.
    That’s not right. I didn’t move that far—did I?
    He took a step, then another… and another. There was no door there to touch. He turned ninety degrees and walked forward, his hands outstretched. After five steps he stopped. The hallway he’d seen had been only five feet wide at most.
    So why haven’t I reached a wall yet?
    He stood still, hoping his eyesight might adjust to the conditions. But there was to be no respite from the darkness.
    Did I somehow walk though into a living area?
    He shuffled forward slowly and carefully, hoping to meet a wall, or even a piece of furniture. There was only more darkness.
    Someone laughed, softly, almost a whisper.
    “Mr. Galloway,” Alan said, hopefully.
    A man answered, rough and venomous.
    “I’m lost, Mammy.”

 
     
     
    9
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    It was after eleven before Grainger checked his text messages, and quarter past before D.S. Simpson got back to him with Galloway’s history. While waiting, he drank more of the office’s strong black coffee—wishing there was some Scotch in it—and tried not to think about the vision he’d had in the courtyard. He put it down to stress—he was working himself hard, maybe too hard. But the missing kids demanded no less from him.
    I’ll rest when we find them.
    Simpson put a thick file on his desk.
    “I don’t have time to read all of that—is there a synopsis?” he said.
    Simpson smiled grimly.
    “I got the gen from his care officer—he hasn’t checked in for a week.” She tapped the file. “Dave Galloway—a mentally disabled kid who developed a thing for swans. He collected wings, and he just got released into community care a few weeks ago. I think your brother is onto something.”
    Grainger was on his feet and heading for the door almost before she stopped talking.
    “Let’s see how fast you can drive outside the city,” he said. “I’ll buy you a drink if you can make it before twelve.”
    * * *
    To her credit Simpson tried her best, but an accident near Livingstone meant they were reduced to a crawl for a long stretch of the M40, and the delay meant that it was ten after midnight when they drove up the dark farm driveway. He’d attempted to get Alan on the phone several times during the drive, but only got an engaged tone in return.
    When they pulled up in the farmyard, Alan’s car was there. Grainger was out of the vehicle before Simpson even killed the engine. He almost ran to the passenger side of Alan’s car and looked in—it was empty, and when he put a hand on the hood, it felt cold. It hadn’t been driven for at least an hour.
    “We should call for backup, boss,” Simpson said, arriving at his side. “I don’t like the look of this.”
    “We might not have time,” Grainger replied. “Besides, it’s my brother—I’m going in, backup or no backup.”
    “We don’t have a warrant…”
    “It’s my brother,” Grainger said softly.
    Simpson nodded.
    “Okay, boss. What’s the plan?”
    “Watch the back door,” Grainger said. “I’ll go in the front. And if you’re going to hit anybody, make sure it’s not my wee brother. If anybody’s giving him a skelp, it’s going to be me.”
    “Do you really think Galloway’s our man, boss?” Simpson whispered.
    “Alan’s an annoying wee shite at times,” Grainger said. “But he’s got a copper’s nose for trouble. There’ll be something here—whether it’s the lassies, we’ll just have to see. If I’m not out in two minutes, call for that backup and get some lads from Airdrie down here pronto.”
    He waited until the D.S. had moved away round the corner out of sight before approaching the main door. He stood off to one side and rapped hard, twice.
    “Police. We need a word.”
    The door rattled on its hinges, but there was no other sound. Grainger rapped on the door again, aware that, as Simpson