The Island of Whispers Read Online Free PDF

health and
wellbeing. Dark resentment returned to Twisted Foot’s thoughts.
     
    – o –

– Chapter Eight –
     
    The small dog
sprang effortlessly up to the jetty. It remained there, surveying
the island, sniffing in the scents of this strange, new territory.
Its owner stepped up from the boat to join the dog in its scrutiny.
The man was tall and lean and slightly stooped. The wind coming
from the east tugged at his mane of grey hair and sent billows
running through his loose overalls and shabby green jacket. An
unlit pipe protruded from his close-cropped silvery beard.
    Skilfully, the
man struck a match and placed it in the bowl of the pipe,
alternately sucking hard on the newly glowing embers and exhaling
great puffs of thick smoke, which were immediately snatched up and
dispersed by the wind. The man kept his gaze on the island,
exploring the contours, seeking out movement. His eyes were also
grey, and hooded like a bird’s. His face bore a calmness, an
expression that said: I’ve seen it all before; there are no
surprises left. Unhurriedly, he set off for the footpath on his
right. His height dwarfed the dog, which now trotted lightly behind
him, its nose pointing close to the ground.
    As he walked,
the canvas bag which hung from the man’s angular shoulders swayed
and rattled in the breeze. Although it was shaped like a plumber’s
satchel, Tam Proudfoot’s bag contained only the paraphernalia of
his particular trade: a large torch; an array of traps with strong
steel springs and deadly shutters; poisons of all kinds, in
bottles, tins and small cardboard boxes; and foul-smelling offal,
wrapped in Clingfilm and kept in an old biscuit tin. The tools of
the rat-catcher’s trade were crude and simple, but always
effective.
    Tam reached
the gun emplacement, climbed the rocks at its rear and then stepped
down on to its roof. The little Jack Russell terrier sped past him,
anxious to inspect the bird remains scattered over the roof.
Another gull had fallen victim to the rats during the night. Tam’s
examination of the carcasses was much less thorough than the dog’s
close-up sniff. He sucked on the pipe again, looking out to the
swelling sea, a hint of humour in his eyes. The visitors to
Inchgarvie the day before had returned to spread alarm in the
community about the hundreds of fierce rats which infested the
island. He had lived here all his life; rats were his business. The
story, he knew, was exaggerated. Not deliberately, of course, but
magnified as usual by peoples’ natural horror of the creatures.
There were rats on the island, that was true; but he was confident
that they, too, were visitors, not inhabitants. Tam took a final
pull at the pipe and then slid the heavy bag to his feet.
    ‘ Right, Nipper!’ he shouted to the dog. ‘Let’s dae our
job!’
    Tam went to
the edge of the roof and crouched down. He was now directly above
the building’s entrance. The stale, damp smell which rose up on the
breeze confirmed the dankness within. Tam placed his hand on the
flat of Nipper’s head.
    ‘ Down there, boy,’ he said, using his other hand to point at
the ground outside the entrance.
    The dog
understood. It leapt from the roof, landing lightly and twisting
round to face the entrance.
    ‘ In there, boy!’ Tam shouted. ‘In there, Nipper!’
    Ears pricked,
tensed, the dog stepped cautiously into the gloomy interior. Tam
stood back from the edge. After a short period of silence, the
place erupted suddenly in a cacophony of loud yelps, squeals and
fierce growling. Rats began to spring from the slit holes,
scrambling up to the roof and then bounding away to the safety of
the rocks. Tam counted four fleeing bodies. The yapping from below
had subsided, but the growls persisted. He looked down to see
Nipper emerging backwards from the building, a fifth rat caught by
the neck between the dog’s small, powerful jaws. Nipper shook the
rat violently, hammering its struggling body repeatedly against the
ground.