The other two men lying on the floor were much older, but they were emaciated and, despite his anger, Ryland pitied their starving bodies. Their poor shape told him they weren’t farm workers in this area. The men on Loch Inver ate meat and pap every day, which, with physical labour, meant they were well muscled and tough. This little trio of wannabe killers didn’t look as though they could pick up a bag of potatoes. Their hard faces were unfamiliar too. They weren’t from here, of that he was sure.

All three were wearing old running shoes, none with laces. The one on the couch had on jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, which now hid the bloodstain on his chest. On his head was one of those ridiculous little hats he had seen youngsters wearing in town. He had the look of a skebenga about him, Ryland thought.

The one damaging the wooden floor was an old man. There were slash marks on both his cheeks and scabs on his knuckles. In death his eyes had rolled back and his mouth hung open, and Ryland could see that most of his teeth were broken. His pants were tied at the waist with a leather thong and his cotton shirt was threadbare and missing all but one button. By the look of him, Ryland thought, this one had been a real bastard.

Black Eyes was still watching him and Ryland noticed he had a good-looking face, a face he recognised but couldn’t quite place. His complexion was clear, making his skin look strangely soft. He didn’t yet have the look of booze and drugs about him. How did he get mixed up in something like this? His eyes were hard, but when Ryland started back at him, he instinctively looked away, and recognised immediately he was no killer. Judging by his attitude, though, he clearly had an issue with white farmers.

The clock chimed 4am and both Ryland and Black Eyes gave a start. O God, I need a whisky, he thought. He walked to the liquor cabinet, tucking the revolver under his arm and, keeping his eyes on the young man, he unscrewed the J&B. The bastard could probably do with a drink himself, Ryland thought; he must be hurting badly. He poured a shot into last night’s glass, screwed the bottle closed and carried it and the glass back to the chair. As he sat down, Black Eyes shifted.

“Mlungu, amanzi,” he whispered.

Oh Jesus.

“Now this umlungu who you came to rob and kill must fetch you water, hey?”

“Amanzi,” he said again.

“Here, have this.” Ryland put the whisky glass on the floor and pushed it towards him. He picked up the bottle, unscrewed it again and took a swig.

Black Eyes pulled himself up and leaned against the TV cabinet, closing his eyes and breathing hard while he waited for the pain to subside. The bullet must have grazed the bone, he thought. They sat for a long time in silence, then the injured man reached over and picked up the glass, cupping it like it was hot chocolate on a cold day.

Eventually he said: “Mlungu, when I can walk again I am going to come back and kill you.”

Ryland was sick and tired and bored with this bastard. He picked up the revolver and flicked it open. There were still bullets.

“Shut your mouth before I shoot your fucking head off.” Where in hell’s name was Sylvie and the cops.

***

Tell us: What do you think drove these men to break into the Ryland’s house?