The Prisoner's Dilemma (2 page)

What the eye didn't see, he thought to himself and, anyway, why should he have to share every last thing with Ally? Hadn't he practically had to drag him to the castle in the first place?

Moonlight flooded the room and the two boys pulled at books and moved charts in their search for treasures. Greed had so invaded their minds by now that it had overcome their caution and neither heard a slight scuffing sound as Lord Dunbeath crept to the top of the tower's stone stairs and slid quietly through the open door.

The earl now stood in icy silence, pointing his pistol at the brothers' backs. Eventually, something must have caught Alistair's eye because he looked up and gasped in appalled shock as he saw Dunbeath's wide frame. And then the pistol in his hand. As he heard his brother's cry, James glanced up and followed Alistair's horrified gaze. In an instant the three men were standing, rigid, staring at each other, the two of them frozen in shock and the other hard coiled with the lust for revenge.

At last Dunbeath broke the silence.

‘How did you get in here?' he asked in a terrifyingly quiet tone. ‘Armies have tried to storm this castle for centuries and
failed. How did you do it?'

The McLeish brothers remained where they were, too stunned to answer. They simply stared back in a horrified silence at the black threat of the pistol.

Then Alistair began to plead in a thin, reedy whine.

‘Oh, we're sorry, your lordship. God knows it, we're so sorry. We're just two stupid, hungry boys. Don't bother with us, my lord. We won't ever do anything like this again.' His voice broke with fear. ‘Oh, please God, let us go!'

Dunbeath said nothing. He seemed to be so completely absorbed in his thoughts that he showed no sign of having heard the boy. Instead he appeared to be weighing up what to do next with all the calm concentration of a cat staring at a sparrow. He stayed like this for some time, swaying slightly as he turned the situation over in his mind before a hint of amusement seemed to come over his face. He had clearly come to a decision.

With a wave of his arm he ordered the pair through a door to the gap between the outside wall of the observatory and the ancient fortifications of the turret. Then, in an oddly disconnected voice, he barked an order at James.

‘Stand up there!'

He pointed with his free hand at the battlements.

‘On that stone.'

James looked at the raised teeth of the parapet with alarm. Four hundred years before, the castle's builders had followed the defence strategy of their day and projected the turret out from the side of the tower. The battlements hung over the sea far below and James looked at them, appalled. The top of each of the stones was hardly wider than a man's feet and slippery with frozen sea mist.

‘I can't,' he stammered, his chest tight with fear, ‘I'll fall.'

There was a second's pause before Dunbeath took a step towards him and put his pistol to the boy's head. He ground it into James's temple as he hissed at him in a low, urgent whisper.

‘Do it. Or die here now. You've broken into my home. Who would ever say I was wrong to shoot you?'

James realised he had no choice if he was to survive. He moved mechanically over to the wall and put his foot on the lower of the stones. Then, with heart-sinking desperation, he levered himself up onto the surface of the higher level, first on his knees and then, with manic concentration, onto his feet. As he did so he had to lean outwards and he saw with sick terror the horrible sight of the drop to the sea below. He slowly straightened upright, every part of him concentrating on stopping his legs from shaking. Blood pounded in his temples, his senses scattered, his head spun.

‘Turn to face me,' Dunbeath ordered.

Even in his shattered state James knew that the slightest wrong move would send him over the edge. He shuffled to one side, his knees bent and his feet making tiny movements to bring himself round. Terror was quickly overtaking him and as his mind solidified, so his limbs softened. Eventually, he succeeded in turning round.

‘Now you,' snapped out Dunbeath, swinging the pistol to point at Alistair.

The younger man could take no more. He'd seen James's terrible climb and there was nothing left in him that could make him follow his brother's lead. He began to whimper, now deaf to Dunbeath's voice.

‘Wait here,' said Dunbeath sharply, and stepped backwards into the observatory with his pistol still raised. Without ever taking his eyes from them he felt for the back of a chair and then dragged it outside behind him.

‘Here. Climb up on that. Get on this stone here.'

Like James, Alistair could see no way out. Shaking violently, he stood on the chair and, by holding its back rail, he edged a foot forward onto the battlement's surface. Then he closed his eyes and lifted his other leg. He was now facing out to sea and he
gibbered to himself as he slowly inched round to face Dunbeath. The earl seemed to inspect his work and then barked out his next command.

‘Now, each of you, take the other man's hand. Go on. Both of you do it. Get hold of his hand!'

James and Alistair lifted their arms towards each other and linked hands. As they did so, Dunbeath pulled the chair back and threw it to one side. A hundred feet below them the surf roared ever louder with the pull of the incoming tide but, in their terror, the brothers heard nothing – they knew only that the slightest movement from either of them and they would fall.

‘I'm going to give you some choices' said Dunbeath dispassionately. He had suddenly become a man of science, explaining an experiment.

‘Listen carefully. You know I have only one ball in my pistol. If you both jump at me I could only shoot one of you. I might even miss. No doubt if I did you'd overpower me and throw me over that wall you're standing on. But if you don't want to try that then you can simply ask to get down and I'll take you to the sheriff in the morning. I see from your empty sack that you've taken nothing so you'll probably only get a light sentence, just for breaking into my property. Possibly a short spell in jail.

‘But, concentrate now…' Dunbeath's voice rose in emphasis, ‘…if one of you steps down and pulls the other one off the stone, and he falls, then you have my word, that man can go free.'

He took a step back from them and his lips tightened into a satisfied smile.

James and Alistair began to plead, first with Dunbeath and then with each other.

‘Ask to get down Jamie…give ourselves up,' stammered Alistair, his body shaking in the wicked cold of the wind.

‘No, you fool,' said James urgently, ‘jump at him! Come on, let's jump at him. We can do it together.'

Dunbeath seemed completely oblivious to their argument and
continued to stand quite still, pointing his gun in silence. Long seconds passed as he waited patiently. For all the world, he seemed no more than a gentleman scientist, fascinated to see the result of a chemical reaction.

As the cold black of the pistol's muzzle pointed at first one and then the other of the brothers, their heads pulled back in horror. Too terrified to be aware of what he was doing, Alistair lost control of himself and leaked noisily onto the stone of the wall.

Possibly prompted by this, Dunbeath's manner changed in an instant. His features hardened and his temper flared.

‘Choose!' he now shouted at them angrily, ‘what will you have? Choose!'

The earl had passed from cool control to manic fury in just a few seconds and he now began to step rapidly from foot to foot as if scarcely able to contain himself.

‘Come on! What's it to be, gentlemen? Life or death?' He was screaming now, the rage that had flashed up in him almost as mind shattering to the brothers as the prospect of the sea below.

James looked across at Alistair. He was about to urge him forward again when he noticed for the first time his brother's sodden clothing and the moonlight glinting on the puddle he'd made in front of him. It was then, at this sight, that something gave in his deranged terror. In a second his fear went out of him and, instead, an extraordinary calmness came over him.

James was quite cold now as he looked again at Alistair's desperate, twisted face. He saw his brother's stretched skin and starting eyes, wasting his time pleading for his life with this half-crazed man. As he looked at him, James felt as if he had left his body and was floating gently above where they stood, looking coolly down on the whole insane conflict. It all seemed so suddenly clear to him – how he had always led the way with Alistair, forever caring for him and fighting his battles. He felt as if he'd been carrying him all his life. Now he'd pissed himself.
What a pathetic weakling he was. Well, he'd give him one last chance to be a man. He would pull his arm to make him attack Dunbeath. And if he fell? Then he should have fought harder. Shown more spirit! How typical it would be of him if he fell over the edge.

If Ally jumped forward when he pulled him, James thought, then they might have a chance with Dunbeath. But if the boy went over the edge? So, he'd go free himself. It was absolutely obvious to him now.
Either outcome suited him, the best thing he could do was pull
.

James looked away and then jerked his arm, wrenching Alistair towards him. As he did so he leapt forward from the battlement.

But Lord Dunbeath was ready for this and stepped quickly backwards, the pistol still outstretched. Like James, his eyes were on Alistair. Both of them now watched, fascinated as, in a moment of sudden quiet, the boy's face crumpled in incomprehension and his fragile balance was lost forever on the slick stone of the battlement. There was a slight scrape as his legs went from under him and then he fell heavily, bringing down an arm on the block that James had just stepped off. The two men heard the hideous slap as Alistair's hand struck and then slid off the wet surface. There was no cry at first and the boy only gave a small grunt of surprise. But then, as he fell, twisting, down towards the sea far below, he let out a long and despairing scream.

There was a deep, black silence. Too stunned to react for a few seconds, James simply remained unmoved, frozen in mute shock. Then he flung himself at the battlements and stared down into the dark roar of the sea.

‘Alistair! he screamed. ‘Ally!'

He shouted again and again, his voice becoming weaker with each cry. At last, with an agonised sob, he fell to the tower's floor, his head in his hands, whimpering in his utter self-loathing.

Dunbeath waited, quite still, seeming to observe James's
anguish with the greatest interest. Then he moved towards him and pulled him upright. The mad anger of a few minutes before had by now completely dissolved and he led the broken boy, almost gently, down the stone stairs and towards the main gate.

‘I wanted him to attack you,' James sobbed when they'd reached the entrance hall. He continued, distraught and jabbering, all fight long gone. ‘Why didn't he know that? I was pulling him to jump at you. Why didn't he? That's what I meant. Why didn't he jump?'

‘He didn't jump because you pulled him off the stone,' said Dunbeath. ‘You don't know what to think, but I'm telling you, you pulled him to his death. You chose to live. You killed him so that you could go free. That's what happened.'

As Dunbeath opened the castle's great entrance door, an odd compulsion seemed to come over him to share his conclusion.

‘You had no part in the decision back there,' he muttered. ‘I wouldn't blame yourself. It was just man's wickedness that pulled him to his death, not you. You did it because of the evil nature that's in all of us, in every man alive. You're no different to anyone else, it's only self-interest that makes us who we are. We think we're civilised, but every one of us would do what you did. We'd all kill to survive. Even a worm will twist to escape, a fish will fight the hook. You, all of us, we're no better than they are.'

James stared at him in disbelief.

‘Do you mean you knew I'd do it?'

‘Well,' replied Dunbeath grimly, ‘I'd have wagered much that one of you would.'

James's manner immediately hardened. He stared at Dunbeath.

‘Then you might as well have pulled him yourself. You made me do it. You murdered Alistair!'

‘No,' said Dunbeath firmly, and he now looked fiercely into James's face. ‘You did! And it's you that will hang if you talk
about this.'

He pulled the huge door open and turned back to the boy.

‘But I wouldn't think too long on it if I were you,' he added tersely. ‘Have you never seen a map? Don't you know where we are? We're the most obscure dot that's marked in all Scotland, of no interest to anyone. Who will ever know what occurred here tonight? Or care? Go home now. Forget about what happened. Be grateful for your freedom.'

And with that Dunbeath pushed James through the open door and closed it again with all the finality of the Urquhain's long tradition of shutting out the inferior beings of the world.

* * * 

James never knew how he got back to Dunbeaton that night. Weeping and bent, he stumbled through the dunes. It had begun to rain and the frozen air cleared his head enough for him to realise that he had to think. He couldn't tell the truth. He needed a story. His first thought was that he would say that Alistair had simply fallen off a rock as they'd been gathering mussels. But what were they doing out in the middle of the night? And, anyway, that old drunk McColl knew they were exploring the cave. What if he should blabber the truth?

At last he reached the cottage and beat loudly on the door.

‘Mother! Mother!' he shouted out as he went in. ‘Father! Quickly!'

James fell to his knees and sobbed loudly as they ran towards him, panicked by his manner. Bit by bit he stammered out a version of the night's events. Of how Alistair had begged James to go with him to explore the cave under the castle, fascinated by McColl's story. Of how Alistair had insisted on going first into the cave but had not reappeared. Of how the waves had pounded and pounded as the tide rushed in.