"A storm, that began off the coast of Scotland reached landfall this morning and has spread across the whole of Scotland and much of northern England, bringing flash flooding and devastation in its wake.

Weather experts were caught unawares by the appearance of the storm that they have described as 'coming from nowhere', with the strength of a minor hurricane. Emergency services, already overwhelmed from the recent earthquake continue to struggle to contain the worst of the storm and the PM, still facing calls to resign, has not ruled out despatching army units to aid in search and rescue efforts."

-+-

4

The image of the immense shape of the dog disappeared as fast as it had appeared. Try as she might, Runa could see no further sign of the creature, to the point where she began to doubt her own senses. Nevertheless, she stayed at that window, watching the rapidly expanding storm until her skin had already dried and her hair felt cold and limp against her shoulders.

After a few more minutes watching the raging storm, she returned to her room, slipped into her warmest, most comfortable nightwear and headed downstairs. She tried to relax, mug of cocoa clasped between both hands. She curled her legs beneath her and tried to watch the television but, apart from years-old repeats, it only contained a constant stream of information regarding the earthquake from earlier. Emergency contact numbers, websites and death tolls ran across the bottom of the screen.

Making a decision, she stood and moved to the sideboard, where Mr McTomminay had left her a list of telephone numbers. Lifting her mobile phone, she scowled as the signal strength flickered from one bar, to none, to 'no service' and back to one bar. Frustrated, she dropped the phone on the sideboard surface, tugging the ancient landline phone towards her. With a sigh of relief, she heard that old, reliable burr of a dial-tone and began tapping numbers onto the pad.

"Hello? Mr McAreavey? I'm so sorry to call at this hour, but I was wondering ..." She paused as McAreavey spoke over the crackling line. "Yes, it is. Mr McTomminay left your number. But, I was wondering? Do you have a gun? Yes, yes, I know, it is only a dog, but ... just in case? Thank you. I truly hope you have no need to use them. Thank you. Good night. I'm sorry, again, for calling so late."

She replaced the receiver, resting both hands upon the thick plastic, as though the touch alone would pass along her fears to McAreavey. It could, after all, only be an illusion. The swollen storm clouds, lit up by the cracks of lightning, could have given the impression of a dog skulking outside. Truth told, she almost prayed that it was only her mind playing tricks upon her.

What she had seen, if it were real, could only come from nightmares. As tall as a house, arch-backed, with fur as black as the deepest coal mine. But the thing that had sent shivers down her spine were those eyes. Burning, molten red that seemed to bore into her flesh to tear out her soul. The dog had stared right towards the house when it wasn't howling towards the unbridled savagery of the storm.

Sleep did not come easy. There seemed no position upon her bed that could lull her into blessed dreams, no amount of covers, or lack of them, that she could cling to and allow herself to drift away. She tossed and turned, her mind a whirl of competing thoughts and worries, until she couldn't take it any longer. Taking a pillow and her covers, she camped out in the hall, between her children's rooms, opening their doors only a slight so that she could hear them breathing.

By the time morning came, she could tell the storm had diminished, somewhat. The winds had died down a great deal compared to height of the storm the night before. A glance through the window, at the end of the little hall, showed that, though it had lessened, the storm still bubbled and churned, far in the distance.

"Why are you sat on the floor, mummy?" Hertha, rubbing her eyes, hair in disarray, blinked down towards Runa and then turned, shuffling towards the bathroom. There to wash and brush her teeth. "What's for breakfast?"

Stigr didn't even bother to ask as he stumbled from his room, still appearing half-asleep. He passed by Runa only glancing back and frowning once he had walked several paces. He shook his head, leaning against the bathroom door and knocking in a slow steady thump with the heel of his hand upon the surface. Hertha always kept him waiting.

She decided to give them a choice for breakfast, more than happy to cater to their whims for this morning, at least. Hertha had healthy flakes of bran with only a little sugar and lashings of milk. Stigr wanted a Full English, but Runa bargained him down to toast, eggs and bacon. Her happiness to please ran only so far.

While the children ate their breakfast, Runa heard the sound of McAreavey's quad bike approaching and she rushed upstairs to get changed into a set of hardwearing clothes, tying her hair into a tight bun, then rushing back downstairs to thrust her feet into the long, green Wellington boots she should have worn the night before. She shrugged into her now dry coat and ran outside, hoping to catch McAreavey before Stigr caught sight of the farmer's gun. She didn't want her son anywhere near a gun, no matter how well McAreavey handled it.

"Morning, lassie. I'd have been here hours ago, but I figured you were still on mainland time." By 'mainland time', he meant any time after four in the morning, when he, likely, started his farm chores. "I brought what you asked for, but I can't see that I'll need it. Got a rope, too, to tie the hound up. If there is one."

"I think you're going to need a stronger rope." That little thought escaped her lips, but McAreavey hadn't heard. Leaning back over the quad bike, he switched it off and stood upright, lifting his gun bag over his shoulder. "Do you mind if I come with you? The children will be fine. I've left them watching that superhero movie they like. Again."

McAreavey pinched his nose, considering her for a second, and then nodded before placing those same fingers between his lips and making a single, short, shrill whistle. Within seconds, a little dog, that came no higher than Runa's mid-calf, came bounding towards them, little tail wagging in a blur. Murty, she guessed, wove in and out of her legs, sniffing both Wellington boots before returning to McAreavey.

With one wave of the hand, McAreavey sent Murty away, towards the beach and the little dog ran so fast, he left a trail of gravel bouncing in the air in his wake. He didn't run too far, before he stopped to sniff at one spot. The spot where Runa felt certain she had seen the great, hulking form of the the 'Big Dog'. Murty ran hither and thither, sniffing at several places before zipping away again. He didn't seem to mind the rain, or the wind. Even though it was not anywhere near as strong as the night before.

"Old Murty will lead the way. If there's anything to be found, he'll find it." McAreavey slipped the sturdy looking rope over his shoulder and began to follow his little dog, feet crunching upon the gravel path. "Stay behind me, though. Just in case."

Runa didn't need telling twice. The very idea of meeting that great beast that she thought she had seen the night before sent shivers down her spine. As she reached the point where Murty had taken a good, long sniff around, her eyes searched the surface of the point where the gravel gave way to sand and pebbles. She could see scuff marks, but nothing of note and those scuffs could as easy have been from the passing of them all as they left the beach last night.

Murty continued to run ahead and, as soon as they passed beyond sight of the house, down onto the beach proper, McAreavey unslung his gun bag and removed the shotgun, breaking it and placing two cartridges into the barrels. He didn't close the gun, only hooking it over his arm as they continued to walk. It felt as though he already knew she didn't want the children to see the shotgun.

In truth, she didn't know whether she feared Hertha and Stigr seeing the gun at all, or because of what it could represent should they find the dog and it turned out vicious. She could imagine the shrieks that would come from them both if they thought, for even a second, that McAreavey could shoot the dog that they said had saved them.

But Runa couldn't take the chance. Even if it were only a normal dog, and not the immense creature she thought she had seen within the throes of the storm, if it posed a threat then she would need to see that threat ended as quickly as possible. They had not come to this island to get away from the increasing danger of life back home, only for her children to become attacked by a wild dog.

She thought about what her children had said. That the 'Big Dog' had protected them from the storm, holding them close and ... singing? Singing of ancient warriors and gods! Madness! And now she had dragged old Mr McAreavey into that self-same madness. She felt like a fool to even think of such things. Yet, Stigr had seemed certain of what he experienced. Even Hertha looked as though she believed it, even though she denied it all out loud.

The high-pitched barking of Murty brought Runa back to the present and she could see the little dog dancing and prancing before a dark shadow upon the face of the cliffs, only a little further ahead. McAreavey clicked the shotgun's barrels into place and began to head towards that shadow, pointing the gun forward and down as he moved.

"Well, that's not a cave at all." She almost felt disappointed as she came to stand before the thing that looked nothing more than a deep overhang of the cliffs. "I'm sorry, Mr McAreavey, I've dragged you out here because of the overactive imagination of my children."

"I'm not so certain about that, lassie." McAreavey had given the indentation in the cliffs a good look before breaking the shotgun open again. Now he stared down at his feet, where Murty continued to bark. "Maybe their imagination isn't near as overactive as it should be."

She hesitated. Uncertain why, Runa didn't want to join McAreavey and Murty to stand before that blemish in the face of the cliffs. A chill ran down her back, as though the wind had picked up once more, finding the gaps in her coat and clutching at her spine. She made reluctant steps forward until she stood beside McAreavey, staring down at something at his feet.

A paw print. Not a paw print the size of a normal dog, or even a big one. Whatever had made this print had pushed the beach sand and pebbles so deep, Murty could jump in and the surface of the beach would be above his head. If she were to guess, the print would measure almost six feet in length and she knew, for a fact, no living creature could have made that mark.