It was nearly a week since the last email.
Since the last thing he tried.
He hadn’t switched the burner phone back on.
He hadn’t opened the encrypted folders again.
No more upload scripts. No more watching inboxes that never replied.
He sat in the rental flat with the window open, drinking weak tea and listening to the wind scrape against the brick. And for the first time since the mailshot, Craig felt… still.
Not calm. Not safe.
Just empty.
Like something had finally slipped off his shoulders, but left a bruise behind.
By late morning, he was already on the road.
A single-track bus rattling north along the coast. Past Wemyss Bay. Past the ferry signs and the shipyards.
Up to Inverkip.
It was the first place he’d ever been as a child. He hadn’t walked these hills in forty years. But today, it was like they’d waited for him.
He hiked the path towards Dunrod.
Boots crunching on frostbitten grass. The air sharp and salt-thick.
He climbed until the Clyde stretched out behind him like a metal plate, and Inverkip looked toy-sized, and the sky cracked open into colour.
He didn’t know why he was there.
Only that it felt right.
For hours, he just walked.
There were no hikers this time of year. No tourists.
Only sheep. Only wind. Only stone.
And Craig.
He thought about Martin Collins. About the solicitor. The car dealer. Darren Ellison.
He said their names out loud, quietly. Like an act of penance.
He didn’t forgive himself.
He never would.
But something strange had happened over the past few days — he no longer felt like he needed to justify it, either.
He had tried.
He had told the story. He had shown the proof. He had handed the match to the people with the power to light it.
They had all dropped it in the ashtray and walked away.
He couldn’t change what he’d done.
But maybe—maybe—he could stop it from happening again.
He sat on a flat stone near the summit and looked out over the Clyde.
He took out a notepad. Scribbled.
"Grassroots.
Not journalists."
He circled the word:
People.
If the institutions wouldn’t touch the story, then the people would have to find it without them.
There was no other way.
The next thing he did had to be loud, undeniable, and everywhere.
He didn’t know the exact method yet.
But he knew what he was aiming for now.
It was strange. As the sun went down and the cold closed in, Craig felt light.
Not relieved, not hopeful—just light.
Like his body weighed less.
Like some invisible clock had ticked closer to zero and he’d finally stopped struggling against it.
There was a part of him that thought:
This might be the last time I ever see this place.
And a louder part that said:
It can’t be. I haven’t finished yet. I need more time.
He started the walk back down the hill just as the mist was crawling in.
The phone in his pocket was still off.
The laptop at the flat was still plugged in. Still waiting.
He had one last act left in him.