by Jason Arnopp
A real wild one.
True Romance springs to mind. Having been seized from behind by Drexl’s bodyguard, Clarence delivers a backwards headbutt to the big man’s nose. This probably only works in the movies, but it’s more likely to bring success than trying to stamp on Curiosity’s foot.
I bring my chin to my chest, then slam back my skull as far as it’ll go.
I feel the sickening crunch of cartilage, and Curiosity’s arms fly apart like the head of his padlock.
Miracles happen.
The world goes woozy as I bust out of the garage. Which way? I consider the mental image of Curiosity dragging me off his front gate as I try to climb over and out, then hurling me back down onto the weeds and bricks. Also can’t guarantee that he was the only new arrival. If I head back towards the house, others might await me there with open arms. Remembering the end of Eden Lake cements my split-second decision to head for the dirt slope covered by trees.
My head might be packed with cotton wool soaked in ether, but at least my limbs work. I’m moving and moving fast, but the trees have devoured me and I can barely see a thing. Lit by patchy scraps of moon, the track has already grown steeper. Really should’ve seen that coming, given that I’m running up the foot of Chanctonbury Hill, but there’s no going back now.
Drenched in sweat, I daren’t look to see if Curiosity is pursuing me. And who was that back there? Scott? Whoever it was, his nose must be a broken mess, so he’ll surely give chase through sheer blind rage. Should I hide somewhere in the darkness and wait? No, he might find me with a torch. I have to keep going.
You’ll never make it all the way up this hill in the dark. It’s only getting steeper.
Tripwire thorns slice into my ankles and tear the flesh, then hold firm until I fall.
My outstretched hands slam into the dirt, where something spiny and ruthless pierces the webbed flesh between my left thumb and forefinger. Switching on Scott’s phone torch might betray my location to Curiosity, but without light I may easily lose my footing and roll all the way back down, snapping my neck in the process.
The phone torch shows me what my feet had blindly tried to figure out for themselves – makeshift steps, provided by tree roots. There’s also a tree planted up ahead in the middle of the track, which I might otherwise have walked right into.
My back aches. My lungs heave with lava. My breath sounds like wood being sawn. Shit, is this even a real track? What if this thing gets so steep that I can’t go any further?
From below come frenzied growls and barks. These sound way too close for the dog to still be confined in that house…
Oh my God.
Curiosity has set his Rottweiler loose, then sent it up the hill after me. How am I supposed to defend myself against a dog like that? Remember that online article about how to defend yourself against violent mutts? Nah. Too long; didn’t read.
Torchlight helps me find a fallen tree bough. Using this as a makeshift staff, I heave myself up the slope with renewed vigour.
No matter how fast I move, these barks draw nearer.
Soil gives way beneath my feet and now I’m sliding down the hill.
Jamming my staff into the dirt slows my descent, until I can grab a tree root with my other hand.
Thank you, staff. Fuck you, terrifying hellhound whose scrabbling paws I’m convinced I can hear only a few trees down.
I can never outrun this thing, so I’m going to have to make some kind of…
… final…
… stand here.
I’m going to have to face the Rottweiler.
Nettles sting my hand as I shove the phone down at the base of a tree. Tilted down, the torchlight half-heartedly reveals a few feet of downward slope, leaving me free to stand here with the staff held tight in both hands, trying to project the impression that I know what in the ever-loving fuck I’m doing.
One thing’s for sure: I want to live.
Yes, I want to see another day. Ideally one on which I will make far fewer stupid decisions and quite probably explore my bi side.
The dog’s eyes spark into view, the torchlight lending them a rabid glint. Fuck, what if the beast really is rabid?
You mean there’s a difference between being torn to shreds, and being torn to shreds and leaving an infected corpse?
Swinging the staff back like a cricket bat, I bare my teeth. My legs are pure jelly.
“Fuck off,” I yell. “Fuck the fuck off.”
Undeterred, the Rottweiler only races on up the hill at me, its bark now loud enough to stab at my eardrums.
Don’t want to hurt this thing. Don’t want to die either. Still, a direct strike to the dog’s skull would require the kind of perfect timing that I do not possess. So let’s show the fucker a warning swipe and try to keep it at bay.
Devoting all my strength to the swing, I hammer the staff into an overhanging tree bough.
The staff snaps in two. The flying, jagged top half smacks me in the face.
Saliva shines on the Rottweiler’s jaws as it closes in for the kill.
IZZY
kate please reply im hating this n im scared… havent seen another human since you left…
IZZY
minds starting to play tricks
IZZY
kate!!!! where the fuck r u
IZZY
ffs… ok im gonna leave the car n come find u
CHAPTER FIFTY
6 October
The Rottweiler’s eyes are twin burning coals as it tenses its hind legs, ready to leap.
If I try to kick, I’ll lose my balance and fall, for sure. All can think to do is pull my fists inside my sleeves, then cross my arms in an X shape, but it’s not enough. Can’t protect every vulnerable part of my body all at once.
As my whole body stiffens, so does the Rottweiler’s. It slides back a couple of steps, then scrabbles around in the dirt. Those eyes now harbour something that looks a lot like fear.
I’ve no idea why this is happening, but want to strike while the iron’s hot. “That’s right, you little shit. You should be fucking afraid. Now fuck off.”
The flailing mutt actually whimpers, then whines as it backs off away down the slope.
Only now do I realise that those carbon-black eyes aren’t directly fixed on me.
No, they’re looking behind me and up.
Something ripples in my spine. What has a Rottweiler seen to put the beast off my tasty flesh?
And now I catch a hint of pale blue reflected in the dog’s eyes.
I taste the copper in my mouth.
Leaning against a tree for support, I dare to look up the slope, and oh shit, there it is.
Something distant, but steadily, purposefully, coming down the hill.
Something pale blue. Something that jerks and strobes, a good few feet above the dirt, bathing all the trees with an unearthly shimmer.
With a rush of vertigo, I teeter backwards, waving propeller arms to steady myself. This ghost looks bigger than its predecessors. Can’t help but picture this thing flying out of the occult ring of trees that crowns this hill created by the Devil, then sweeping down in search of juicy playthings.
My legs almost give way altogether as the ghost wends and weaves towards me, down through the trees.
Literally through the trees, too. It flies behind the trunk of a mighty oak, disappears briefly, re-emerges from the side closest to me, then resumes its smooth descent. Forks of jagged light pulsate through its body like a network of veins.
I want to run, I really do, but I can’t take my eyes off this thing. Ten trees away, the phantom has me mesmerised. Some dark and infinitely stupid part of me – some instinct, maybe – wants to see the face.
Never mind the fucking face, put yourself as far away from it as possible.
Eight trees and closing…
Scott’s phone must still be down at the base of the tree at my feet, but I can’t stop watching this phantom.
Six trees.
&nb
sp; As this thing jerks closer, I can make out the vague, fundamental features of a face. Eyes, nose, mouth.
Four trees.
What in the galloping fuck am I doing?
I am a startled deer. One that’s managed to snap out of the hypnotic sight of its hunter, then turn tail and run.
When I picture myself charging back down through the black with this phantom in hot pursuit, the thought makes me want to burrow six feet beneath all this soil and get it over with. So I snatch up the phone and hold the torch out before me as I attempt to skid back down the hill.
Fear transforms me into wretched, retching, hunted prey. My phone torch flashes crazily around. A pendulum of copper drool swings from my chin.
Dare I risk a glance back over my shoulder, back up the slope?
Best not to know how much ground this thing’s gained on me. When the Devil’s on your tail, there’s no time to check his progress. You assume he’s right behind you, and speed the hell up.
“Get away!” I yell through sheer desperation, as if that’s going to change a phantom’s mind when it didn’t even work on a dog. “Leave me alone.”
Hey! Look behind you. Check the Devil’s progress.
Trees rush past. I am a skier on the world’s most narrow and treacherous slalom. I try to keep my feet side on against the slope, to steady myself. When I try to move too fast, I lose purchase and slide down, on the very brink of a fall, before righting myself again.
Go on. Take a look. Surely it’s best to know. Yes, you can see the blue light of this thing reflecting on the trees ahead of you, but exactly how close is it?
The question squeezes my heart, makes my blood pump even faster and speeds me up, like I’m trying to escape my own burning tail. Any second now, I know I’ll lose control altogether and fall arse-over-tit down the hill.
You’ll be fine. One look won’t cost you any time. There’s no need to slow down. All you have to do is snatch a super-quick glance.
Oh, please let me see nothing. Please let the phantom have vanished into thin air. Life can sometimes be that nice, right?
Preparing for the worst, I look back around as far as I dare.
In the corner of my eye, one ragged breath away, flies a juddering mass the colour of ambulance lights.
My whole body becomes a scream.
Firm ground disappears beneath my feet, and now I’m falling through the big black nothing of night.
My shoulder jars against a tree root. Nerve endings stand up and shout. Back in contact with the dirt, I am a rolled carpet, gaining speed as I descend.
Cruel thorns lash my face. A log clips my head as I pass by.
Something big, hard and immovable punches my guts and brings my descent to a violent and immediate halt.
I’ve wrapped myself around one of those trees in the middle of the track.
Feels like there’s a bowling ball in my stomach and my windpipe’s been stapled shut. My sore head fogs up through lack of air.
The phantom. Remember the phantom.
With a broken wheeze, I haul myself around to sit back against the tree. My vision starts to fill with rapidly multiplying patches, darker than the night itself.
Through the gaps between patches, I see the phantom swoop this way, close enough for me to properly make out its face.
Despite the ghost’s flickering blue essence and black-hole eyes, I can see that this…
Oh my God…
I can see that this is the ghost of Scott Palmer.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
6 October
I wake up slow, from a place where dreams are forbidden.
I am a dead fish, drifting towards the surface.
The skin around my eyes feels tight with dried tears. I can’t remember why these tears have been shed, and something tells me I don’t want to remember.
There’s a hard pillow under my head and something wrapped quite tightly around my temples. The room smells of antiseptic cream, cigarette smoke and dog.
Staring at the wooden beams on the ceiling, I try to fill in the blanks. I try to recall what happened on the slope, but first I remember the house at the foot of the hill.
These low ceiling beams… that dog smell… I must be in the house.
Gripped by the fear that my wrist and ankles are tied to this bed, I raise one weak hand to feel the bandage on my head. My other hand is also free to move, as are my feet, but there’s a pressure in my skull so acute that if I move too dramatically I know I’ll throw up.
Scott’s dead. You saw his ghost. His face, it had that vulnerable Tinder look.
The concept of Scott’s death feels too much to handle, like an oncoming flood. My ravaged head struggles to make sense of his phantom and comes up wanting.
A scrawled piece of paper from a tin in the Basketmakers Arms flaps around in my head as if to say Told you so.
You Will Die.
But what… I mean, seriously, what? Scott’s dead? Why? How? The ceiling slips in and out of focus as I contemplate the idea that he never walked out on me but was in fact murdered.
I may be crying fresh tears, but at least this time I know why. So if this really is the cottage, how did I get here? And what happens now? Am I a prisoner here, locked in this room?
“She’s coming around.” I’ve never been so ecstatic to hear Izzy’s voice. Could this actually be some kind of rural hospital? They might actually make them this rustic, and allow dogs in, and let people smoke.
Swallowing down the nausea, I find Izzy, who’s using crutches to raise herself from an old wicker chair. Wearing the same clothes as when I left the car, her face is lined with fatigue and concern.
Beside her stands Ray Palmer. Curiosity himself. Holding a freezer bag over his nose, the man’s eyes are pure thunder. His dark blue jumper and black trousers are coated in dirt and pieces of leaf. His smooth scalp bears a couple of plasters, presumably earned tonight and applied by Izzy. How did she even get here? Christ, I have this mental image of her hobbling through those woods, all alone, to come and save me. More likely, she drove around the entire hill. Truly, I do not deserve this woman.
Behind them both, across this claustrophobic room, a single window confirms it’s still dark outside. This must be the middle of the night.
“What’s… what’s going on?” I ask Izzy.
“Exactly what I’d like to know,” Ray mutters. He groans as he removes the makeshift ice pack from his nose, examines how much blood has smeared itself over the bag, then gingerly pushes it back into place.
“Mr Palmer, please remain calm,” Izzy says, “like we agreed you would.”
Why’s she calling him Mr Palmer? But how I love her for taking control of the situation here. Izzy has the strength of a thousand suns.
And now she says, “Miss Collins, when I arrived, Mr Palmer told me he’d had an altercation with an intruder, who’d then taken flight up the hill. It took me a while to explain everything and convince him, but he found you and brought you down here.”
“What did you do to Jessie?” Ray demands of me. “She’s in my room, cowering under the fucking bed.”
Izzy gives Ray a look that appeals once more for calm. She brings a glass of water up from my bedside table.
“Drink,” she says.
“Can’t get my head up, too sore.” I open my mouth like a baby bird and she tips the glass. The water goes down the wrong pipe, so I burst into an explosive and agonising coughing fit as Izzy pulls a sympathetic face.
Once I can speak again, I ask Ray, “So you live here… by yourself?”
He nods, sullen, distracted by so many questions of his own. “DI Clarke told me why you broke into my property – and frankly, you’re mental.”
DI Clarke? Izzy and I exchange one glance, and straight away I understand what she’s done. That old crewmate telepathy, it stays with you forever.
“If my brother finished with you,” he goes on, “why couldn’t you leave well alone? Coming over here and busting my nose ai
n’t gonna change a thing.”
“Sorry about the nose,” I say. “I didn’t know who you were. I thought you might be your brother.”
Scott’s flickering corpse-blue face scalds my mind’s eye.
Ray fires back, “And I thought you were one of them local thieves. Look, you’ve got this dumb idea in your head that Scott’s vanished, but that’s clearly bollocks. Ain’t you seen his Twitter lately?”
As Izzy addresses Ray again, my eyes beg her not to mention Scott’s phone. “Several other people have also gone missing, Mr Palmer, as far as their close friends and family are concerned, but they’re still posting on social media.”
I swallow hard. Izzy and I, we’d come to think that Scott might have been behind the disappearance of those people on his phone, but we never took into account that he’d vanished too. What if he’s one of the people who somebody… maybe somebody in this room… has made disappear?
Instinct tells me to tread carefully with the next question. I don’t, though. “How did all of Scott’s stuff end up here?”
Ray tries to fold his arms, then recognises that he can’t do this while holding the ice pack on his nose. “None of your business. All you need to know is, my brother obviously don’t want to be with you anymore. And when I tell him about this, he’ll want you even less.”
I study Ray’s expression for any trace of lies. What’s that giveaway tick people do – is it looking up to the right or the left? Can’t remember, but he’s talking about Scott as if his brother’s still very much alive, without breaking eye contact.
“When did you last speak to him?” I say, aware that I’m sounding a little too much like a murder detective – the role that Izzy has taken on, like the genius she is.
Ray’s cold, steady gaze tracks from me, over to Izzy, then back to me. “I’m gonna check on my dog.” On his way out of the room, he glances around, as if trying to anticipate any further chaos I might cause.
When he closes the door, I listen out for his footsteps, but hear nothing. So I beckon Izzy down until our noses are mere inches apart, and I whisper, “I saw Scott’s ghost. He’s dead, Izzy.”