“She must have been very special.”
“She was. Not like me. I work at the City Council—I mean, I used to. Not anymore. Not these days.”
“I... You don’t have to explain...”
“I know what they think...what they talk about behind my back. But it doesn’t matter anymore. The day Pru disappeared, it was like part of me disappeared too. You know?” Pack absentmindedly picked up his newspaper and put it on the seat beside him. “That’s when it all fell apart. I’m going to put it back together. But... Just someday, right?” He gave a laugh that had no joy in it at all. “I was out there for days at a time, out there looking for my little girl. But she wasn’t there. There’s only one person that knows where she is. And he’s sitting there in his box not talking.
“People see prisons as a bad place. A punishment. I see it as protection. There’s a dozen or more people in this town who’d like to beat it out of him. Beat out...where he...where he put them...” Pack’s speech cracked up but he still didn’t cry. He just took another drink. “Pru never did anything to anyone. Never even hurt a fly. And she trusted every one of her friends. She would die for them all. And this is what he did to her.”
Robin couldn’t help it slipping out. “There doesn’t actually seem to be any concrete proof that Matthew...”
Pack slammed his fists down on the table and there was finally something in his eyes. He looked like a man ready to kill. And Robin knew he’d made a mistake. “Proof is superficial. I know what happened. I can feel it. This memory loss thing he’s pulling is bullshit. He knew what he was doing from the instant he got in there to the second he got out. Thank God for people like Roger Claypath who are prepared to do the things that have to be done.”
Robin was confused. “What do you mean?”
Pack stopped himself. “I just mean that kid has to be held accountable. Everyone here loved them. My Pru. Tim, Rachel, Edmund, even that awkward Robert kid—they were good people. They made Marsden a better place. They reminded us of being kids ourselves. Running around, getting into trouble, having adventures. They were the good of the world, and that...viper...had to turn them into the bad.”
“Did you ever meet Matthew personally?” Robin said.
Pack recoiled, even at the name. “Yeah. So what? That was before. He just seemed like a normal kid. A bit quiet, a bit clingy—now I know why. He was a little psychopath, just waiting to happen. You know, even when he was fine, I always thought something was wrong about him. Looking at him, it was always like looking at a puzzle. What was he thinking about? What was behind his eyes? Everyone knew he was the outlier of that group, even us parents. Every other one was someone, every other person added something, but he...he was just a blank slate. I guess he finally found out who he was. A psychopathic mass murderer.”
Robin just listened. Pack was almost shouting now, and he was glad the pub was empty. Pack lowered his voice—leaned over the table and whispered, “They all know it. We all know it. But the messed-up thing is, I don’t really care how many years he gets, or how many more hearts he breaks. I just want to know where my little girl is.” He slammed his hand down again, but this time spread his palm out on the table. “It’s sick, in its own way. You get that, right?”
“Yeah,” Robin said, “of course.”
And as fast as lightning, Pack grabbed Robin’s wrist and gripped hard. “Could you kill someone? Could you kill the person who took your loved one away?” Pack’s face stretched into a grin. “Sometimes I think I could.”
Pack’s grip was ferocious, unyielding. Robin watched as his hand started to go white, his wrist throbbing under the drunk man’s locked hand.
“Ethan,” the barman shouted as he came over.
At the sound, Pack’s grip loosened—Robin’s hand immediately erupting into pins and needles. But he didn’t let go, not completely. “My daughter...” Pack snarled.
“You’ve had enough, Ethan,” the barman said. “You’re done for tonight.”
“This bastard...”
And as quick as Pack had attacked him, the barman was pulling at Pack’s arm. His hand suddenly pulled away, so Robin could get out of his grip. He clutched his throbbing wrist. “Get out of here,” the barman said, still wrestling with Pack’s arm. “Now.”
Robin took one more look, but it seemed like the man was holding his own. He didn’t want to know what Pack would do when he got out of the man’s embrace. He was deranged. And as he watched, Pack shrugged the man off.
Robin didn’t wait any longer. He launched himself out of The Hamlet and into the brisk afternoon. The sun blinded him momentarily, but he shook his head and found himself heading down the street.
He heard a clatter behind him and an enraged scream. Ethan Pack leaving The Hamlet. And then loud booming steps coming closer. He didn’t look around—couldn’t bring himself to. What was happening? Had the world suddenly gone mad?
No. Just one man.
Robin didn’t want to know what would happen if Pack caught up. But Pack had the advantage. He knew the town, and if he was intent on pursuing Robin, it was only a matter of time before he caught up.
Robin flew down the street, knowing Pack wasn’t far behind. He had to find somewhere to...
There. Between one of the charity shops and a café was an incredibly narrow alleyway. He didn’t even think. He just ducked down it.
It was dark and cluttered, barely wide enough for him to walk between. His footfalls seemed to echo, bouncing off the walls. About halfway down the alley was a collection of bins and two doors either side, leading into both businesses. He heard Pack somewhere behind him and ducked behind the bins.
His heart quickened as the footfalls behind him stopped. He looked down the alley through a minute gap between two bins. Pack was standing at the entrance to the alley, illuminated by the daylight. He almost looked biblical. He turned away.
And at that moment, Robin accidentally nudged one of the bins with his shoulder, and it came crashing down—a horribly final sound of mistake. He was still concealed, but Pack’s attention was back. Pack stepped into the alley.
Robin’s heart missed a beat.
And then a hand reached out and grabbed his.
He jumped out of his skin, looking round to see a young girl peering down at him. She looked familiar. Hoodie. Black hair tied in a bun. Headphones. “You...” The girl that was watching him in the prison.
“Run,” she said, and pulled Robin up.
Robin was up before he could think. And the girl started pelting down the alley away from Pack. Robin followed her. Right to the end of the alley.
The girl emerged into a street he hadn’t been on before, and Robin was about to as well, when a noise behind stopped him.
Crying.
He looked back. Ethan Pack had collapsed by the bins, lying and writhing on the ground. He was wailing, screaming, crying—like a newborn baby. He didn’t look hurt; he just looked pathetic. In a way Robin could wholly understand. Pack’s sobs came thick and fast, bounding off the walls, consuming the alley in sadness.
Robin took an instinctual step toward Pack, instantly forgetting his fear of him. He wanted to help, tell him that it was going to be okay.
A hand clasped his shoulder, and he didn’t have to look to know it was the strange girl.
“We have to help him,” Robin said.
“We can’t,” the girl whispered, “at least not yet.”
And Robin knew the girl was right. Comforting Ethan Pack wasn’t going to help anything—not really. He would still wake up tomorrow without a wife, without a job, without his daughter. He would still go to The Hamlet and drink himself into a violent rage.
Helping Ethan Pack would be finding out what really happened.
Robin looked at the girl and she nodded as though agreeing.
“Come on,” she said. “I have somew
here we can go.” And with that, she turned away and started walking up the street.
And, with one final look at the sorry form of Pack convulsing on the ground, Robin followed.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The girl led him through the town, pausing by the clock tower to take a side road and get back onto the main street he was familiar with. She kept two or three steps in front of him, maintaining an unyielding pace. When he tried to catch up, she sped up too. They met no one else as they strode through the town—a bizarre convoy where Robin was to be the follower. They got to the duo of pubs at the bottom of the hill leading to the station before Robin recovered from the situation with Ethan Pack and managed to speak up.
“Who are you?” he called to her, as she started up the hill, him following. “Why were you watching me at the prison? Or at the vigil just now.”
She didn’t look back but she did speak. “I’ve been watching you ever since you got here.”
“Wait. What?”
“Don’t take it personally. I had to know why you were here. And now I do.” She stopped by the path about halfway up the hill. The one that led to the woods, where he had seen the sheep disappear just after he’d got to Marsden. “It’s because you’re an idiot.”
“Now, hang on...” But she had set off again—not up toward the station, but down the path toward the woods. Robin looked around, considering just abandoning her, but she had helped him out of a jam, and she seemed to want his attention. He jogged down the path, catching up. “Where are we going?”
But she didn’t respond. She kept leading him toward the woods, across a vast field. The woods were farther away than they looked—an outcrop of trees. She disappeared into them. And so did Robin.
What followed was a trek through swaths of trees that could have taken five minutes and could have taken half an hour. He wasn’t sure—everything looked so similar that time seemed to run in a loop. The crunching of their feet in the autumn leaves was rhythmic. The only thing that kept him on a straight path was the girl in front of him ducking between the thin trunks with a conviction that showed she knew where she was going.
Finally she paused and then disappeared over the crest of a hill. Robin got to the drop and saw that the woods carried on as far as he could see. He saw the girl at the bottom of the hill, pausing by a large bush. He went down to join her, all the while realizing that the bush was actually some kind of wooden structure, covered in leaves.
The girl disappeared around the corner of this thing that took the form of a shack. Robin went round the corner too to see an opening, with the leaves creating an awning of sorts. He guessed the girl was inside.
“Where are we?” he called, trying to suppress the feeling he was about to get murdered.
There was something jutting off the opening and Robin saw it was a tattered screen door, which was woven into the landscape by plants and vines. It was like he was standing on the doorstep of a ruined house, shrouded in leaves. Robin poked his head inside to find an outdoor porch area that was overgrown with all manner of weeds and plants. The screen door had been left open for all manner of undergrowth and wildlife to come in. There was what looked like a pig trough buried in some nettles, but that wasn’t what grabbed his attention.
Robin stepped backward in surprise.
He was directly in front of it. The leaves and bush parted as if to show the majesty of it. Pristine, grand, almost sparkling.
A red door.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The door stood ajar. Beyond it, darkness. He found himself reaching for it. The girl had gone through here; this was where she had led him. If this was where he thought it was, maybe it was exactly where he needed to be.
Maybe.
He ran his hands over the door, then pushed on it. The room beyond was pitch-black, as though the door opened into nothingness. He scrabbled in his pockets for his phone, pulled it out and switched on the torch function. Why hadn’t the girl turned on the lights?
A beam of light illuminated a dusty table and cabinets, with dirty plates on both. Robin swung the light around to see an oven and fridge. This was a kitchen. The cooker had pots and pans littered over the stove, and there seemed to be a thick layer of dust over it. Dust particles danced around in the flashlight. Everywhere seemed to be incredibly dirty, as if no one had been there in a decade. In fact, the only thing that seemed to be clean was the fridge-freezer. It was gleaming white and practically shone in the light.
He stepped into the kitchen and was conscious that as soon as he let the door go, it was going to swing shut. He did it and was plunged into utter darkness, apart from the flashlight. There was silence. No, there was a small sound, a rhythmic clicking. It was inconsistent—sometimes it was slow; sometimes it was fast; sometimes it was barely there at all.
The kitchen opened into another room and he made his way around the table to see where it led. He slipped on something on the floor, and pointed his torch down to see it was an old copy of the Marsden Chronicle. He bent to pick it up, saw that it was extremely soggy and decided against it.
He rounded the table and pointed his light into a long hallway. It seemed to go on forever, past the flashlight’s reach at least, but the light did hit on a slightly ajar door to the side. From the crack of the open door, although incredibly faint, it looked like there was a small strip of blue light.
Finally—some sign of life. Some sign that the girl was here at least.
He willed his legs to carry him into the hall, and closer to that blue light. The click-clacking sound grew louder as he inched down the hall, but as he came to the door, it stopped.
He could feel the electricity in the air.
The light seemed manufactured, artificial.
The sound started up again.
He reached out to the door and, with one great push, flung it open. The blue light flooded the hall and he reached up an arm to shield his eyes.
He blinked away sunspots and lowered his arm as his eyes refocused. The electricity in the air was no mistake—the room was filled with electrical equipment. Computer towers lined the walls and the floor was a mess of interlocking cables, weaving in and out of each other. The server towers were practically pulsing with life.
In the center of the room was a metal shelving unit, loaded up with all kinds of scrapped electronics—old printers, microwaves, telephones, fax machines, all piled up and in various states of disrepair—blocking whatever was behind the shelves, where the clicking sound and the light was coming from.
He picked his way through the cables, and as he reoriented, the scene behind the shelves revealed itself. First, he saw a mess of monitors—there had to be five or six all stacked up on top of each other, all old and chunky, but all up and running. They were all displaying the same thing, a ream of text, growing bigger and bigger by the second. He realized what the click-clacking sound was before he saw the girl sat at the keyboard, in a large desk chair. She was typing.
She spun around toward him.
“Welcome to The Red Door... Robin.”
She beamed.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Can I interest you in a chocolate beverage?” the girl said, as she took a swig from a milk carton.
“This is The Red Door? The website?” Robin said.
“Yes. Hence the red door. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s my home. And my secret base.” She looked around, almost lovingly.
“You have a habit of bringing strangers to your secret base?”
“You’re hardly a stranger, Robin,” the girl said, smiling like she was pleased with herself.
“So you’ve been following me?”
“Yes,” she said, bluntly. “I had to know why you were here. At first, I thought you might be a Doory, but...”
“I’m sorry—a Doory?”
“A fan of the site. Had a couple of spikes i
n popularity the last few months. The report on the North Fern Phantom. My exposé on The Faceless Ones. The only public interview with Kace Carver. Site’s been lighting up like a Christmas tree. But nothing seems quite as big as...Standedge.”
“Who are you?”
“You’re not a Doory, though. You were at the prison visiting Matthew McConnell. You were at the tunnel. You went to the Visitor Centre this morning, no doubt trying to get inside. That, and you’re a journalist—or at least were. More into long-form writing these days, huh?”
“You seem to know who I am, so tell me who you are,” Robin said forcefully.
She raised her eyebrows, took her headphones from around her neck and put them on the desk beside her keyboard. She hesitated a little. “Sally. Sally Morgan.”
“Sally?” There was something in her voice, or maybe it was the hesitation. Something made him think that she wasn’t telling the truth. But for now, Sally would do. “You live out here alone, Sally?”
“Yeah. Problem with that?”
“This just doesn’t seem like a place typically for a young girl to live.”
Sally raised her eyebrows and frowned, as though that was answer enough.
“So—” Robin started looking around “—you work the website all by yourself?”
“Yep,” Sally said chirpily, “it’s been me and only me ever since I started this thing up. Thought it would be more secure for me to just do all the work myself. I do the coding, the maintenance, the programming, the investigating and the writing.” She swung around in her chair to tap a few times on the keyboard. The home page of The Red Door came up. He saw that the latest article was a new one about Standedge and Marsden that he hadn’t read. “Impressive, right?”
“But what else do you do?”
“What?”
“The Red Door had no advertisements on it. So what do you do...to make money?”
She sighed and adopted a tone like she was talking to a two-year-old. “You see those server towers?” She gestured and he looked to the large black plastic structures with blinking lights lining the walls. “I rent out a large amount of my processing power remotely to people who mine cryptocurrency.” She saw his face. “Don’t bother saying you don’t understand, because I’m not going to explain.
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