Now You See Me

by Chris McGeorge

  Robin shut his mouth. And thought about the question, really thought about it. What really made him come to Marsden? “I’m chasing someone. A ghost. My wife. I kept kidding myself that she was leading me here, that if I came here I would find her, or at least find what happened to her.”

  “You had faith?” the Father said.

  Robin looked at him and after a moment nodded. “I suppose I did.”

  “You thought that you were part of some design. A design that she made.”

  “Yes. But now I realize that I was just used, that my blind faith made me a tool in someone else’s plan. That maybe my love for her is a weakness.”

  The Father didn’t comfort him. Instead he took another swig of scalding tea and looked up at the altar. “If you believe that she is leading you somewhere, how do you know that this is not part of the design? Maybe this was always part of the journey?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The long dark night of the soul,” the Father said, and offered no further explanation.

  “You’re saying,” Robin said, trying to see if he got the Father’s meaning right, “that Sam wanted me to play a major role in freeing a prisoner. You’re saying she wanted me to nearly get blown up saving someone, that her design got me this cut on my forehead?”

  The Father drained his tea and looked at Robin simply. “I’m saying that things are rarely easy. And you must keep your faith. If not faith in God, then faith in her.”

  He didn’t want to talk about this anymore; he swallowed half of his tea in one gulp. “What is this?” Robin said, pulling out the poster for the group. He handed it to the Father.

  The man looked at it for a second. “Ascend was one of the groups designed to bring the community together through the power of the church.” He folded it up and gave it back. “It didn’t really take off.”

  “Were the Standedge Five involved?”

  “What?” Father Michaels seemed genuinely confused. “No. I mean, I suppose I can’t say for sure. I didn’t run the group.”

  “Who did?” Robin said, pretty sure he already knew the answer.

  “That would have been Amber Crusher.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  He walked down the road, back to The Hamlet, mulling over what he had learned. He needed to talk to Amber again—she knew something. She had to. She was obviously closer to Tim than she had let on, and now she might know something about the Five’s Ascend tattoos. He couldn’t go back to London with this looming over him. He needed answers. And who knew? Amber might know what forced Matthew out of the friendship group and turned him murderous.

  He needed to get back. If Amber wasn’t at the bar, he’d wait. He could have a drink, regroup and then talk to her.

  He cut through the alley to get back to the main road. He was about halfway before he looked up.

  His heart skipped a beat. There was a figure standing at the end of the alley illuminated just as Ethan Pack had been a few days before. But this wasn’t Pack. At least he didn’t think it was. The figure seemed tall, and whoever it was standing there wore a black jumper with the hood up. He didn’t know exactly why at first but he felt deeply unsettled. And then he realized he felt another set of eyes on him. He turned back to look where he’d come from. There was another figure at the end. Exactly the same. A tall foreboding presence in a black hooded sweater.

  They were blocking him in.

  Robin looked between the two figures, finally realizing what was happening. The figures started advancing, a step at a time—every time he looked they seemed to be closer. He looked around him, scrabbling among the bins as if he could magically find a way out, some concealed exit or something or at least find something to defend himself with. He tried both the back doors to the butchers’ and the café but they were locked. When he looked up, the figures were nearly on him. For some stupid reason he looked up again, as if asking for help from the divine, as though he was going to find a magical ladder to carry him out of this situation.

  Instead, when Robin looked down, he found a fist sailing toward his face. He turned his head just in time so that it went smashing into his cheek. Pain exploded in his brain, as his head was propelled backward, guiding his body. He was caught from falling, and for a second he was glad, until he realized that it was the other figure who had stopped his descent. He dragged Robin back to standing and whispered in his ear, “Shoulda gone home, city boy.”

  The figure in front of Robin brought its knee up to his crotch so fast he couldn’t prepare. His groin erupted in pain—his world spinning from the impact. He let out a wheezing, shrieking sound, like a small animal in panic.

  He fell before he could even try to struggle. He was vaguely aware he was thrashing out with his arms—a reflex action, and incredibly useless, but he felt all the better for trying to fight back. Not that it would make the slightest bit of difference.

  One moment he was free-falling and the next he was on the cold alley surface, with his cheek pressed against the rough granite. He tried to call out for someone, anyone, but as soon as he’d opened his mouth, he realized he’d made a grave mistake as a boot came up to meet it. His vision squirted red and somewhere—not here, not where he was—he realized it was blood. It splattered over the ground in front of him, becoming real in his mind. His mouth flared with pain, and as he was processing it, the boot kicked him square in the forehead. His cut sang and the rest of his forehead felt like it had cracked open.

  He made a pathetic scream, choking on his own blood before he could get any volume, and he spit something tangible out. It flew out in front of him and clattered away—a tooth.

  Robin found himself curling up—retreating into himself—into the fetal position as a barrage of kicks cracked at his back. The figure in front of him started kicking him in the chest, finding an opening between his legs and chin. He tried to curl up more to close the gap, but the attack of kicks was so strong he couldn’t. Pain became a constant, punctuated only with peaks of it. The figures showed no signs of letting up, and consciousness was a thing he had to work to keep.

  Kick, kick, kick. And he squirmed on the floor of the alleyway.

  He lived a lifetime of anguish.

  And then, letting the darkness in, he let go. His final thought before he lost the world was not one of pain, or suffering. It was one of anger. Anger at the person who had done this to him. Not the people kicking the life out of him.

  No.

  Anger at Matthew McConnell.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  He didn’t know how long he was out. But his first thought was that he was making a habit of this.

  He surfaced gradually, coming back into the world, with slight indifference. He opened his eyes—his left one was back to being glued shut. No doubt the figures’ barrages had reopened his cut. He felt the rough ground on his cheek and saw a canal of blood flowing from his face down the alley. He jerked his head up, a rock clanking around inside it every time he moved even ever so slightly. Of course, he was alone—the figures were long gone.

  He got up—his body shifted around him before his mind caught up. He had a sharp pain in his chest—a biting, grating feeling, as though something was out of place and rubbing up against something else. His legs ached, and a certain point in his spine, about halfway down at the bottom of his rib cage, was on fire.

  He tripped—reached out for one of the garbage cans and used it to steady himself. He sniffed blood and was sent into uncontrollable splutters as it flowed into his mouth. He tasted pure iron.

  He brought a sleeve up and ran it under his nose to try to quell the constant bleeding. It didn’t work. His sleeve just came away drenched in his own blood.

  Shoulda gone home, city boy.

  That gruff voice. He didn’t recognize it. Could have been anyone. Literally anyone in Marsden. After all, why shouldn’t he now be public enemy number
one. After what had happened. Maybe he deserved it.

  No, Sam said strongly in his head, you don’t get to feel sorry for yourself.

  “You’re right, Sam,” he said, and then realized he was talking to no one. He needed rest—he needed to try to clean up. The Hamlet. It wasn’t far. Even he, in his broken state, could get there.

  He started to walk down the alley. When he stepped on his left leg, a spike of white-hot fire shot up to his brain. He tried to ignore it, skating the wall of the butchers’ with his hand. It took longer than he would care to admit to get to the opening of the alley. When he did, he looked around, hoping against hope no one was there to see him.

  No one was.

  Small mercies.

  He left a trail of nose blood from the alley to The Hamlet and he crashed through the doors trying to block his nose with his sleeve. He kept his head down, not wanting to see the life of the pub and any reaction to his entrance, but he couldn’t help noting the deathly silence as he entered the scene.

  And then a voice, familiar. “Robin.” It was Amber.

  Robin looked up to see her rush over to him.

  “Robin, what happened?”

  He grunted something, didn’t even know what it was meant to mean himself.

  “Come on. Sit down.”

  The scene was fluid, pulsing. He couldn’t concentrate on it. Behind Amber, people were looking now. There was a family sitting at the table by the window, the table where Ethan Pack had attacked him. The golden retriever was there, looking at him.

  “Not here,” Robin said, in a voice he didn’t recognize.

  “Okay.” Amber put an arm around him. “There’s no one downstairs. We’ll go there.” She led him downstairs to the basement, helping him with every step. Soon, they were down, and she was helping him into a chair. Amber disappeared and Robin slid back on his chair. He lifted up his shirt to see where one of the figures had kicked him and saw that a small amount of blood was rising up under his skin. He had never been great at anatomy but he knew that that wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Amber came back with a bowl full of water and a cloth. She put them down on the table and pulled up a chair. “What happened?” she said, as she dipped the cloth in the bowl.

  “Couple of guys, in the alley,” Robin muttered.

  “Jesus,” she said, as she put the wet cloth to Robin’s forehead. It stung and he let out a gruff gasp. “Sorry, I should have warned you.”

  “Do you know what Ascend is?” Robin said.

  Amber dipped the cloth back in the water. It became pink instantly. “What?”

  “Ascend. A church group called Ascend.”

  “Yeah,” Amber said, continuing to clean him up. “I used to run it. But that was like two years ago.”

  “Were the Five there? Were they at the meetings?”

  Amber put the cloth down and looked confused. “Yeah, they were. Now, how would you know that?”

  “Because each of the Five had the word Ascend tattooed on their wrists.”

  Amber looked lost, utterly and genuinely lost. “They...what?”

  “Their wrists. Do you know why they would do that?”

  “No,” Amber said. “They would come to the meetings but they would just sit there in silence. They would never even say a word. They would just sit there and then when it was over they would leave. Sometimes they were the only people who would turn up and I would just have to sit there with them. It was bizarre, so in the end I canceled the groups, because I didn’t want to do it anymore. I didn’t want to be around them. I didn’t want to be around him.”

  “Tim?” Robin said.

  “Yeah, Tim. We...we didn’t get on. After we... I didn’t tell you the whole truth that first night, when we talked. Tim and I were a couple for a while. But it didn’t work out. It’s rather sad, really. First love. You start to realize that love actually isn’t the whole world, you know.”

  “The cat,” Robin said. “Was it true what he did?”

  Amber’s brow creased. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Benny Masterson and...your mother.”

  Amber looked away, around at the room, as though she couldn’t look at him. And then finally she did again. “You talked to my mother? My mother is a fickle bitch who would say anything to make herself the victim.” Amber got up and picked up the bowl with a force that made some water splash onto the table. Amber sniffed; she was almost crying. “When you’re doing your investigating, Robin, remember that you’re not just hearing stories—you’re seeing into other people’s lives.”

  “She’s your mother,” Robin said.

  Amber scoffed. “My mother can burn in hell.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Amber helped him back upstairs, although he felt better from the rest. There was still an incredible pain in his ribs, and his head felt like it was pulsating up to three times its normal size.

  He hadn’t known what exhaustion was until now. Every drop of energy had been kicked out of him, and every second he remained standing up seemed like a triumph.

  Robin left Amber without a word, and clattered up the stairs as fast as he could, getting to his door.

  He dug into his pockets, not at all surprised to find everything still there. Phone. Keys. Wallet. Of course they hadn’t taken anything. That hadn’t been the point. They had beaten him for Standedge. They had beaten him because he hadn’t left yet. They had beaten him to send a message. He pulled out his keys and took one jab at the lock, thanking God he got the key in the lock. He was seeing about five versions of it.

  He entered his room, staggering a few steps and then slipping on something on the carpet. He was momentarily airborne, before his arse connected with the floor with a sharp whack.

  “Arrrggh,” he managed. He scooted around on the floor to see what he had slipped on. At first, he thought that someone had posted about ten paper notes under his door. No, hundreds of them—uneven and ripped. And then he saw a colored page. It was one he knew well and he picked it up to make sure. A picture. It wasn’t paper—it was stronger, and it was ripped in half. He took the two pieces and held them up next to each other. The blue cover with the pictures of her. Without Her by Robin Ferringham. Someone had ripped up an entire copy of his book and posted it under his door.

  It was a slightly vaguer message than the beating, but still undoubtedly nothing good. Robin laughed at that, despite himself—despite everything.

  He got up and went into the bathroom. He didn’t want to, but he forced himself to look in the mirror. He understood why Amber had winced when she looked at him. He looked like a Picasso painting—his left eye was not just stuck shut, it was swollen shut. The cut on his forehead had expanded. His cheek was scratched and bloody from where he’d scraped the ground, and his nose was a sickly kind of purple and twice its normal size. He snarled at the mirror to see that the tooth he’d lost had been one of his molars.

  Not getting that back.

  He laughed again, before realizing nothing was funny.

  He picked up the roll of toilet paper by the toilet and unrolled it about five times, until he got enough paper to last him for hours, and he balled up two bits and shoved them into his nose.

  He walked out of the bathroom.

  What was the time? It didn’t matter.

  Who were the people in the hoodies? It didn’t matter.

  Who ripped up a copy of his book and stuffed it under his door? It didn’t matter.

  What was he going to do? It didn’t matter.

  All that mattered now was sleep, and Robin was fast asleep before he hit the pillow.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  He woke up, felt something hot and pleasing on his forehead. A warm flannel. He opened his eyes to see someone sitting by the bed. He jumped up and made his way to the other side of the bed before he realized who it was.
It was Emma. In her smart GP suit. In his room in The Hamlet.

  “Sorry,” she said, “your friend Amber let me in. She didn’t believe I was your sister at first, but when I said I was a doctor, she gave in. She said you needed one. You do need one.”

  Robin breathed out, still recovering from the shock. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to take you home.”

  “I told you I would be home soon.”

  “Do you want to come back, Robin?” Emma said. “There’s nothing left for you here. You have to start to think about what you want to do with the rest of your life. You have to move on. You have to...let her go. You have to let Sam go.”

  Robin said nothing.

  “You think this is what she wants for you?” Emma said. “You’ve half killed yourself. How much have you slept in the last few days?”

  “Does being unconscious count?” Robin said, and absentmindedly smiled.

  “That’s not funny.”

  Robin got up and slid his legs over the bed. He chuckled. “It’s a little funny.”

  Emma just looked at him, evidently lost for words. She looked away as though she didn’t really see him anymore. She saw someone new—a stranger. “Are you coming home?”

  Robin wheezed—his breath still hitching on something in his chest. He thought of Standedge, he thought of the Five, of Sally and of Matthew, and Claypath and Amber. Could he just leave? Turn his back on all this and just return to how things were? He didn’t know if he could, let alone wanted to. But then he thought of the warnings. Of the beating and of the book. And he knew what he wanted didn’t really matter.

  “Okay,” he said slowly and softly. “Let’s go home.”

  Emma’s face lit up although she was obviously trying to hide it. She got up. “I’ll get us something to eat, and then we’ll go.”

  Robin nodded.

  She left and was back in ten minutes with two bags of chips and two bottles of water. As soon as he smelled the food, he realized he was desperately hungry. As soon as Emma handed him a bag, he ripped into it and started eating.