Thoughts rushed his head—none making any real sense. Amber hurt Sam? Matthew found out? Was Matthew helping Amber, or was Amber helping Matthew? The phone call was a great way to get Robin to help. But why would Matthew enlist Robin, if he knew he could find out what happened? And where did the disappearance of the Standedge Five fit into any of that?
It didn’t fit together. He felt like he was mashing together two puzzle pieces that had no business being together. He needed more pieces, and he wasn’t going to find them in London. He needed to be in Marsden five minutes ago.
He practically flew out of his flat and onto the street. He started walking toward the bus stop to get to the station but it was all too slow. The bus would take half an hour; the train would take three hours with the change he’d have to make. It wasn’t fast enough. No way. But what was the alternative?
He reached into his pocket and brought out his bunch of keys. He settled on a car key. Could he—Emma had given him a spare to her car. It’d be at the doctor’s office about fifteen minutes’ walk away.
He started off toward the center of Islington, dialing Emma’s number. He knew she wouldn’t pick up—she had work until late on a Thursday—but knew it would make him feel better to try.
He got to the doctor’s office ten minutes later, walking so fast that his legs were aching and the healing cut on his forehead was throbbing as hard as it had when he was in Standedge, just after the attack. The parking lot was small, and he located Emma’s Subaru easily. He’d only driven it once, but knew he’d be fine once he got the hang of it.
He unlocked it and slung his bag inside, slinging himself in after it. He turned the keys and the engine roared into life. He put it in Reverse and the car lurched backward. He pulled away and into the busy London street, the car buckling somewhat under his quick gear changes.
But it didn’t matter.
He was on his way.
Chapter Fifty-One
He got to Marsden just before nightfall, lurching into the station parking lot and shutting off the engine. He’d just had a very heated conversation with Emma, who, upon finding her car missing, had checked the CCTV and seen him take it. Robin didn’t tell her much, knowing she wouldn’t understand; he just told her that he was sorry for taking the car without asking and that he would be home soon. Emma was no less angry with this assurance, but he thought, somewhat funnily, that she couldn’t really do much to stop him. She couldn’t exactly come get him again, not without a car.
Robin ended by hanging up, knowing that when everything was said and done, Emma would understand and forgive him. And she would also understand that right at this moment, she was not Robin’s biggest worry.
He put his backpack on and started down the road to The Hamlet. Then he stopped. He could go and confront Amber with what he knew and make a big mess of it, or he could be more tactical about it. He needed backup, and didn’t Sally fit the bill perfectly?
He cut down the houses on the road to the woods, and The Red Door, going as fast as his aching legs would carry him. He was through the tree line before he knew it and was instantly surprised by a duet of baas. The two sheep were standing by a tree watching him, greeting him as though he’d never left. He ignored them and kept going until he found the hill. Sally’s shack was at the bottom.
He ran down the hill and rounded the mound of bushes and leaves to enter The Red Door. He stopped, confronted by the imposing door. But something was wrong. The door stood ajar. He knew Sally would never leave it like that, not with her attitude, let alone how much expensive hardware was in there.
He pushed open the door, bypassing the kitchen and entering the hallway. There was the familiar blue glow of the screens emanating from the door.
“Sally,” he called, but no one answered, unless the distant baa of the sheep, who had followed him closely on his journey, counted. “Sally.”
Nothing but the low hum of electronics.
He pushed open the door to her office. The shelving unit in the center of the room had fallen down, spilling everything out onto the floor on top of the bundles of cables. The result looked like a recycling tip. He would’ve said it was the sign of a struggle—if he didn’t know Sally, and know that she could’ve easily just done that herself in a fit of rage.
He picked his way through the crap as best he could toward the monitors. The Red Door was there, five times all over the wall. It looked like Sally was working on a new article—“THE BEST STANDEDGE THEORY SO FAR” was the title. But there was no text to the article—not yet, anyhow. There was just a photo—an incredibly low quality and bright snap of something he couldn’t really comprehend. Something up against rock and damp—it looked like the inside of the tunnel. The subject of the photo was a red sheet of metal, with holes in the...
The Monster’s hideaway. It was a photo of the “doors” from the Monster’s hideaway. But what did it mean? And how could that possibly...?
He started to think—yes, but no, but yes. Maybe...
He waved away what he was thinking. It wasn’t the most pressing thing right now. The most pressing thing was finding Sally.
He stepped toward the desk again, and his foot clunked against something. He looked down to see a hammer lying on the floor. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. Wasn’t exactly out of place. He put it down on the desk and... Saw it.
There was a bloody handprint on the desk. It was fresh, still glistening. Was this Sally’s blood?
He looked down at the floor, and this time saw a small trickle of blood going across the wires, leading to the door. Like someone had been moved across them. He jumped across all the rubbish to the door again.
If this was Sally’s blood, that meant she was hurt. That meant she was very, very hurt. And if she was hurt, did that mean someone else had been here? Someone who had attacked her? Maybe. He wondered if that person was still around, or if they had taken Sally somewhere. That seemed more likely. How was he going to find out where? Did it have something to do with the article Sally was writing?
He couldn’t know for sure.
He followed the trail of blood into the hall. It was so slight he wasn’t surprised he missed it when he had first come through here. It led into the kitchen, and then...
It stopped. The trail completely stopped, went cold. With one final outburst of blood, a bigger splat than the rest, it was gone. Like someone had noticed the trail and stopped it.
Robin kicked the fridge in anger.
What if Sally needed him? What if she was really hurt? And he was standing here, not knowing what the hell to do.
Calm down, Sam said, in his head, soothingly. Keep your head now. You’re going to need it.
“I can’t do this,” he said. “I’m not some kind of action hero. I’m not some kind of detective.”
Suck it up, pardner. Doubt isn’t sexy. Self-doubt even less so.
Robin nodded. He knew he had to. No one else was going to do it for him. “Where are you, Sally?” he said to Sam, to Sally, but mostly to himself. “Where are you? Just tell me where you are.” He turned round and round in the room, until his eyes fell beside the eponymous red door.
There was something there. Something etched there. In red.
Well, would you look at that? Sam said. Looks like you have somewhere to be.
Robin stepped toward the door, got out his phone and shone a light on the marking there. Sally was sending him a message.
A long vertical line in blood. And at the top, a crude M.
In the same style as the map.
Sally was being taken to the Marsden side of Standedge.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Robin got to Standedge just as the sun disappeared. He crossed the bridge so he was on the opposite side to the Visitor Centre and, without thinking, hopped the fence into the field that ran parallel. He turned his flashlight on and looked around, maki
ng his way across the field.
Sally and whoever had Sally were in the disused railway tunnel. And the only way to get inside would be the hole. He had a long walk ahead of him. There was a baa behind him, and he turned to see that inexplicably the sheep had followed him.
“Shoo,” he said.
They looked at each other and took more steps toward him.
He cursed at them and then turned his back on them, walking across the field and cresting another waist-high fence emerging from the trees that lined the field.
His feet crunched on gravel and he looked up to see that he was standing next to the Marsden entrance of the disused railway tunnel. It looked almost identical to the Diggle end, with the entire thing fenced off, a camera looking down at him and a concrete floor running along the fence.
He pointed his torch through to the tunnel but saw nothing in the immediate vicinity. He walked across the tunnel and started to crunch through the undergrowth that ran alongside it.
Another baa came out.
He whirled around, unreasonably angry. The two sheep were standing in front of the tunnel, looking through the fence. “Please, just go home. Go back to The Red Door.” The sheep looked at him blankly. “Go back to The Red Door. The. Red. Door.” And then he caught himself. “Jesus Christ, I’m talking to sheep.”
One of the sheep responded by taking a hoof and patting the fence. It squealed open.
Robin was taken aback. He crunched out of the undergrowth and up to the sheep. The fence’s padlock was lying on the ground, and there was a mound of something—dead leaves and wheat and other things. The sheep bent down and ate some.
That’s why the sheep had been following. Sally had been scattering food along the path. “Just in case I didn’t get the message, huh?” Robin said, and the sheep baa’d in agreement. “Who do you think she has more faith in?” he asked them.
The sheep looked at him. They all knew the answer.
Robin patted the sheep, stepping through the fence into the railway tunnel, shutting it tight so they couldn’t follow. They gave out their call again, and Robin nodded before turning into the tunnel and walking into darkness.
Chapter Fifty-Three
He trudged up the tunnel, trying to make as little sound as possible. He listened out for anything, but there was nothing particularly to note. Nothing to tell him that there was anyone else in the tunnel with him. Again, there was the soft thumping sounds of something he couldn’t quite pinpoint. There was the dripping of water into more water—the dampness of the tunnel was just as off-putting as he remembered it.
As before, he followed the railway tracks as best as he could, stepping over the old sleepers with care.
He kept the torch in front of him, trying to shake the feeling that he was willingly walking into the lion’s den. Maybe that feeling would have been easier to deal with if it had not been accompanied by a rather sizable one of being watched.
He thought he heard something crunch behind him and wheeled around to see... Nothing. Sound was so odd in the tunnel, he felt like he could have been hearing something a mile away or something right behind him.
He turned back, finding he had to brace himself before he held the flashlight up again. Nothing in front of him, nothing behind.
Just a lovely walk inside a creepy old tunnel.
He moved forward again, wondering if he should call out for Sally. He couldn’t bring himself to. So he just walked.
It was another ten minutes before his light fell on something. There was a mass in the middle of the tunnel, lying across the train tracks. He started forward, before a figure appeared in the light. A man—it had to be him. It had to be Matthew. He wasn’t looking at Robin—hadn’t even noticed the flashlight. He seemed to be operating in complete darkness. He turned the mass over and pressed a towel to its stomach.
It was Sally.
Suddenly Robin couldn’t control himself. He saw red. “McConnell?” he shouted, all the rage in his body in his voice.
Matthew turned around. But as he walked into the light, Robin saw that it wasn’t Matthew.
But—no...
That was impossible.
The figure smiled. And Robin shone his torch at the figure. The face of a bearded Tim Claypath.
“What?” Robin said, and suddenly heard someone behind him. There was an explosion of pain in the back of his head.
The last thing he remembered was Tim Claypath’s laugh.
Everything else was lost to the white.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Three years ago...
T. CLAYPATH—Okay, you lot, the basement of The Hamlet tonight. I fancy getting plastered!
E. SUNDERLAND—Count me in. I haven’t gotten plastered since I did up the guest room.
P. PACK—The fabulous Edmund Sunderland at the London Palladium, everyone! He’s a laugh a fortnight. (Also, I’m in! )
T. CLAYPATH—Then we can always move on to Hudders if we fancy a dance??
P. PACK—Oh dear, is it dance time???
T. CLAYPATH—It’s always dance time!!! Am I right??
R. CLAYPATH—Well, I’m sat next to Tim but for the benefit of everyone else, I have graciously accepted his invitation.
R. FROST—Let’s go! I need to blow some steam off, trying to get this uni application sorted. Anyone know the difference between City University London and the City of London University?
T. CLAYPATH—Okay 5/6, what’d you say, Matt? Wanna make it a full house?
M. McCONNELL—I can’t. I have the Canals Trust interview tomorrow, and I’ve got a ton of facts to memorize.
R. CLAYPATH—Oh I forgot...
E. SUNDERLAND—Seconded.
T. CLAYPATH—No way you can get out of it?
T. CLAYPATH—JK Knock ’em dead, man.
T. CLAYPATH—We’ll have to drink your share.
R. CLAYPATH—Good luck, Matt!
E. SUNDERLAND—Seconded.
P. PACK—GL
R. FROST—You’ve got this!
M. McCONNELL—Thanks, guys :)
M. McCONNELL—Have a good night!
Chapter Fifty-Five
Three years ago...
Samantha Ferringham got off the train, trailing her case behind her. She checked her watch, thought about getting a taxi to her hotel and then decided she would walk. Despite requesting a table seat on the train, she had found she had been given a squished-up seat next to the window, and when she had work to do, it wasn’t ideal. She had to balance her laptop on the small tray table and strain down to see the screen. Therefore, she felt the walk would probably do her good, allowing her to stretch her aching legs. And besides, her phone said the hotel was only a mile away from the station, even if it did look to be out in the sticks a little.
Before she set off, she tried to call Robin. It went to voice mail. He was probably still agonizing over his article, so she decided to try again when she got to the hotel.
She started walking away from the center of Huddersfield, following the blue line on the map on her phone. She checked her watch—it had got dark a lot quicker than she had expected and she didn’t really have anything to make her visible on the narrow winding roads she was going to have to traverse. She pressed on, though, deciding that if it got too dark she would turn on the light on the back of her phone.
Her thoughts were awash with things she had to do. With the restricted words per minute achieved from awkwardly placed limbs on the train, she still had to finish the worksheets she was compiling for the seminar. But then, that was why she had padded out the trip with an extra day. Tomorrow, she planned to go to the university to talk with the staff there, and the rest of the day would be free for work. She always liked to go in to introduce herself early, to observe where she was going to be lecturing and to get the lay of the land. She had never been to Huddersfield U
ni before, and she didn’t want to do something stupid like turn up late to her own seminar.
It started to get darker, and she checked her phone. She would call Robin when she got to the hotel—he worried if she didn’t. When you met someone like Robin—someone who was so completely what you wanted—you wanted to share everything with them. When she and Robin married, it wasn’t only the happiest day of her life, but she knew it would be the happiest she would ever be.
But if all one strove for in life was love, then the world would only be half of what it was. It’d be filled with sonatas and films and books and plays, with little innovation, little consequence, little conquest. Beings were made to multiply; humans were made to thrive. Sam loved being a traveling professor, lecturing up and down the country—meeting people and teaching them about psychology. Maybe it was because she learned from the best herself, and maybe it was because the subject fascinated her—and the more she worked, the more she studied, the more she found out, she just grew more and more curious. Human behavior was so incredibly complex, and it was different for everyone. Sometimes, in her most academic moments, she thought of the seven billion case studies walking around out there—each totally different, each forever changing. By the time you’d finished a case study, it would be outdated. “A person going to bed wasn’t the same person who woke up,” her mentor had said—a warm and brilliant old man called Simon Winter. That quote was what had drawn her in further to psychology, and cemented the fact that she was going to dedicate her life to it. “Always look close enough to examine a subject,” Dr. Winter had said, “but never look too close to fall in.” She supposed that was what happened with her and Robin. She had fallen into him—and she wasn’t coming out, not that she wanted to.
She got to the end of the streetlights—the roads she was going to have to traverse from here on would be pitch-black. The winding narrow road she was going to have to take seemed a little narrower and more winding than she was happy about. She wondered whether she should turn back and get a taxi, but there were no taxis on the street she was on, and she’d have to retrace her steps. That seemed a little bit too much like admitting defeat, so she pressed on.
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