by Ryan Casey
Martin acted as quickly as he could.
He punched that knife out of the man’s hand.
He dragged him down towards him.
Headbutted him, square in the bridge of his nose, twice.
Disoriented him. Sent him tumbling back, just a little.
But enough for Martin to gain some ground.
He shifted off the road. Punched the man again. Punched him until he fell back to the road, cracking his skull on the hard earth. And then he got on top of him and punched him again until his nose cracked, until blood poured out over his fingers, and then kept punching until the man stopped moving.
“You dare threaten my daughter,” he barked. “You dare hurt her.”
He kept on punching until the man went still.
He looked up, then. Looked at the blood on his fist. Looked at the bloodied pulp of a man beneath him, his beanie cap soaked in blood, cracked teeth on the road beside him.
And then an urgency filled him.
“Ella,” he said.
He clambered off the man. Rushed over to her side.
She sat there. Staring at him. Holding on to her arm.
Ella was bleeding.
Badly.
But even worse than the bleeding?
The fear in her eyes, as that man spluttered blood on the cold, hard road.
The fear in her eyes, as Martin’s bloodied hand reached out for hers...
Chapter Thirty-Two
Martin sat by the side of the caravan and tried his hand at stitching the gash on Ella’s right forearm.
It was late afternoon. Windy. Autumn leaves scraped across the street. Conkers fell from the trees. It felt kind of peaceful here, away from the towns. Like an ordinary autumn day in the Lakes.
Martin got Ella as far as he could from Grasmere after the altercation with the man with the knife. They’d stumbled upon a caravan site. Not one of these modern ones that were mega-populated, but an old one filled with trailers, hidden in the depths of the woods. It was quiet. Nobody around. Sure, there was the risk someone could come back here at any time, but it seemed like a good place to shelter for now. Even for the night. They’d been through too much today to focus on walking any further.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the stand-off with the desperate man. The pain on his forehead where he’d headbutted him. The burning, numb sensation tingling its way across his knuckles.
And the smell of blood every time he moved his hand near to his face.
He knew he could’ve stopped after one or two punches. He knew the man was just trying to do what he thought was right for his family. For his dying wife.
But he’d attacked Ella. He’d shown no regard for her.
And that had awoken something inside Martin.
Something that had been buried for a long time.
“Ouch,” Ella said.
Martin stopped stitching her arm. “Sorry,” he said. “It’ll be all stitched up soon.”
Ella nodded. The wound on her arm wasn’t too deep, fortunately. Looked like it’d missed any major veins. It was just a case of stitching it up and hoping for the best.
At least he had painkillers, antibacterial wipes, sewing thread and bandages in his bug-out bag. They’d just have to do for now.
“If your hands stopped shaking, it might not be so bad.”
Martin sighed. “I’m doing my best here, okay? Try and keep still. And try and keep quiet. It’ll be over in no time.”
Ella closed her eyes. “You said it wouldn’t take long about half an hour ago.”
Martin didn’t respond. He just focused on holding Ella’s arm. The wound was mostly stitched up. He was almost at the end. He used to stitch wounds all the time in the RAF. He could do it without even thinking about it.
Something kept distracting him, though.
Not just the tattoo of a skull on her wrist.
But also the other cuts and marks, too.
He knew Ella cut herself. It wasn’t something he liked facing up to. Wasn’t something he liked admitting. Which parent would want to face up to the knowledge their kid was so unhappy, they actually hurt themselves rather than reaching out to anyone? Which parents wanted to live with the knowledge their children wanted to harm themselves?
He’d danced around the question for a while. But right now, holding Ella’s arm, having her trust in him, he knew he couldn’t delay any longer.
“Want me to clean the other cuts while I’m here too?”
She glanced up at him. A flush to her cheeks. “I...”
“It’s okay,” Martin said. “You don’t have to hide it. It’s better to talk about these things. Better than keeping it all bottled up.”
He glanced into her eyes. Saw the way she searched his face. Like she wanted to say something. She wanted to open up to him. But there was still some kind of blockade there.
And that moment’s pause made Martin fearful; made him get cold feet.
“I mean, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want—”
“I’ve done it for years,” Ella said. “It’s not just since Mum. Well. It’s got worse since. But... but I used to do other things when I was younger. I used to hold my hands against the radiator when it was boiling hot for as long as I could. I used to... I used to punch my face harder and harder. I used to bite my lips so hard they’d bleed. I didn’t know why I did it. I don’t... I don’t really know why I do it. But sometimes it just... it just helps. Just for a while. Because it means I don’t have to feel the pain inside. I can just feel it outside instead.”
Martin lowered his head. Felt his vision blurring. He felt so bad that his daughter had suffered for so long like this. He felt so bad he hadn’t been there for her.
But this wasn’t about the past.
It was about right now.
“I understand,” he said.
She looked up at him. Frowned, just momentarily. “Really?”
Martin pushed his hair back. Inhaled deeply. “It hurts me, obviously. But... but I know you’ve had your reasons for what you’ve done. I just... I just hope you’ll speak to me from now on. Whenever you’re thinking of doing it, just speak to me first. Okay?”
A tear rolled down Ella’s cheek. She smiled. “Thank you,” she said.
He looked back down at her arm, at his improvised stitching. “You don’t have to thank me. Let me get on with this—”
“I’ve never told anyone this before, by the way. Not Mum. Not Grandma. Not my friends. Nobody.”
He looked back up at her. Saw her smiling at him, just slightly. Tears still creeping down her face.
And he smiled back at her, too. Tears building of his own. “Well I’m glad you told me. You can... you can tell your dad anything. You know that. Right?”
They sat there in silence. Stared into one another’s eyes. Smiled.
“You have to be strong enough, Ella. You have to stand up and fight. Because you never know when you might need to fight for yourself.”
Ella nodded. Held her smile.
Martin turned his attention back to stitching Ella’s arm up.
His hands weren’t shaking anymore.
Her arm was totally still, now.
He reached down with the needle and plucked another stitch through her skin.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
For the first time, sitting outside that caravan as the wind brushed against the trees, Martin actually started to believe it.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Garrett stood outside the caravan in the woods and smiled.
It was dark. The only sound he could hear was the breeze against the trees. It was nice, in a way. He was used to waking up every half hour to shouts and cries in the night. Or the creaking of his fat cellmate’s bed. The snores and the grinding of teeth, again and again and again.
But this was different. It was serene. He’d almost forgotten what it was like not to have to look over his shoulder or sl
eep with one eye open. He never thought he’d get a proper night’s sleep again, not while he was locked inside.
So logic said he should be tucked up and enjoying the peace and the serenity right now.
But tonight was different.
He looked at that caravan right in the middle of the woods. He’d been in these woods for a while. After his second kill, he’d made his way over this direction in hopes of finding somewhere less populated. Somewhere he could terrorise, at least for a little while.
He listened to the breeze against the trees. Felt the cold wind against the back of his neck. Tasted the freshness of autumn in the air.
And he thought about that metallic stench of blood, and how much he wanted to feel its warmth again...
He thought about the first time he’d gone hunting in the woods. He was out there with his uncle, hunting rifle in his small, child hands. He didn’t want to catch anything, not at the time. He felt bad for the animals. They were innocent. They didn’t deserve to be hunted.
They weren’t like people.
They just got along with their lives.
He remembered traipsing through those crunchy autumn leaves, just like here, Uncle Ralph by his side. Uncle Ralph was a strange man. He lived on his own in his mum’s home, where he’d stayed since she died. He didn’t seem to have a job, other than a brief stint at an abattoir. His main passion was hunting. He told Garrett’s dad that he needed to get Garrett hunting. It’d toughen him up. A big character-building experience.
Garrett remembered walking through that woods, nine-year-old stomach knotting as the sun got closer to setting. He remembered praying they wouldn’t bump into anything. Praying they wouldn’t come across any animals, even though he’d heard Uncle Ralph got really mad when his hunts didn’t go to plan.
He remembered spending hours out there, freezing cold, drenched to the bone, desperate to get back home and tuck himself in bed, when he saw it.
Movement.
Movement up ahead.
A deer.
He stood there. Frozen. Heart racing. Hands shaking on a rifle that seemed far too big for him.
And as he looked at that deer, so beautiful as it tucked into the grass, he wanted to let it go. He wanted to let it run away.
Then he heard his Uncle Ralph whispering in his ear.
“Do it, lad. Go on. What the hell are you waiting for?”
He remembered the rancid, meaty stench of his breath.
The warmth of it on the back of his neck.
His body shaking more and more.
He remembered lifting his rifle. Trying to turn away. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to see. He wanted to miss. He wanted the gunfire to scare the deer away.
And then he felt Uncle Ralph’s cold, thick fingers tighten around the back of his neck. “Do it, you soft shit. Do it. Now.”
Garrett remembered holding that rifle still. Holding it just to the right of the deer. On the one hand, not wanting to pull the trigger. On the other hand, not wanting people to keep on seeing him this way.
You’re not weak. You’re strong. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.
He looked away. Tears blurring his vision. Prayed the deer would just look up and see him.
You’re tough. You’re so tough. You’re...
He remembered pulling the trigger.
He remembered hearing something. A yelp. A shriek.
He remembered opened his eyes and seeing it lying there.
The deer was on the grass.
Bleeding from its side.
Eyes staring up in horror.
Uncle Ralph laughed. His bloodshot eyes widened. He rushed over towards it, slapping Garrett on the back a little too hard on the way. “Good lad. Good lad!” Saliva spitting all over the place. Like he enjoyed this.
Garrett remembered the mixture of emotions he felt. The void inside. The pain.
He remembered watching his Uncle Ralph rush over to that deer. Crouch beside it, laughing, muttering away to himself.
He remembered lifting his rifle. Pointing it at his uncle. Squeezing the trigger.
And then he remembered lowering the rifle.
The anger still inside.
The hunger still inside.
Threatening to take him over completely.
He heard footsteps inside the caravan in the distance, and he zoned right back into the present moment.
He crouched down. Saw movement behind the curtains.
Humans were fair game.
He was going to have fun with these two.
He just had to wait.
He just had to be patient.
He clenched his knife, and he smiled.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Martin woke to a bang.
He opened his eyes. Gasped. Breathing rapidly. Heart racing. Covered in sweat. He spun around. Looked around this room he was in. Where was he? At home in his flat? At the log cabin? Or...
It hit him, then, and he fell back against the pillow and covered his eyes.
The caravan in the woods. The one they’d stumbled across, totally abandoned. He didn’t know if anyone was staying here. Didn’t know whether they might just stumble back in here in the night. One of the risks he realised he was gonna have to start taking in this changed existence.
But it was okay. He knew where the hell he was. He hadn’t been captured or anything.
He was here, and Ella was in the other room.
He took a few deep breaths, sweat still trickling down his face. This room reeked of damp. The bed was icy cold. Outside, he heard every damned breeze make the walls creak. He swore he heard dripping somewhere outside the room. Wouldn’t exactly surprise him if it was leaking.
It was shelter, though. And after last night in the open, it felt like a luxury.
Okay. Maybe not a luxury. It’d take some getting used to.
But it was a roof over their heads.
He thought about that bang that woke him. A dream, no doubt. He kept having flashbacks to the first night when that crashing plane woke him up. He wondered where he’d be right now if the power hadn’t gone out. He’d probably be back home, or back at work. Ella would be back with her grandma. Their lives would be going down different paths.
How much things had changed.
For worse, sure. The power still being out and some of the things they’d seen, they were a worry. A big damned worry.
But then there were the changes for the better, too.
His relationship with Ella.
He couldn’t deny it was growing. It was getting stronger.
And he was starting to believe in himself.
He’d thought a lot about Ella while he was drifting off. About their future. And he was clear now: regardless of what happened next, he was going to be there for her. He was going to look after her. He was going to protect her as well as he could.
Even if that meant just getting her to some group he knew would be more suited to looking after her than he was.
He closed his grainy eyes and tried to drift back off into unconsciousness when he heard another bang.
And then a shout.
He opened his eyes. His stomach sank completely. His skin went cold.
That shout.
It sounded familiar.
It sounded like Ella.
He darted off the bed. Yanked the bedroom door open with his shaky hands. Looked out into the darkness of the lounge, where Ella was sleeping.
“Ella?” he said.
He could see a figure on the sofa. A figure under the blankets. She was here. She was okay. She was...
He heard another shout.
And then he stopped.
The door.
The caravan door was wide open.
Wind blew against it, making it rattle on its hinges.
Ella wasn’t on the sofa at all.
She was outside.
“Ella!” Martin shouted.
He launched across the living area. Stumbled down the steps, al
most tripping. Landed barefoot outside, sharp twigs and fallen branches digging into the soles of his feet.
“Ella!”
He saw her, then.
Not just her. But something that filled him with horror.
Two figures.
A man dragging her away.
Hands around her mouth.
Disappearing into the night.
Martin raced down the slope and into the woods. “Ella!”
The man kept on dragging her away. Looked like he was getting further and further away.
So Martin ran quicker. Struggling to stay on his feet. Struggling to squint into the dark. “Come back here! Come back here right now!”
Then the two figures became microscopic. So much so that Martin wasn’t even sure he could see them at all.
“Ella! Please! I’m—”
A smack.
Blistering pain right across his face.
And he went flying back to the ground.
He lay there, dizzy, disoriented. Tasted blood on his lips. His head ached like mad. Must’ve run into a tree. Idiot. Frigging idiot.
He scrambled to get back to his feet. Started to dart to his right.
But then he wasn’t sure which way to run anymore.
He didn’t know whether he’d changed direction when he’d fallen.
He was lost.
“Ella!” he shouted.
He ran ahead. Tried to study the ground for footsteps. Tried to hear any indication of movement. But none of it was clear. Nothing was clear. All of it just spiralled around his mind. Disorienting.
“Please,” he muttered.
He kept on running into the darkness.
Kept on running into the woods.
He kept on going until he couldn’t go any further.
He fell to his knees.
Crouched there.
Listened to the breeze against the trees.
Listened to the silence of the night.
And as he crouched there, heart pounding, body shaking, he had to face reality.
He had to look the truth in the eyes.
The truth he didn’t want to accept.
The truth he didn’t want to face.
Ella was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Five