by Ryan Casey
Martin wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep walking.
It was morning. Sun beamed down from above, so bright that it made his head ache. The orange leaves of the trees glowed all around him. The air smelled damp. The ground felt slushy, too.
All around him, the same sight as the last few hours. Trees. So many trees.
He didn’t know where he was.
He didn’t know how far from the caravan he was.
He didn’t know how far from Eskdale Green he was, or from the cabin.
He just kept on putting one foot in front of the other.
One heavy, shaky foot after the other, his legs so weak.
Because he had to keep searching.
He had to find Ella.
He stopped. Put his hands on his knees. His head spun. His throat felt dry. He hadn’t drunk a thing since yesterday. His stomach kept on growling, too, and he felt a little lightheaded like he needed some kind of food in him.
But he wasn’t hungry. He knew he wouldn’t be able to eat a thing if he tried.
And besides. He didn’t have the time.
He had to keep searching.
He had to keep going.
He took a few deep breaths in through his nostrils.
Then he stood up tall and started to walk again.
He’d found a few trails a few hours ago. Footprints. A sign of where Ella and her captor had headed off towards. He’d followed those trails for a while, staying focused on them, trying his damnedest not to get caught up in what-ifs and ruminating about the worst-case scenarios.
But then the trails had just stopped dead. He’d lost them. Tried to find them again but to no avail.
Ever since then, he’d just blindly walked. Hoping for a sign. Praying for some kind of indication he was heading in the right direction.
He walked again. Kept his eyes on the ground. Every now and then, he looked up at the mass of trees all around him, trying to find a trace of clothing, or of blood, or anything at all.
He thought about that bang in the night. How convinced he’d been that it was just a part of a dream.
He thought about his decision to head into the caravan. To shelter there. Maybe if he’d not been so keen to pursue that, Ella would still be here. Maybe she’d be okay.
And then there was the decision to sleep in separate rooms. Ella had insisted she’d take the sofa. Maybe he should’ve told her she could have the bed. Maybe he could’ve guarded her. Protected her.
But it was no use kicking himself about it.
He’d messed up.
He’d failed to protect her once again.
And now she was gone, and both of them were paying the price.
“Ella!” he shouted. His voice sounded strained, and it hurt to shout. Besides, it took it out of him. He didn’t have a lot of energy left. Wasting it shouting probably wasn’t the wisest move.
But then what was he supposed to do?
Give up?
Accept his fate?
Accept Ella was gone?
No.
He couldn’t just give up on her.
He had to keep searching.
He had to keep fighting.
He was her dad. She was his responsibility.
Whether he was strong enough or not, he had to keep on going.
He staggered further along the forest floor. He wasn’t wearing any shoes. His feet were all blistered and bleeding. He didn’t have time to throw any clothes on other than the joggers and T-shirt he was wearing when he’d ran out last night, and he hadn’t been back to that caravan since. There wasn’t the time. No time to waste.
Ella was in danger. He had to find her. He had to save her.
He remembered the first time he’d lost Ella. He was shopping in ASDA. Sarah usually did the shopping, mostly because he always ended up grabbing the wrong brand stuff, but she was full of the flu, so the duty fell on Martin.
He remembered walking with a four-year-old Ella by his side, wading down the aisles, desperately searching for a particular brand of beans or some crap like that.
When he found them, he smiled. Popped them in the trolley. Looked around to tell Ella they were sorted and felt the worst feeling a parent can ever feel.
His daughter was nowhere to be seen.
He searched the aisles for her, one by one. Shouted for her. And even though he knew he’d find her, even though he knew she couldn’t have strayed far, the worst-case scenario always enters your mind.
His younger brother, Gary.
There one second.
Gone the next.
History repeating itself.
All these horrible events and a feeling of responsibility and guilt inside.
I should’ve kept my eye on her. I should’ve kept her close
He found Ella, eventually. She was back by the magazines, trying to peel a free football sticker pack from the front of a magazine. He told her off. Told her never to run away. Never to leave his side. She cried, apologised, not understanding why he was so mad.
Because they never did understand.
The madness was aimed at himself.
The madness came from guilt.
He stumbled further through the trees when he saw something catch his eye.
He froze.
Then he staggered over towards it.
The closer he got to it, the more dread built inside. No. It’s not what you think. It doesn’t mean anything. It could be a coincidence. It could be...
His thoughts stopped when he reached it.
He saw it. Held it in his shaky hand.
And then he fell to his knees, and he cried.
A piece of orange from the Frank Ocean T-shirt Ella slept in.
That little icon etched across it.
And a splash of blood, right across it.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Martin waded through the woods with only one destination in mind.
He had no idea what time of day it was. The sun still shone down from above, so he figured it must be late morning or afternoon. He didn’t know. Didn’t care. He’d lost all care the second Ella went missing.
All he could do was hold that torn piece of T-shirt in hand.
All he could do was think about the blood smeared across it.
All he could do was walk.
Trees surrounded him. He was frigging sick of trees. When he’d started walking, he hadn’t had any real direction in sight. But then he’d stumbled upon a sign for Eskdale Green and realised he had no choice anymore. He might as well go back to the log cabin. He might as well lock himself in there and wait to die.
Because there was nothing else he could do.
He’d lost Ella.
There was no finding her.
And it was on him.
Birds sang overhead. He wanted to silence them. He used to like the sound of birdsong. Used to bring him comfort. Peace. Whenever he was struggling with anything, he’d drive out into the middle of nowhere and just sit in his car, all the windows down, eyes closed, and listen to the birds.
It always struck him just how amazing they were. It didn’t matter whether power went out. It didn’t even matter if there was a frigging hurricane.
Birds just got on with their lives.
They looked after their young. They hunted. They survived.
A simple life. A life he envied.
But the birds didn’t bring any peace right now.
Their singing sounded like chainsaws either side of his head, revving up, louder and louder.
Every step felt painful.
Every inch of his body felt weak.
He just wanted to get back to the cabin.
He just wanted to bury his head under his pillow and scream.
He just wanted to...
No. He couldn’t think that way.
He had to keep it together.
He had to stay strong.
Or as strong as he could.
He walked mechanically through the woods. He didn’t
even have his bug out bag with him. That was back at the caravan. He didn’t feel totally connected to reality. Nothing looked real. Nothing felt real. He knew there was hunger inside him, but he didn’t want to eat. He knew he needed water, but he didn’t have the motivation.
He knew he needed to start thinking about the next step. Thinking about survival. Hunting. Creating effective water filtration systems. Setting up guarded perimeters around the cabin. He knew he needed to do so much.
But he couldn’t think about anything else.
All he wanted was Ella.
All he wanted was his daughter.
But he’d lost her.
He’d failed her.
Just like he feared he would all along.
He clenched his fists. Bit his lip. He couldn’t look after her. He was an idiot for ever thinking he could. What kind of a joker was he? A damned good one, that’s what.
He was a prick for ever believing there might be a chance at rebuilding a relationship with Ella. A prick for ever thinking there was hope of a positive future.
And he just felt so guilty.
He saw an opening up ahead. A road alongside him.
And then he saw three guys appear out of nowhere.
They were young. Dressed in black puffer jackets and dark trackie bottoms.
One of them looked like he had a nasty gash on the back of his head.
They didn’t look like the kind of guys he wanted to cross.
He looked through them, though. Kept walking like they weren’t even there. He didn’t have the time to piss around right now. He didn’t have the time for anything.
He just wanted to get back to the cabin.
He just wanted to drink himself into a coma and forget everything.
“You listening to what we’re saying, prick?”
Martin looked around. Hadn’t even realised these bastards were talking, in truth.
He saw the scrawny ginger lad standing before him, and he realised something. He knew this guy. He recognised him.
One of the guys from the shop.
Bloodied bandage wrapped around his head.
He took a deep breath. Half-smiled. Typical. Of all the people he’d go and run into, it would be these, wouldn’t it?
But he was beyond caring anymore.
He knew what was coming.
And he deserved it.
He looked back at the ginger guy, right into his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t listen to ugly wankers like you.”
And then he barged his shoulder against him and walked past him.
He knew what was coming next. He smiled. Waited for the pain. Waited for it to hit him. Waited for the release. Waited for—
A smack against the back of his neck.
A kick against the back of his legs.
He fell to the ground. He wanted to kick back. He wanted to defend himself. He wanted to fight.
But instead, he lay there.
He let the boots smack against his ribs.
He let the fists crack against his nose and his eyes, again and again.
He felt the pain wracking his body, and he knew he deserved every bit of it.
He lay there, taste of blood filling his mouth. Ringing in his skull. Bits of broken teeth scratching the insides of his gums.
And as he lay there on the ground, sunlight beaming down, he just smiled.
“I’m sorry, Ella,” he mumbled through swollen lips. “I’m sorry.”
He closed his eyes.
Felt a smack, right against the side of his head.
And then he saw nothing but darkness.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Martin woke to a sloppy, wet sensation against his face.
He squeezed his eyes shut. His head ached. Hell, his entire bloody body wracked with pain. He’d only felt this way once before. He’d been jumped outside a nightclub when he was in his twenties. Probably his own fault in all truth—he’d acted a bit of a cock with a group of lads who looked tougher than him inside there, and they’d waited for him when he’d left.
He remembered lying on the ground outside the club, streetlights in his eyes, those lads running away, and feeling a weird sense of pride. Being jumped outside a nightclub put you in an exclusive club, in a way. It was an initiation. A sign you were a real man.
He opened his eyes and looked up.
Immediately he yanked himself back. There was something above him. Something licking his face. It scared him for a second until he realised what it was.
A dog.
A chocolate lab.
It wasn’t malnourished or too bony, so it must’ve belonged to someone. He dragged himself up onto his bum, looked all around the woods, and down the length of the road he lay on. Abandoned cars. The sun getting closer to setting. No sign of life.
He rubbed a hand through his bloody hair. His tongue felt rough; sharp, jagged chipped teeth catching against it. But this dog. He looked at it, this chocolate labrador, and he felt sorry for it. ’Cause it seemed friendly. Seemed like it just wanted some fuss. Didn’t have any collar or anything like that. No way of knowing what it was called.
“Where’ve you come from, eh?”
The dog tilted his head. Martin could tell it was a lad cause it still had its crown jewels. Good on the owners. He was dead against dogs having their balls chopped off. It was nature, at the end of the day. Who were we to rob them of their impulses?
The dog stepped closer to Martin and licked his face. Martin laughed a little, then pushed him away. “Hey. Easy. Easy. Feeling a bit rough over here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
The dog backed off. Wagged its tail. Sat down, ears tilted, like it was waiting for Martin to give some kind of command.
Martin felt like shit. Not just physically, but mentally, too. He’d been beaten up. No idea how long he’d been out. And then there was Ella, too. She’d been taken from him. He didn’t know where the hell she’d been taken to, or how the hell to find her. He’d failed her. That was on him.
He pushed himself to his achy feet. Tried to stand tall, his back aching, his ribs sore.
The dog walked up to him and nudged his leg.
Martin frowned. “What d’you want?”
The dog just sat there. Wagging its tail. Watching.
Martin scratched the back of his head. “I don’t have any food if that’s what you’re after. I don’t have a thing for you. You’d be better off finding your own way out here than hanging around with me.”
But that dog just stayed sat there. Wagging his tail. Waiting for some kind of command.
A sinking feeling filled Martin’s body. He turned around. Started to walk away. “Seriously, lad. You’re better off staying away from me. I can’t look after you.”
Footsteps scraped along behind him. Then the dog appeared right at his side. Following him.
Anger started to rise inside Martin. He couldn’t look after a damned dog. He couldn’t look after anything. “Hey! Bugger off, okay? Go find someone else to bother.”
The dog’s ears went back, then. A sad look filled his eyes. He lowered his head.
Martin felt guilty right away. He didn’t want to abandon the dog. But at the same time, he didn’t feel like he could look after it anyway. The sooner the dog got used to living on its own, hunting for itself, adapting to the new world around it, the better.
But then he looked at this dog sitting here, ears back, eyes wide and watery, and he knew he needed something. He knew he needed help.
Martin walked over to him. He crouched opposite him.
The dog lowered his head. Avoided eye contact.
So Martin reached out a hand and patted his head. “Sorry I flipped at you, doggo. I just… A lot’s happened these last few days. And truth be told, I don’t really know where I’m going next. I just want what’s best for you. And I dunno if I’m what’s best for you.”
The dog glanced up at him. Tilted his head. Like he was more interested again.
/> And then he reached for Martin’s face and slobbered all over it.
Martin tumbled back a little. Laughed. “Back, dog. Back. Come on. Don’t be daft. Don’t be…”
He stopped.
Because overhead, he saw something.
A sign.
A sign for Eskdale Green.
He hadn’t seen it before. Probably been too caught up in wallowing over his losses that he hadn’t noticed it.
But he saw it clearly, now.
And he saw what was dangling around it.
He pushed the dog off him. Limped over to that sign, his movement growing a little easier now.
And when he reached it, all he could do was stand there.
All he could do was stare.
Because hanging over that sign, he saw something.
Something familiar.
Something he’d seen before.
He reached for it. Held it in his shaking hands.
And then he felt himself smile.
Ella’s necklace.
The one he’d given her as a kid.
The one he didn’t even know she still wore.
Right here in his hands.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Martin stood at the edge of Windermere and stared out at the water, Ella’s necklace in hand.
The sun was low now, shimmering against the surface of the water. It looked pretty beautiful in all truth. So much so that if he really focused, he could force himself to forget about the blackout completely. To forget about Ella. To forget about everything.
But only for so long.
He tightened the cold necklace in his hand. Took a deep breath of the cool, fresh air. His body ached like mad, but he felt a lot better now—swollen lip and taste of blood aside.
He smelled the grass. The sound of the docked boats bobbing against the water. A place he used to visit regularly. A place he used to love. So many memories tied up here.
But those memories were only the beginning.
They didn’t have to be the end.
He looked to his left. Saw Dog sitting there, ears tilting, staring at him, waiting for an order or a command. He figured Dog wasn’t doing any harm coming along with him. Probably offered him extra protection in all truth. Sure, he didn’t know how aggressive Dog was. Probably a softie, judging by the way he’d bonded with Martin right away.