by Casey, Ryan
A group of people stood up ahead. Four of them. All of them armed. They were arguing about something. Two men, two women. None of them the bald guy. None of them Ella.
And Martin heard a few words that stood out.
A few words that really caught his attention.
“Attack that place...”
So there it was. He didn’t know their motives. Didn’t know their reasons. But that word was enough to confirm what Martin already knew. This group. They were responsible for the attack. They were responsible for the deaths of so many people two nights ago.
But why?
What was their motive?
He stepped further forward. Held that knife tight. He wanted to get close to them. Wanted to hear what they were saying. Hear some kind of answer.
“You know why we had to do it,” one of the women said. “You know it’s all just a part of the long-game.”
A bloke—short, ginger—shook his head. “But it’s reckless. I know he seems all calm and in control, but I don’t know if it’s—”
“Ssh,” the woman said.
She looked around.
Right towards Martin.
Martin froze. Like a rabbit in the headlights.
“What is it?” the bloke asked.
“You didn’t hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Movement. Someone’s here.”
She lifted her rifle. So too did her friends. All of them pointed at Martin. Their eyes scanned around him. So close to seeing him, to spotting him.
And he had to make a choice.
Stay here. Pray.
Or run.
But he couldn’t move a muscle.
He was frozen.
He was—
“Anyone there?” the woman barked.
Martin couldn’t say a thing. His mouth grew dry. His body frozen in time. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think.
Do something. Frigging do something!
And then something else happened.
He saw something. The woman leading the way. Holding the rifle.
Her eyes settled on his.
Widened.
Recognition.
And then a smile crept up her face.
“Well,” she said, pointing her rifle squarely at Martin. “What do we have—”
A blast.
A blast out of nowhere.
Followed by another.
And another.
Martin closed his eyes. Squeezed them shut. Because they were firing at him.
But he didn’t feel any bullets.
He didn’t feel anything.
He opened his eyes.
When he saw what was ahead, he didn’t know what to think.
The group of four lay on the ground. All of them were still. All of them except that woman, who groaned with pain, writhed around on the forest floor.
Out of nowhere, Martin saw someone step out.
A man in a balaclava. Dressed all in black.
He lifted a rifle. Pointed it at her.
“Sorry, love.”
“Pl—”
And then he pulled the trigger, and he finished her off.
Martin crouched there. If he was frozen before, he was sure as hell frozen now.
He looked at these people dressed in black, two of them now. Saw them moving wordlessly past the bodies on the ground. Moving methodically between them. Checking them for signs of life.
And then they looked at one another when they were absolutely certain, and they nodded.
Martin didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know who these people were. Didn’t know what their game with this other group—the group he swore were the enemy—was.
Only that he needed to get away.
Because he was in danger.
He went to stand, went to creep away, went to run, when he felt something whizz past his face.
And then he heard something, right by his side.
A section of the tree blasted away. Crumbled over his face.
He looked at it. Saw the spot where something had hit it.
And he knew what it was.
Had no doubts about what it was.
Gunfire.
They were onto him.
Someone was—
Another bullet smacked against the tree by his side.
He had to get away.
He had to run.
He had to—
Chapter Eighteen
Martin heard bullets blast against the tree beside him, and he knew he had no choice but to run.
He spun around, raced off to his left. He didn’t check his right to see if those two people in balaclavas were on his tail. He didn’t even look to his left to check who was firing at him. He didn’t know. And it didn’t matter. If he didn’t get the hell away, he was gonna die. Simple as that.
And what good was he to Ella if he was dead?
He raced further through the trees. Still dark in this woods, although a little clearer now. He heard footsteps behind. Voices. Shouting out. Every now and then, he heard another blast from that gun. Another bullet whooshing by him. Someone chasing him down. Trying to hunt him down.
He ran as quickly as he could. His boots squelched through the muddy ground. He took a left, tried to shake these people off. Then a right, doing all he could to lose them, even though he knew he was like prey, and the predator was closing in.
He knew how weak he looked. He knew how little time he had. He knew if he wasn’t careful, one of those bullets was going to plummet into him and knock him to his—
A blast. Right behind him. The tree to his side cracking open, bark splitting all over him.
They were closing in.
He wasn’t getting any further away from them.
They were getting closer and closer.
He saw something, then, despite the blurriness of his eyes. A gap. An old tree collapsed up ahead of him, on its side. Its roots on show.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was some kind of shelter. Some place to hide.
He had to throw himself under there and hope for the frigging best.
He raced towards that uprooted tree. Clambered underneath it. Pressed himself right against the back of its soggy bark. Held his breath. Kept as still as he could, even though he was shaking.
He sat there. Stared ahead. His ears were ringing. He could hardly hear a thing.
Just keep quiet. Just stay still. You’ve got this. You’ve—
And then he heard it.
First, footsteps.
And then voices.
Voices close by.
Closing in.
He held his knife out in front of him. If he had to fight, he would. Even if it meant fighting to the death. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He hoped so much he could stay alive. Fight for Ella. And Harriet. And Oscar. And his home.
But then he heard the movement right by his side.
And he saw the figure emerge right beside him.
It was a different person. A tall, muscular guy.
But one thing was clear.
He was wearing the same black gear as the blokes who’d shot the four people dead back in the woods.
Martin held his breath. Kept as still as he could. If he could jump up there, maybe he could take him down. Maybe he could wrestle him to the ground. Maybe he could …
The bloke looked around, right into his eyes.
Rifle in hand.
Martin couldn’t move a muscle. Not when the man lifted his rifle. And not when two more people appeared, both to his side.
All he could do was sit there.
All he could do was stare.
“Whatever your problem with them,” Martin muttered, “it’s not a problem with me. I’m just trying to find my daughter. I’m just trying to …”
He saw something, then.
Something that caught his eye.
A chain. A chain around the neck of the guy in the middle.
A chain he’d seen before.
&n
bsp; A chain with an elephant dangling from it.
“Quentin?” Martin said.
Quentin looked down at that chain around his neck as the two others looked at him. One of them cursing.
“Shit,” he said.
“How could you be so—”
“It doesn’t matter now anyway,” Quentin said. “Because…”
He pointed his rifle at Martin. The other two guys looked on. Watched. Waited.
“I’m sorry, Martin,” Quentin said. “But I… I have my orders.”
“Wait,” Martin started.
But it was already too late.
Because Martin heard gunfire.
Chapter Nineteen
Harriet saw the piece of paper sitting on her doormat and frowned.
It was morning. She’d had a restless night. Kept on thinking she could hear Oscar crying in his sleep, but it turned out to be her imagination every single time. She’d told him to run down, get himself some breakfast like a big boy, and she’d join him down there in a bit.
But this piece of paper. This note. It might be an attempt at normality, but mail delivery wasn’t something she was used to. Every day was full of surprises.
She walked over to it. Picked it up. In the kitchen, Oscar muttered to himself, tucking into his breakfast cereal—the same stale corn flakes laced in sugar, with milk from the cows they kept in the farming area.
She unfolded it. Frowned. Wondered if it was just something she’d dropped. Something of hers.
It didn’t take her long to realise it wasn’t something of hers at all.
It was a note.
Harriet,
I’m sorry, but I had to go. I hope you’ll understand.
I’ll be back home. I want to promise it, but I can’t.
But I’ll do my best.
Something isn’t right. I can feel it.
Love.
M x
She stood there for a few seconds. Hands shaking. Reading those words, again and again. Sickness gripped her. Nausea crept through her body. She wanted to rush outside. To go after him. Because he wasn’t safe out there.
But then she stood there, and she asked herself the important questions. Was this really a surprise? Was this really so unexpected? Did she really think Martin was going to stay put?
She’d hoped so. And for a moment, perhaps she’d started to believe she was enough for him. That Oscar was enough for him. And that maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t seen Ella out there after all. Because as much as Harriet wanted to believe him, she couldn’t. It was too far-fetched. It was too much of a coincidence. Almost half a year had gone by. There was no chance she was so close.
And Martin wasn’t in a great state.
“Mummy? Your breakfast’s going sloppy!”
Harriet heard Oscar’s calls, and she folded up the note. “Coming,” she said. But her voice was shaky. It wasn’t reassuring, and she knew it. Oscar would be on to it in no time. He had a good way of knowing when she was afraid. A good way of seeing when something really got to her.
But she walked down towards the kitchen. Because she had a responsibility to Oscar. She had a responsibility to her son.
She reached the kitchen, and she froze.
Harold sat at the table.
The hairs on Harriet’s neck stood on end. A chill covered her body. She couldn’t move a muscle. Gripped onto that note. “How—”
“Morning, Harriet,” Harold said. He stood up, his weight shifting off the creaky kitchen chair. He walked over towards her. Held out a big, chunky hand, like he always did. She could see a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead and smell body odour filling the room. “Sorry to alarm you. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“How did—how did you—”
“Young Oscar here let me in. Didn’t you, chap?”
Oscar smiled at Harold, then at Harriet. Like he was proud. Like he’d done something good and grown-up by letting him in.
And Harriet smiled back at him. She nodded. She didn’t want to chastise him for what he’d done. Even though she felt uneasy about it.
Because Harold never showed up uninvited like this.
She’d never heard of him doing anything like this with anybody.
It wasn’t his... style.
So why was he here?
Harriet took his hand. Forced a smile. “It’s okay. I—I just wasn’t expecting you, that’s all.”
Harold held her hand with his warm, sweaty grip. He kept hold of it. Longer than was comfortable. And he stared right into her eyes, too. Like he was trying to discover whatever secrets she was hiding. Trying to stare into her soul.
She held the note in her other hand.
She didn’t want him to see it.
She didn’t want him to know.
And yet she couldn’t explain why.
He pulled his hand away suddenly. Walked back over to the kitchen table, perched himself down. “And you’re right to be a little shaken up. Hell, I’d be shaken up if someone showed up in my house at breakfast uninvited. Breakfast’s the most private time of day in a way, right? But please. I don’t want you to be alarmed. I just want to ask you something. Something that’s been on my mind all darned night.”
Harriet nodded. She waited for him to ask the question. The question she knew was coming about Martin’s whereabouts. “Sure. What’s wrong?”
Harold sighed. “It’s Martin.”
Harriet’s stomach sank. She felt her cheeks flushing. Keep your cool. Keep your calm. Don’t let him see you all worked up, you idiot. Keep it together. “What about him?”
Harold stirred a spoon around a cup. Harriet noticed then how tired he looked. The dark circles under his eyes. Like he hadn’t slept for days. “I’m worried about him, to be honest. Like I’m sure you’re worried too. He spoke to me yesterday. About Ella, his daughter. Seeing her out there. And I’m worried he’s gonna go out there. I’m worried he’s gonna do something stupid. Do you understand?”
Harriet froze, then. Wait. So he didn’t know about Martin? He didn’t know he’d gone missing? That he’d left?
She tightened her left fist. Crumpled up that note. “I-I know. Sorry. I just—”
“I appreciate his loyalty to his daughter. It’s the kind of loyalty we need to encourage. But it’s also dangerous, what he’s talking about. If he does go running out there, he might not only put himself in danger but all of us. And we can’t have that. We can’t have the enemy extracting any information about our home from him. We can’t have them using him as a hostage or anything like that. Because he needs to understand the consequences. If he goes out there... that’s his decision. It’s his call. And it’s on him. Not us. Him. Do you understand?”
Harriet stood in the kitchen. The skies outside were grey. Wind rattled the loose window, a draft blowing through. The smell of body odour got stronger, more pungent.
She looked into Harold’s eyes, and she nodded. “I get it. I’ll... I’ll speak with him.”
And Harold stood up, then.
He walked over to her. Smile on his face. Planted that big wet hand on her left arm, a little too hard.
“You’re always a good’un, Harriet. You’re good for him, just like you’re good for Oscar. It’s a pleasure having someone like you...”
Harriet didn’t hear the rest of what Harold said.
Because the piece of paper in her left hand fell to the floor.
She looked down. Saw it sitting there.
And she looked up and hoped Harold hadn’t seen it.
Hoped he hadn’t noticed it.
But he looked right down.
Right down at it.
And then his eyes looked up and met Harriet’s.
She stood there. Waited for him to say something. Waited for him to question her about it.
But then that smile just stretched across his face again.
“Well. I’ll leave you two to it. Think about what I said. Have a word with him when you get the chance. I’ll see you
around.”
He walked past Harriet.
Over that piece of paper lying on the floor.
Across her hallway and over to the door.
She stood there. Held her breath. Shaking. And yet she couldn’t explain why. She couldn’t understand why she was reacting in the way she was.
Because this was Harold.
He had the best interests of this place at heart.
He cared about the people here.
She had nothing to worry about.
Right?
“Goodbye, Harriet.”
Harriet swung around. Saw Harold standing in her doorway. So big, he blocked the light from outside.
She nodded at him. Smiled. “See you.”
He smiled at her.
Then he stepped outside and slammed the door shut.
Harriet held her breath until she was absolutely sure Harold was gone.
“Mummy? Are you okay?”
Harriet looked around at Oscar as he stood there, spoon in his mouth.
“You’re not mad at me for letting Harold in. Are you?”
She wrapped her arms around Oscar and held him close.
And she looked down at that note on the floor.
“’Course not, love. ’Course not.”
But she couldn’t shake the feeling at the pit of her gut that something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Chapter Twenty
Martin heard the gunfire and squeezed his eyes shut.
He braced for the bullets to blast against his body. Braced for sudden pain followed by nothingness. Braced for death—and not for the first time in his damned miserable life either.
But once again, he didn’t feel anything hit him.
No bullets.
No pain.
Nothing.
But he could hear gunfire.
And he could hear shouting.
He opened his eyes.
The three people in black—one of them Quentin—were under attack. Exchanging fire with some other group. A group he couldn’t see. Masked by the trees.
He knew he was lucky to be alive. And he knew he didn’t have much time to get away, as he lay here on the ground underneath that fallen tree, mud running right down his back. He had to make his move.
He went to drag himself to his feet when he saw Quentin spin around.