Beyond the Dark Waters Trilogy

by Graham West

  Jake was out of his seat before Rob or Jenny could open their mouths. He flew at the guy, sending him tumbling backwards in his chair and landing a punch, splitting open his nose. The woman screamed, begging Jake to back off. The guy lay dazed, and Jake pulled him back to his feet before sitting him on the chair. Jake turned to the woman. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t stand men who hit women—but if you’re happy being beaten up, then go ahead. It’s your choice.”

  The woman stood, emboldened, threw the remains of her glass of wine over the guy nursing a bloodied nose and walked out of the pub. Jake sat down, placed an arm around Jenny’s shoulder, and apologised for the scene.

  The bloke with the messed-up nose stood and stared at Jake. “You’ll be hearing from the police,” he growled.

  Jake smiled. “We both know that’s not going to happen. Just go, and count yourself lucky I’m in a good mood!”

  Jenny looked down at Jake’s reddened knuckles. “They’ll swell up nicely,” she said with a smile. Then she leaned in and kissed him gently on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re in my corner, babe. You’ve got a good punch!”

  Chapter Three

  It had been nearly twelve months since Rob Adams had allowed any alcohol to pass his lips. Josie Duxbury looked up from her book and smiled as he handed her a glass of tonic with ice and a slice of lemon. Staying dry when you lived with the owner of a local pub hadn’t been easy.

  “You sure you don’t want some gin with that?”

  “I’m okay,” she said, returning to her book.

  “Don’t abstain on my account. I’m fine if you…”

  Josie shot him a look. “Hey, I don’t need a drink!” she replied impatiently. “Drop it. I’m fine with this. We both are.”

  Rob smiled. Life was rolling on—a little too fast, maybe, but in the right direction at least. He just wished that Gordon Huxley didn’t love his future daughter-in-law quite so much, and if he had a little less cash to splash on her then that would be fine too.

  He dropped into his chair and closed his eyes. The warmth of the sun on his face made him sleepy, but every now and then, he would dream—reliving the death of his wife and five-year-old child. Sometimes it was better to stay awake, because screaming out in the middle of the afternoon…well, it wasn’t good. It was much better to be out and about.

  “Fancy a drive out to see Jen and Jake?” he asked.

  Josie lowered the book and nodded. “Yeah, why not?”

  Rob downed his drink and called his daughter before Josie had time to change her mind.

  It was a twenty-minute drive to the cottage. Jake was working but Jenny was home with the two dogs. She sounded upbeat and suggested they might take a walk, just the three of them. There was a little inn just a mile away and they could stop there for a coffee. It sounded good to Rob, who was on something of a mission to reclaim his girl before the grasping Gordon won her heart completely.

  Josie read Rob as easily as the books she loved. “You’re still worried?”

  Rob swung the car into Eagers Lane, three minutes from the cottage. “About what?”

  “Jenny.”

  Rob shrugged. “I just think it’s a bit much—the wedding, the cottage, the car. It’s like he’s buying her, totally buying her!”

  Josie shook her head slowly. “Listen, hun, I know it’s a cliché but it’s still true. You can’t buy love.”

  “But that’s just it,” Rob replied, “I really think she’s the daughter he always wanted, and I think Jenny kind of loves him too.”

  “You’re her father, babe. You, not Gordon.”

  Rob pulled up outside the white stone-walled cottage and killed the engine. “Then just tell me, whose blood runs in Jenny’s veins?”

  Josie frowned. “What?”

  “It’s a simple question—whose genes has she inherited?”

  “Well, they’re not Gordon’s!”

  “Exactly! And they’re not mine, either. That kind of makes it a level playing field.”

  Josie sighed deeply. “You gave that girl the first twenty years of her life. That’s what matters.”

  Rob undid his belt and paused. “Yep. But who’s going to give her the next twenty? That’s the question!”

  Chapter Four

  The past two years had taken their toll on Sebastian Tint’s old bones. Sure, his legs still got him to the end of the daily walk, but they’d started kicking up a bit of a fuss. Ricky, his German Shepherd, was no longer a pup and needed a daily leg stretch, but the way things were going, the old guy was going to have to start employing a dog walker—unless Rob Adams fancied a part time job.

  A copy of a medical journal lay open on the coffee table. Spirits and Psychosis by Sebastian Tint. The article had been commissioned by the monthly magazine— an in depth look at the case of Amelia Root. Rob and Jenny had given their blessing, and Sebastian still considered it to be one of his best works. He read the article with the magazine in one hand and a brandy in the other like an old soap star watching reruns of bygone days. Solitude had become more of a friend than an enemy, and the old professor had lived on his own for years, comfortable in his own skin and at peace with himself.

  But recently, a growing sense of unease had been festering within. He looked around his room, cluttered with the things he loved—the things that had kept him happy—the walls of books, the vintage typewriter. Nothing had changed, but recently he had started to turn on an extra light in a futile attempt to dispel the gloom. He knew only too well that the darkness existed within his soul.

  Sebastian took a sip of brandy, recalling the fate that befell the Blackman family. He had met them eight years ago, at the local community centre where he’d been asked to speak at a fundraising event the university had held. At the end of the evening, a concerned parent took him aside and told him that his son was struggling and they’d been unable to find suitable tutors.

  The old man had never been one to turn down a challenge, and to his surprise, twelve-year-old Marty Blackman took to him immediately. They did English and maths twice a week, and over the following months, the boy’s grades improved dramatically. The Blackmans took Sebastian under their wing and invited him to spend Christmas with them. Marty and his older brother considered him to be the coolest old man in the universe and thought it might be funny to dress him up as an underweight Santa.

  Everything went well for the next couple of months, but then, midway through March as the days were growing longer and the daffodils were rising, Sebastian began to feel a terrible weight inside. Even the daily walks failed to lift his spirit. He loved springtime even more than the summer it preceded, yet there was a sense of foreboding—the reason for which eluded him—and on the day before it happened, the old man felt his spirit suffocating. As he made his way to the Blackmans’ home the following afternoon, he knew something was wrong.

  The police were there—three cars—and two ambulances. The house was a crime scene. The neighbours gathered behind the cordon, some crying and others looking on in bewilderment. A silence seemed to fall over the whole street. Mrs. Blackman worked for Social Services and had been instrumental in taking a kid from an abusive father. The father had a history of violence but the courts just slapped his wrists and sent him home.

  Danny Maddock went home one night, after a couple of drinks, pulled out a handgun and went knocking at the Blackmans’ home around twelve midnight. Mr. Blackman answered, thinking it might have been a neighbour, and was confronted by Danny who raised his right arm and blew a hole in his victim’s chest. Mrs. Blackman woke and ran down the stairs straight into the second bullet.

  Maddock had stepped over the dead bodies and walked calmly up the stairs. He told the court that he thought it was kinder to kill the two boys because social services would only fuck up their futures too.

  Sebastian sighed. The memory of that day—a day he had never talked about—lay heavily on his heart. But now that darkness hung over him again. A premonition, maybe? Was someone close
in some kind of danger? Sebastian emptied his glass. The only people in his life right now were Robert and Jenny Adams.

  Chapter Five

  Gordon Huxley had first spotted the cottage on the front of a locally produced calendar. It was the kind of property that grabbed you the moment you saw it and screamed Look at me! I’m perfect!

  Huxley had waited, registering his interest with all the local estate agents and leaving his business card. “If that place ever comes up,” he told them, “call me!” But he guessed they’d have lost his details within a couple of weeks, so he decided to check out the owners personally.

  He’d half expected to be greeted by an old lady on a Zimmer but instead found himself face-to-face with a young woman in her mid-twenties carrying a baby on her arm. He apologised for bothering her, handing over a business card and telling the young mother that if she was ever to consider moving then she had herself a buyer. He didn’t ask about the price, and that, he figured, left a good impression.

  Six months later, he received a call. The cottage was up for sale. No estate agents—no haggling—and the price was three hundred and fifty thousand. The couple were moving down to London and wanted out as soon as possible. Three months later, Gordon Huxley picked up the keys.

  Jenny had cried when she first saw Brook View and still had to pinch herself every morning as she poured herself a fresh orange, downed a bowl of wholemeal flakes and set off to college in her brand new top of the range Mini Clubman. But the weekends allowed her time to wander around her new home, like a queen in her castle, watch some TV and walk the dogs. She’d just got back with Cassie and Max when her dad called, so it seemed a good time to give the new coffee maker a try. Perfect.

  She heard the car pull up outside and found herself almost running to open the door. It wasn’t as if her father hadn’t seen the place before, but playing the hostess was still something of a novelty.

  “Dad! Josie!” She threw her arms around one and then the other before they followed her into the cottage. “Fancy a coffee? Jake got us a new machine.”

  Her father laughed. “As long as you don’t ask me to help. I nearly blew my eyebrows off with one of those contraptions.”

  Josie stared out across the back lawn. “How the hell do you get grass that green? It’s like something out of a Disney movie!”

  Jenny giggled. “Oh, that’s Gordon. He got the fake stuff—I told him it wasn’t worth spending a fortune on the best grass when we’ve got two dogs, but he just went ahead and bought it anyway.”

  Josie shook her head. “Don’t dogs make a mess on it?” she asked. “I don’t see any.”

  Jenny rolled her eyes, placing a cup under the steaming, gurgling coffee maker. “That’s down to Jake. He’s training them to use a little toilet area they’ve built at the back. It’s kind of like a giant cat litter tray!”

  “And it works?”

  “Mostly.”

  Jenny handed her father a cup—black, no sugar—and Josie a flat white with three. “Fancy sitting outside?”

  Jenny had two reasons for suggesting they use the garden. Firstly, it was warm, and secondly, Gordon had just bought them three thousand pounds’ worth of garden furniture.

  Josie whistled. “Wow! That’s…posh!”

  Jenny blushed as she ushered them towards five rattan easy chairs and a sofa with pale cream cushions. The glass-covered table sat under a retractable canopy that disappeared neatly into the wall of the cottage at the touch of the remote control.

  Rob nodded. “It’s beautiful, babe. That man is sure spoiling you guys.”

  Jenny didn’t answer. She wished there was a way of assuring him that no one would ever take his place in her heart, but the words escaped her. Maybe she would find them at some point—at a time when they were needed most. Her father smiled but all this was hurting him, and she wanted to cry.

  Josie changed the subject. “Where’re Cassie and Max?” she asked, glancing around for the two dogs that usually greeted them with a saliva bath upon arrival.

  “Oh, they’re flat out,” she answered, composing herself. “They’ve already been on an extra long walk.”

  There was a short silence but it felt more like an hour.

  Josie broke it. “So—how’s the guitar coming along?”

  “Brilliant,” Jenny replied. “Still can’t believe that Jake actually likes classical guitar music!”

  “That’s cos he loves you,” Rob said. “He’s a good bloke.”

  Jenny relaxed. She thought that maybe it wasn’t the time to mention that Gordon had just spent nearly four thousand on having a guitar hand built by a one of the most respected Luthiers in the country. It wouldn’t be ready for twelve months anyway, and things might be different by then.

  They finished their coffee just as Cassie and Max appeared, rounding on their visitors with wagging tails and flapping tongues.

  Jenny stood. “Fancy that walk?” she asked. The two dogs understood the word and immediately went into overdrive. “They seem to have forgotten they’ve only just been out.”

  Jenny picked up their leads and followed her father and Josie to the gate with the two dogs scampering behind. Rob Adams turned back, taking another look at the cottage. Jenny paused, catching the look in her father’s eyes. She smiled and reached for his hand. “Come on, Dad. Let’s go!”

  Chapter Six

  Dennis Blakely stood gazing across the lawns of Crest Hill Rest Home and breathed in the fresh morning air. It was eight o’clock and soon the builders would arrive and the whole place would spring into life once more. For now, he enjoyed the peace. It had been less than two years since his father’s leisure company had bought the place and submitted the plans for the adventure park to the council. Quite naturally, they had their objectors—some folks in Tabwell thought they were going to play host to a noisy theme park with sky-high roller coasters and screaming kids. It took some painfully laborious PR exercises to educate the more robust protestors.

  They had managed to purchase farmland at the side of the grounds, allowing for expansion in the future. That hadn’t gone down well with the locals either, but the park needed a name and they’d struggled to reach an agreement; the petty fights that followed had done more to piss him off than any of the protesters. He loved his father but the old man could be a right pain in the arse sometimes. “The name is important!” he’d told his long-suffering investors. “It’s the difference between success and failure!”

  Maybe he had a point, Blakely thought. The name was important, and to be honest some of the suggestions had been quite frankly…well, ridiculous. “I quite like the sound of Blakely Gardens,” his father had mused at a particularly heated midweek meeting.

  Dennis jumped to his feet. “For God’s sake, let’s drop the family name! Okay, the company owns a few places. We’ve got a couple of big casinos, a few cinema complexes and kids’ play parks, but we’re hardly Walt fucking Disney!”

  Eventually, they had settled on Mosswood Adventure Park, taking the name of the woodland itself rather than the rest home or the owners. Blakely was happy too. It had been two years since they had fished the remains of Amelia Root from the stagnant lake nestled in the acres of overgrown woodland. The lake was unrecognisable now with its clear waters, fountains, waterfalls and fish. Picnic tables were dotted around the gently shelving shale beach. Then there was the logwood shop on the far side, where families could purchase ice creams, drinks and snacks. That would make good money when the weather was fine.

  Every adventure park on the planet had a shop, but as far as he knew, none of them had a grave. Amelia’s grave. Blakely was pretty pleased about the whole paranormal thing. He’d been fascinated by the plight of Jenny and Robert Adams, who believed that an ancestor lay beneath the lake’s waters, and had employed three divers to go hunting through the mud and slime. He knew only too well how successful ghost-hunting TV programmes had become, and Amelia’s lake, with its history, would hold a fascination for visitors who enjoyed a g
ood story.

  The ringing of Blakely’s phone broke the early morning silence. He tapped the screen impatiently and slipped the phone back in his pocket. “Not now, Penny, not now,” he muttered. It was a shame his wife hadn’t found it within herself to be a little more supportive. Even his father, who rarely dished out praise, had applauded his commitment to the project. It hadn’t been easy, but Mosswood had been his dream—his passion and okay, maybe Penny was right, something bordering on an obsession.

  The investors had wanted over seventy cabins in the woodlands. Blakely had been incensed. “There is no way!” he told them. “We don’t want our guests living on top of each other. It’s not a caravan site!” He had taken several deep breaths just the way his father had told him when the red mist rose. “Look, we need to space them out, make each family feel as if they are the only ones living out in the woods, like adventurers. Explorers. No cars, just bikes and walking boots. I want to section off the back of the woodland and make it into a nature reserve. No cabins whatsoever—just paths, all made from natural materials. It’ll just be the families getting close up with the wildlife.”

  “That’ll scare the shit out of some kids!” someone protested. Blakely hadn’t even known who he was—they were all nameless faces, and none of them cared about the place the way he did.

  “Then they can stay in the hotel,” he replied. “I understand that not all families will want to stay in the woods—some will want luxury.” He had the room in the palm of his hand. “They can stay in one of the thirty rooms in the main house. They’re gutting Crest Hill—only the shell remains at the moment. The new rooms are going to be top class—I’m talking five star—and as you know, the conservatory has been built to house a licensed restaurant with a piano bar. There will be a whole new wing built on the left side. We can double the size of the house, now we’ve got that farmland.”