‘Who? Who was it?’ David interrupted sharply.
‘A television producer. Moore was his name. Rob Moore.’
***
Rob began to press the buttons on his mobile phone. It felt strange keying in the old familiar number. It was closer contact with the old life.
What would he do if Kate answered? He hadn’t considered that. He grinned. He would do nothing—just ask to speak to David Cole.
Now the thought was planted in his thoughts, he half hoped Kate would answer the phone. To be so close to her again... to hear her voice.
But he could wait.
He knew how to be patient. As the digits clicked in some far-off exchange, he ran his fingers thorough Timothy’s hair, pulling the boy closer to him as he did so.
Finally the connection was made.
The number was engaged.
***
David put the phone down slowly, his stomach constricted and his mind in a whirl of fears and fancies. He hadn’t said anything to Brett about Rob being sought by the police. He would find out soon enough. He had his own problems to deal with.
And what did it all mean? Why had Rob concocted this story in order to abduct—that had to be the word for it—to abduct Timothy? Rob had never shown much interest in the boy before.
David's mind quickly re-ran the conversation they'd had the day before. Perhaps all this business about Michael and the nightmares had finally pushed him too far and he'd flipped—killed his wife and abducted the little boy. It was crazy, but in Rob's mixed up state there was no room for rationality.
These musings were interrupted by the shrill call of the telephone. Automatically, he grabbed the phone and said, ‘Hello.’
There was a moment’s pause then a thin piping voice came down the line to him.
‘Hello, David, it's Tim.’
TEN
Doctor Muncaster had just finished his examination of Kate when Sister approached him, her eyebrows arched quizzically.
‘Slowly, but surely,’ he said, flatly. He gave the patient another quick glance before moving on to the next room.
Through heavy-lidded eyes Kate saw swirls of white and blotches of blue, without being conscious of what it was. Without being conscious.
The darkness swelled up again and took her down again into its bleak oily embrace.
***
‘Hello David. It's Tim.’
At the sound of the boy's voice, David, at first, felt a great sense of relief, which was quickly replaced by a surge of anxiety.
‘Where are you, Tim? Are you all right?’ he asked his mouth dry.
‘Yes, I'm OK.’
His voice sounded dull and mechanical.
‘Where are you?’
There was a brief pause before: ‘I'm with Uncle Rob.’
David’s stomach tightened. ‘Is he with you now?’
There was another pause, as though the boy was checking.
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you, Timothy. Can you tell me?’ Silence. ‘Have you been hurt?’
‘No.’
Thank God for that. ‘Can't you tell me where you are?’
‘Of course he can.’ The voice had changed. It was Rob Moore.
‘Rob, what the hell is all this? What are you playing at?’
‘Playing? Oh Davy, boy this is for real.’
‘Look, Rob, the boy's done you no harm. Please don't make things worse by hurting him.’
‘Tim is fine. I have no intention of hurting him.’
‘Then why not let him go?’
‘I'm not forcing him to stay.’
‘Where are you?’
‘That's what I'm ringing about.’
David waited.
‘Davy, I need to see you.’
‘Yes.’
‘I need to talk—face to face. Y' know about Fiona and things. You understand.’
‘Of course.’
‘Have the police been to see you.’
‘Yes.’
‘What did they say?’
Careful, David, don't frighten him away. ‘They just said they wanted to see you.’
‘I didn't do it, you know. I didn't cut her head off.’
David gasped. Jesus Christ, is that what happened to the poor woman? The police had not been so graphic: 'brutally murdered' they had said. Brutal indeed. Not even Rob, unbalanced as he might be, could have done that. Could he?
‘I didn't kill her, I swear it.’
It sounded to David as though he were crying.
***
The lamps on the promenade now glowed feebly, yellow specks that were swallowed up by the distance and the fog.
‘I didn't kill her, I swear it.’ Rob Moore was saying, a broad smile crossing his face.
‘Where shall we meet?’ the anxious voice of David Cole reverberated on the phone.
‘In thunder, lightening or in rain?’ Rob smirked, but kept his voice serious. ‘It's difficult, you see, David. It's got to be done precisely, it's very important. You must do—exactly—what I say.’
‘Go on.’
‘You must come alone—without telling anyone. You promise me that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You promise?’
‘Of course I do. I don't want to make matters worse than they already are now.’
‘Good man. Very well, I want you to go into Brighton and I will meet you in the bar of the Grand Hotel. A nice crowded public place where the meeting of two old friends will not be noticed. Be there at ten o'clock. Have you got that?’
Yes, I've got it... but...’
‘Good.’ With a satisfied grin, Rob ended the call.
He looked out of the window at the swirling night and ruffled the hair of Timothy who was still standing limply by his side.
‘Not long now, Kate, my darling. Not long now.’
***
For the headmaster of St. Austell's, watching the early evening news on television was merely a means of occupying his mind, removing his thoughts from his own cares and concerns and for thirty minutes he enjoyed seeing the trials and tribulations of others. As coloured images of industrial disputes, hi-jacks, parliamentary feuds and other social disruptions flashed before his eyes, he felt no involvement; he did not do as his favourite writer E. M. Forster encouraged—he did not connect. Instead he remained aloof and faintly satisfied with this parade of upset, chaos and misery.
The smart, urbane newsreader, it seemed, was equally, unmoved by the catalogue of human failure he presented every evening. His seriously bland expression remained intact as he relayed details of some gruesome killing in suburbia.
Wife's mutilated body found by the cleaner.
Police anxious to interview missing husband.
A face flashed on the screen. The head spilt his tea. It was a face he recognised; it was still fresh in his memory.
It was the face of Rob Moore: the man to whom he had freely given custody of one of his pupils.
He jumped up and switched the set off.
He didn't want to see it.
He didn’t want to know.
And then his vision blurred briefly. That was just before he felt the tightness and the sharp fierce pain in his chest.
***
It was now dark, and the air was cold. Rob Moore shivered as he emerged from the hotel and made for the car which stood by the kerb, ghostly in the fog like a crouching beast. Quickly slipping into the driving seat, he pulled the door shut against the chill night. He was still not used to coping with the sensations of the body.
He turned the engine and with a throaty roar it burst into life. He glanced at his face in the driving mirror; it looked positively ghoulish, illuminated as it was by the dull greenish glow of the dashboard. He smiled. I won't have you for much longer, he thought to himself. It was time to dump both Rob Moore and the car; they'd both had their uses but now that usefulness was over. He wasn't quite sure where to go, but he had to be quick. Time was running out.
He mo
ved the car forward, the fierce beams of the headlights cutting a yellow path through the misty darkness.
***
Timothy Barlow lay in the darkened room, his eyes focusing on the rectangle of light projected onto the ceiling. His brain was free of thought; his body free of feeling; even the chill of the damp room failed to make him shiver. Occasionally the rectangle of light would expand and shift as traffic passed and then his eyes would follow the movement.
The noise of Rob Moore revving up the cold car engine outside, rose loudly above all other sounds, penetrating deeply into the recesses of his mind. The noise of the car, an engine humming, throbbing, racing, the squeal of tyres.
Tim closed his eyes to darkness—to darkness and the sound of rain, rain beating against the glass. Along with this came the swish-swash of wipers as they slashed across the screen, trying to sweep aside the deluge of the rain. It was to no avail: the downpour was too heavy for the thin black arms that flickered across his line of sight. The road began to melt from view. How could he control the car? In the darkness? In the rain?
Fear grew within him. He gripped the wheel, willing the rain to stop. Rows of pin prick bright headlights grew blindingly large and then swept past him in the darkness, their spray washing across his field of vision.
And then for a moment there seemed to be respite: the rain slackened and the wipers functioned. It was to Tim like looking through wavy glass, the sort they had in the classroom doors at school. One moment you could see fairly clearly and then if you moved your head slightly your view became distorted and indistinct.
The fleeting moment of clarity allowed him to see that he was driving in the wrong lane and great beasts with yellow eyes were speeding towards him.
Desperately he swung the steering wheel over to the left and with squealing tyres, the car rocked violently and slewed across the road out of control. No problem with vision now; he could see quite clearly. He could see the hedge which was rushing towards him.
And then with some crunching and scraping, he was through it and into the blackness beyond.
Now he shivered and opening his eyes, he saw once more the rectangle of light on the ceiling.
***
Arthur Crabtree grinned and took her hand. ‘It was all a joke, dear lady, all a joke. He isn't dead. He never was. He's just been in hiding to teach you a lesson.’
Kate snatched back her hand from the clammy grasp. ‘But he is dead.’
‘No. No. Not dead. Members of the jury, do you find the lady's husband dead or alive?’
The jury, all looking like Rob Moore, held up little white cards all bearing the word 'ALIVE' in black print.
‘There you are, Mrs Barlow, there's nothing more to be said, is there?’
‘Yes, there is.’ cried a voice from the witness box. Kate turned and saw it was David, his arms firmly held by a hooded executioner.
‘And what have you to say for yourself?’ asked Crabtree sarcastically.
‘Barlow is dead. Kate is mine now.’
The jury laughed in unison.
‘My Lord, I appeal to you,’ said David, turning to the bench where the judge, resplendent in red robes, sat implacably. He turned his face to David.
It was Michael.
‘My dear sir,’ he intoned, ‘you are wasting your breath. I am alive and you are guilty of stealing my wife. The penalty is death.’ He placed a black cap on his head. ‘David Cole, you have been found guilty of theft and adultery and therefore you will die. In order to save time, the sentence will be carried out here and now.’
The hooded executioner raised his axe and swung it through the air sideways. Kate felt a soft breeze on her face as he did so. There then came a sickening thud and David Cole's head span through the air and landed at Kate's feet.
She gasped for air. She could hardly breathe. Her whole body writhed with horror.
‘Steady. Steady.’
She blinked back the tears as she heard the voice again.
‘Steady, now, Mrs Barlow.’
A face emerged through the mist of tears. A kind face. A stranger to her in a white coat.
‘Welcome back to the land of the living,’ it said.
***
The Keyhole Club was the second place Rob tried. The sign outside which referred to ‘friendly hostesses' was what had brought him down into the converted cellar.
It was still comparatively early, and the place was fairly empty, just a few middle-aged punters dotted around the minuscule dance floor brooding over their very expensive drinks. A rough looking character who had just been approached by one of the hostesses was engaged in an animated conversation with her.
Rob wanted to do the chasing himself so, before ordering a drink, he picked the prettiest of the three girls sitting on bar stools, chatting intermittently to one another, and asked if she'd like to join him in a drink at his table. ‘Of course I would,’, she said. How nice. That would be lovely. She ordered for them both. The barman hoisted a bottle of champagne from under the bar. It was a familiar routine.
Rob led the way to one of the darkest corners and they sat down. After the theatrical popping of the cork, he poured the drinks and they said ‘cheers’. The champagne was like vinegar, but pricey as gold.
‘Mm,, that's nice,’ the girl said smiling and took another gulp. She was quite a pretty thing, but pale and tired looking. She could be hardly more than twenty, he thought.
‘I'm Kylie,’ she said.
‘Hello, Kylie, nice to know you. I'm Rob.’
‘Rob. Oh that’s a nice name.’ Another drink. ‘Is this your first time here?’
He nodded. ‘It’s very pleasant.’
‘Yes,’ she smiled and held out her glass. ‘Can I have another drink?’
Make the customers spend, darling.
He poured her another vinegar juice, emptying the bottle. Surprisingly short measures in these large bottles, thought Rob.
‘You're a pretty girl, Kylie.’
‘Thank you, kind sir.’
‘You work here full time?’
‘Yes, I'm here to make your evening go with a swing.’
The practised wooden clichés sounded desperate coming from her young and tired lips.
‘I bet you could really swing,’ he said.
She giggled a pretend giggle. Behind that immature heavily made up face was a jaded and dispirited mind.
‘You bet,’ he said with a smirk. ‘You make the customers feel good, eh?’
She leaned over, her thin pale hands tipped with scarlet nails touching his. ‘Sure can.’
‘How good?’
‘Well that all depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Oh, on how much they want to feel good.’
‘How much they can afford.’
‘You could say that,’ she smiled coyly.
‘I just did.’
She tapped the empty bottle. ‘Shall we have another bottle of bubbly?’
He frowned.
‘Oh go on, Rob. I'm supposed to get you to buy another. It's part of my job,’ she squeezed his hand, feeling faintly surprised how cold it was.
‘You don't want to get me the sack, do you?’
‘Certainly not,’ he grinned, playing along with the grotesque game. ‘Get you into the sack, maybe.’
She gave another brief giggle before holding up the empty bottle of champagne in a practised and business-like way. It was the same for her every night. This bloody pantomime: be nice to the creeps, get them to buy crap booze, then a fumble and maybe more while most of any cash that changed hands was passed over to ‘the management’—or else. It was some sort of living, Kyle admitted to herself, but it was one she hated.
‘Another one, Roman,’ she called the barman. He nodded and within seconds was at their table with another bottle of the sour drink.
‘That's Roman,’ Kylie said when he had gone. ‘He's from the Ukraine.’
Rob was not interested. ‘Now what were we saying?’
‘Yes,’ he said, simply.
She pursed her lips provocatively.
‘What sort of pleasure do you offer?’
Suddenly her face became serious and she looked in his eyes. ‘You're not a copper, are you?’
Rob laughed. It was a genuine laugh. ‘No I'm not. Cross my heart and...’ He stopped abruptly mid-sentence, his face losing all its animation.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ he said coldly.
‘You are telling me the truth aren't you—about being a policeman I mean?’
‘Certainly am,’ he smiled again, regaining his composure. ‘I'm only here after pleasure.’ He squeezed her arm gently. ‘Or to be more accurate, now I’m after you.’
She gave a practised smile and the professional tone returned to her voice. ‘Right, I can offer you relief. That'll cost you seventy five.’
‘I don't want relief, sweety. I'm aiming to go the whole way.’
‘Well, that'll cost you three hundred notes. In advance.’
‘That's fine with me.’
‘OK, dear. I have a room upstairs.’
‘Ah. No. You don't understand. I want it at my place.’
She withdrew her hand. ‘No dice.’ The voice was hard and indifferent.
‘Why not?’
She shook her head. ‘It's not on. The Boss wouldn't wear it.’
‘What if I doubled the fee?’
‘You've got to be kidding.’
‘No. You see, I can't... I can't make it except in my own bed. It's a sort of fetish I have. Come on... I’m only live five minutes drive away.’
‘Six hundred quid?’
He nodded.
She pursed her lips and thought for a moment. ‘Wait here. I'll see if I can fix it.’
***
Dr Anderson tapped the headmaster's chest again. The head's wife stood by watching, supported by Matron. She was ashen-faced and tearful.
The Darkness Rising Page 15