Crook's Hollow

by Rob Parker

  It was windy, but at least it wasn’t pissing down, which meant that the figure in black could pull out a mobile phone and make a call without fear of it getting soaked. They could only hope that there would be reception in the woods.

  Dragging the bastard Loxley had been a pain, but now in the trees at the bottom of the Hollow, where the shallow valley walls levelled out and the flood water had ebbed away, the caller had found the perfect spot, both to dial and to do what had been hastily planned.

  Again, the call was answered in a matter of seconds. ‘Tell me you got it done this time,’ said a voice.

  ‘I’m about to,’ replied the caller. ‘The trees at the bottom of the Hollow—we are agreed?’

  ‘Yes, yes. That sounds fine.’

  They both knew that that way, Loxley would be found quickly, and things could get moving more quickly than if there was a search.

  ‘So the edge of the woods would be best?’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘I left her back up there.’

  ‘Good. Do you have what you need?’ ‘Yes. Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  The caller shut the call off and pocketed the phone, then took out a coil of thin blue rope. The end of it was already fashioned loosely into a noose, which was placed around Thor Loxley’s neck.‘You should have got on with it,’ the figure said, and cackled darkly. ‘You really should have got on with it. Shame that now, with the weight of it all, it had got so much that you felt you had to kill yourself.’

  With a careful throw, the figure tossed the other bunched end of rope high into the tree over their heads, and watched as it fell over the crook of a couple of branches and back to the ground.

  Loxley was still lying unconscious in the mud and dead leaves, the strike to the back of his head having got him good and proper.

  The figure took a deep breath, feet placed wide apart, and pulled the rope through the branches, slowly at first, until there was resistance. Loxley’s body weight.

  With a mighty heave, Loxley was lifted slowly from the ground, and with a wracking snatch of coughed breath, his eyes flew open.

  27

  He was choking on something. In a dream. Something was stuck in his throat. He tried to dislodge it with a cough, but for some reason it only made his throat tighter.

  He felt his head lift, as if some benevolent higher force was trying to sit him up to catch his breath, even if it only seemed to initially hurt more.

  The hands that were helping him were rough and coarse, thin harsh fingers around his neck. He thought those hands shouldn’t be there, that they should be under his arms or something. Because that grip around his neck was only making the choking worse.

  Some clarity seemed to explode in his brain, an urgent and primal jolt of the instinct to survive and Thor’s eyes flew open, as he was yanked slowly upright.

  It was agony to breathe, and only a mere sliver of air was coming in with each frantic attempt; and the closer he got to his feet, the worse it became. The pain around his neck was severe, and suddenly became much worse as his toes lifted out of the shallow water at his feet. He looked down, which was a struggle, and could see that all around his feet were huge puddles, leaves, and dirt. The floor of the woods was gently flooded. He also saw that he was still just wearing his boxer shorts.

  There was no air anymore, and his hands clawed at his throat. His lungs were a pulsing black hole in his chest, struggling to pump against a vacuum. His feet kicked involuntarily, causing him to spin slightly. As he turned, his vision caught the blurred zoetrope of the trees around him, and he thrashed blindly for air, purchase—anything that would stop this hell.

  Thor wanted it to end. Nothing could be worse than this. Nothing. And then he saw the figure in black, straining against the rope,

  pulling him slightly higher. He was being hanged.

  Thor felt his body begin to spasm, but he was no longer able to control it. He reached out desperately to the figure, who had bent to tie the rope off around the tree. Thor wasn’t going higher anymore, he just simply hung there, dying, and spinning ever so slowly.

  He tried to squeeze his fingers between the noose and his neck, but it was too tight. Panic had now fully taken hold. He tried to reach high above his head to pull himself up the rope, but his arms were weak, burning branches attached to the burning stump that was his body.

  His legs ran in mid-air, he clawed at his throat. And it seemed that, as horrible as it was to experience, it was just as awful to watch, as the figure in black did. It seemed to take two unsure steps backwards, before breaking into a sprint into the dark.

  Leaving Thor hanging there, with no help, no salvation, no hope.

  As he rotated slowly, he tried to think of anything to give him comfort as he passed away. His mind fixed on Roisin, and the happiness she gave him. He saw her in his mind’s eye, smiling, her hair up, her glasses on. The warmth of her smile, and the heat of her lips he knew he would never touch again . . .

  And then his foot touched something.

  What was it? He thrashed his legs. There—again! He tried to focus. The tree he was hung from was closer somehow. He kicked his legs wildly—yes, he was getting closer to it, he saw its wet bark shimmering in the moonlight.

  As he thrashed, the wet rope moved slickly along the branch it was looped over. He swung his legs and arms wildly, every ounce of his being concentrated on his one chance of survival.

  He swung closer to the tree, and, seizing a chance, swung his legs frantically around it. The rough bark between his legs gave him just enough to grip with, and that in turn was just enough to allow him to

  pull at the noose. He grabbed the thickly coiled knot and tugged it as hard as he could.

  It gave, just enough for him to pull in a breath. He pulled again at the noose, one hand holding the rope up above the noose, the other on the knot itself. It got wider, slightly, inch by inch. It was up over his chin, then his mouth. It got stuck on his nose and top lip, shredding them raw, causing him to scream.

  One last effort.

  Over his nose, his eyes, scrubbing his forehead raw—and then suddenly it was off.

  He fell, landing in the water with a splash. He lay there in a couple of inches of water, gasping, oxygen flooding his ravaged body. He had never felt so lucky.

  This was supposed to be a suicide. He was supposed to be dead— again. Yet again he wasn’t. He lay there, his very bone marrow icing over as adrenaline washed back into his blood.

  An even colder fury brought it back full strength.

  There was only one thing he could do. He was done with being a sitting duck, the one fish in the barrel.

  It was time to go on the offensive.

  28

  Thor took a couple of moments to get his breath and his bearings back. Then he got up out of the water and began to run up the hill.

  He grew more furious with every stride. Whoever had tried to kill him had tried to make it look like suicide. He’d been stripped of his clothes, his dignity (such as it was), and, had they succeeded, his family would have faced who knows how much guilt and trauma over what a tragic end he’d arrived at.

  His rage was tempered by his fear about what may have happened to Roisin. There were two assailants, of that he’d been sure, and he’d only seen one. The other must have been with Roisin during that time, and if they wanted to kill Thor, what might they have done with her? She’d know that Thor hadn’t killed himself. And that meant that as long as she was alive, the killers’ plans couldn’t succeed.

  Thor upped his pace. The caravan loomed dark in the moonlight ahead, on the crest of the valley like a squat metal wolf baying at the moon high above. He hoped she was there. At the same time, he was terrified of what he might find. If the killers really wanted to make Thor look bad, they could leave Roisin dead in the caravan. That way, it would look as if Thor had killed her, then killed himself.

  The thought was too awful to bear. He ran as fast as his bare feet wo
uld allow him.

  Rounding the side of the caravan, the small yard lay empty—and Roisin’s car was gone. He went to the front door and threw it open.

  ‘Roisin?’ No answer.

  The living room was just how they had left it the night before: crumpled blankets, tea mugs, and spent candles. He turned to look down to the rear of the caravan, and the bedroom. The small corridor was obstructed by the door that he pushed through and lay flat on the floor, and he could see through to the bedroom beyond.

  It was all as he remembered, and aside from the door, there was no sign of the struggle they had endured. But no Roisin. No sign of her. His fear hit another level.

  What had they done to her? Where had they taken her?

  In the bedroom, he found his clothes and dragged them on urgently, aware that he was awash with mud. He couldn’t waste any time.

  Then he noticed it, on the bed—the lamp Roisin had picked up. The wooden one he liked. It lay broken on the covers, a split running through the base and the Edison bulb hanging limp by its cable.

  A sign of struggle. Roisin had been forced to defend herself.

  He needed the police, and he needed them now. Roisin didn’t have a landline out here, preferring to use her mobile phone. Where was it? He tossed the bedroom, then, having had no luck, searched through the rest of the caravan.

  No phone.

  When Roisin had been taken, had she taken it with her?

  That was a thimbleful of hope. He could imagine Roisin being put in her car and driven away, but if she had her phone with her she could secretly call for help.

  But that told him that even the most positive scenario meant she had most likely been kidnapped and could be killed.

  Thor sat on the sofa, in the dark. He needed a second to get his head straight. He needed the police, but couldn’t reach them.

  The attacker. Thor was sure it was a man. The size was right. The voice in the field when he was attacked was a man’s, unquestionably. The day after the first attack, Wendell said that the night before, he and his brother had been doing something that would upset the Loxleys.

  The man in the woods could well have been Wendell or Ward. The build fit. And the fact that there were two of them would also fit the fact that there were two attackers.

  It started to make sense.

  He could only think that this was further proof of a plan between Clyne and the Crooks. They were the only people that would benefit from Thor’s death.

  That meant Roisin’s own family would have to have been responsible for her disappearance, and God knows what else. He just couldn’t see any alternative.

  The Crooks were the snake. He was sure of it. And there was only one thing for a snake, if you wanted to stop it.

  You had to cut off its head.

  29

  Between the caravan and Crook’s farm lay a flat quarter mile of potato fields bathed in almost purple moonlight. The farm sat like a distant compound, a Georgian farmhouse in the traditional mould, with whitewashed stone walls which seemed to glow in the lunar light. Three stories high, with a slate roof, it was a giant kids’ building block left standing for generations.

  Thor took the fields instead of the road, picking his way between rows of potato shoots, running as fast as he could. He imagined that Roisin’s life hung in the balance, and he was running on pure adrenaline. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, or when he had last wanted to.

  As he got closer to the main house, he tried to map out an entry. He needed to get in quickly and quietly. He had to find out where they were holding her, and then contact the police.

  There were cars in the driveway. He didn’t know who drove what, but given that there were five of them, each in different states of repair, he figured at least three or more people must be inside. Roisin’s car, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  The wind was still blowing heavily against the boughs of the trees, masking his footsteps. As he got closer to the windows, he saw how old they were—untempered single-frame glazing right around the house—perfect for a forced entry.

  He needed to find a window into the kitchen, because that was where he would find a weapon—a knife, or something. Dogs would usually be a concern, but Roisin had said that they were not dog people these days, a notion Thor thought unlikely given the traditional farm culture that both the Crooks and Loxleys lived in. Every old farm had dogs.

  He waited for his heart to stop hammering, and took a second to lean against the fencing at the rear end of the field. In a second, he was running to the ground-floor windows to the right of the front door.

  He had taken all of two steps more when the security lights on the front of the house blinked on, almost blinding him. Shit, he thought, as he dipped low and made for the wall of the house. He was no cat burglar; if he survived the night, that wouldn’t be a future career option.

  He got to the stone wall and leaned back flush to it, the cool abrasiveness of the wall’s surface a happy but brief respite to the tension across his shoulders. He waited for any sign that the Crooks were checking who was snooping around in the yard.

  No movement, no sound. He counted slowly to ten. On five, the security light blinked off again.

  Living at Loxley Farm, he was used to the security light coming on at all times of the night. Their yard had been a passing place for all manner of animals from the surrounding fields, and would trip the light regularly. It became routine, scarcely noticed, like the ticking of a living room clock.

  He picked a stone from the abandoned potting beds beneath the window, one that would easily go through the glass. He could see little of the room beyond, as the room itself was obscured by the soft stitching of some ancient net curtains. Must be the kitchen, he thought.

  At the last second, he thought about trying the front door instead, on the off chance it might be open—and in what could have been the first time Thor felt he had experienced any kind of good luck in a long time, the grand old door swung open quietly.

  The sounds of the whirling breeze flooded through the opening gap into the house, so Thor snuck in as quickly as he could, pulling the door shut again behind him.

  Silence, save for the soft whistle of wind coming through the gaps in more than one faulty old window seal. He took a couple of seconds to get his bearings—old stone floors just like Loxley farm, higher ceilings than expected with exposed beams throughout—and made his way into the kitchen.

  He needed to find something that could subdue at least two people, possibly more. A single knife couldn’t do that, so he filled the kettle and set it to boil. There had been a spate of burglaries in the area a couple of years ago, where the intruders entered empty handed and used hot kettles and the threat of boiling water sprayed about to get what they wanted. Every house had one, the weapon was already there, and nothing—no man, woman, or child likes boiling water. It made Thor’s skin itch at the thought of having to use it, but it would have to do.

  While the kettle boiled, Thor looked for something to shield his face—even though he was supposed to be dead, he might as well get the advantages of being dead for a while.

  There was a tea towel on the oven handle, which he wrapped around his head. Too tight and small. On the back of the kitchen door was some coats, hats and a couple of scarfs. He took one, looped it twice round the bottom half of his face, and pulled a woolen hat on so that all that was visible was nose and eyes. It would do.

  The kettle boiled and he took it up the stairs. Half of him was fascinated at being in the Crooks’ house, with the ghosts of past generations haunting the same rooms he, a Loxley, was now in. The other half was struggling to beat back the sharks of panic that were circling in his guts.

  Get Roisin back became a silent mantra. The stairs were wide, stone and imposing, doubling back on themselves at a wide landing. The house was deeply quiet, and the heavy stone didn’t betray his footsteps.

  Thor needed to make sure he knew who was in the house, so he checked every r
oom on the second floor, before moving up to the third. He heard heavy snoring from the door at the end, so he resolved to leave that for last. There were four other doors in the hallway, which he checked one after the other.

  The first was a bathroom with bare wood floors and a claw-foot tub standing regally on a raised platform beneath the window.

  Door two led to a bedroom that looked as though it belonged to a teenager from the 1980s. There were posters of Duran Duran, and Sam Fox. One of Kelly Kapowski, from Saved By The Bell. There was an old flatpack wooden shelving set, which housed an ancient PC. On another shelf was a crusted fish tank, which looked to contain no life whatsoever, but was surely one of the contributors to the smell: a nearly overwhelming sweetness of rot.

  Thor would have thought it was a room abandoned in time, but the bed was clearly recently used, half of it strewn with jackets, jeans, work boots, socks. This was either Ward’s or Wendell’s room. If he’d had to guess, he’d have attached this bizarre setup to the unhinged Ward. And worse still—he wasn’t here.

  He tried the next door, which was a contrast. It was clean, for a start. Fitted wardrobes lined the wall over the bed, with a huge flat- screen TV mounted opposite it. There were no posters, and this was not the room of any teenage boy, past or present. Books lined the shelves—titles on agriculture, poetry, and travel. Topics, at a glance, like optimum conditions for a successful radish harvest, seafood dining guides in South East Asia, the complete illustrated works of William Wordsworth. Wendell.

  It was a bewildering if fascinating insight into the two brothers, who evidently shared genetic composition and general mindset, but precious little else.

  And again, the room was empty. Thor was now convinced. In their absence, he had found his adversaries.

  The penultimate door Thor opened carefully, aware that the likelihood of meeting inhabitants was getting higher with every room. But his caution didn’t remotely prepare him for what he saw.

  It belonged to another teenager, a girl this time. The bed was made, but looked starchy and faded in its rest. The teddies around the pillows were perfectly arranged, yet cobwebbed and dusty. The old wardrobes opposite the bed had finger tracks through the dust around the handles, suggesting they had been opened recently. Thor couldn’t help but look, and found clothes. Some of them were sportswear and tracksuits, with pink fringing and stripes, while some were jet black, in gothic cuts.