‘What did he look like?’
‘I couldn’t tell you, dear. It was a white car, that’s all I know. I didn’t get a proper look at—’
‘Not the delivery man. The other one, the one who you said paid for my food.’ I felt sick again and my palms were damp. A tick started up in the skin under my eye, and I blinked hard to try to get it to stop.
‘Oh, him? Your nice young man? I say “young” but he must be in his late thirties. Very smart, though.’ She nodded. ‘Dressed lovely, he was. Not like what you see people wearing today. He had a suit on.’ She cocked her head at me. ‘You must know, you answered the door to him, and he went inside.’ She sounded almost accusatory, as if I’d been up to no good. Suspicion danced in her eyes.
I didn’t care what she thought.
What I did care about was the possibility my erotic dream involving Rochdale mightn’t have been a dream at all.
I scurried back inside, not bothering with such pleasantries as saying “goodbye”, my neighbour’s tutting following me up the path. The hamlet’s inhabitants probably thought me strange, anyway, so I didn’t care what Mrs Saunders made of my less-than-social behaviour. As long as they left me alone, they could think what they bloody well liked.
I snatched my phone off the arm of the sofa, my throat dry and my skin prickling. The two bites on my breast itched. I scratched them almost absent-mindedly as I searched for the number I wanted.
‘Pick up, pick up,’ I muttered. The feeling I was being watched grew stronger and I glanced out of the window. I couldn’t see Mrs Saunders herself – it had grown too dark for that – but I saw her blue aura. She hadn’t moved.
Crow didn’t pick up. His answerphone kicked in, instead.
‘Crow, I need to see you, urgently,’ I said. ‘Come to my house tonight. I don’t care how late you are, I’ll stay up. I slept most of today anyway. I thought I was coming down with something.’ I hesitated. ‘Now I’m not so sure. Please, come tonight.’
I was rambling; so very unlike me, but for the first time in a very long time indeed, I didn’t want to be alone.
Chapter 28
Olivia
I paced. I made tea. I paced some more. When the knock came, I was expecting it.
I opened the door.
It wasn’t Crow.
Chapter 29
Olivia
‘Olivia? Olivia!’ The voice was familiar, urgent, concerned. ‘Wake up.’
‘I’m awake,’ I muttered, not entirely sure whether I was telling the truth, but I opened my eyes anyway. It was a massive effort. My head was heavy, pressing down onto the arm of the sofa as if it weighed a ton. My eyelids weren’t much better.
‘Are you okay? As soon as I got your message, I came straight over. When you didn't answer—’
Crow? What... why?
I was at home, on my own sofa – not an unusual occurrence. However, Crow being here was.
‘Why are you here?’ I muttered, my voice croaky and dry, as I struggled to remember.
‘You called me. Are you okay?’ he repeated.
I wasn’t entirely sure I was.
‘Has he gone?’ I asked. Had Rochdale actually been here at all? I thought he had been – hadn’t he? Yes, he had, I was certain of it.
An image of a dark-haired head suckling at my breast seared my mind, and an echo of lust danced along my veins.
‘Who?’ he asked, then reared back when he realised who I meant. The red surrounding him darkened and pulsed. ‘Rochdale was here?’
I nodded slowly, my insides liquid and languorous, half-remembered heat from that sweet spot between my legs warming my stomach.
God, it had been sooo good.
And so dangerous.
With effort, I struggled to sit up. It said a great deal about the state of me that I didn’t shake off Crow’s arm as he snaked it around my shoulders to help me up.
The weakness of this morning was back, and it was worse. Much worse. The phrase “run over by a steamroller” didn’t quite cover it.
‘You look awful,’ Crow said.
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘Really pale.’
I ignored him, checking myself over instead. When I slipped my hand down the front of my T-shirt, I already knew what I was going to find. My fingers were wet and sticky. I withdrew my hand a stared at it. Not too much blood, but enough.
‘You’re hurt, let me see,’ Crow insisted.
Self-consciously, I lifted my top up. I wasn’t wearing a bra. Just above my left nipple were the same two bites, the little wounds open again and oozing fresh blood.
‘You’ve been bitten,’ he said.
I risked looking at Crow. His aura was all around me, enveloping me.
‘I know,’ I said. I might not remember everything, but some bits were clearer than others. ‘I think it was Rochdale who bit me.’
‘What?’ Crow’s eyes widened. ‘I’ll fucking kill him, the pervert. Did he hurt you anywhere else?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’
Crow stood and paced around my little living room. After he’d done a lap, he halted next to the sofa and dropped to his knees.
I recoiled. It was an instinctive thing; I couldn’t help myself. His eyes had hardened into a marble stare, his jaw was clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out like corded wood. His hands were curled into fists, the knuckles white. Much of the red surrounding him had turned to deep, oily crimson, interspersed with black.
‘You’d better tell me about it,’ he said, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.
Yes, I had, hadn’t I? I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer, not if I wanted Crow’s help.
‘I haven’t been totally honest with you,’ I began, and he grunted. Had he guessed I’d been holding something back? ‘That night at the Hollifield Hotel, Rochdale asked me to tell him what I saw when I spotted him in the theatre. He seemed to think something about him, or something to do with him, had caught my attention.’
‘I saw the pair of you staring at each other,’ Crow said.
‘We were. To be more accurate, I was staring at him and he caught me looking.’
‘Why? Did you already know him?’ Suspicion clouded Crow’s face.
‘I’d never seen him before.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I was staring at him because he doesn’t have an aura.’ I said it in a rush, then waited for the inevitable incredulous laugh and the disbelief. It didn’t come.
Instead, Crow asked, ‘Is that common?’
‘No, it’s not,’ I replied, surprised at his reaction. ‘Rochdale is the only person I’ve ever met who doesn’t have one.’
‘No wonder you were staring at him. Do you think he knows he doesn’t have one?’
‘He does now, because I told him.’ I swallowed, wishing I had some water, but too bloody tired to fetch myself a glass. My limbs felt as though they were stapled to the sofa.
‘I told him the first time he came,’ I said, then the heat of a blush flushed my cheeks. It wasn’t him who came, it had been me. Hard. And again, earlier tonight. The remembered pleasure heated my skin, and I was under no illusion that if he appeared at my door again, I’d let him do whatever he wanted. That’s what terrified me, this sudden, unexplained hold he had on me. It wasn’t normal.
‘He’s been here before?’ Crow asked.
‘Yes. I thought I’d dreamt it, but after last night I know I hadn’t. If it wasn’t for the fact that Mrs Saunders, a neighbour of mine, confirmed Rochdale had been to my house, I would still be thinking it was a dream. She says I let him in, but I couldn’t remember doing it. I called you straight away.’
I remembered now, all right. Not all of it, but most of it. Either he’d given me something and the effect had worn off, or his hypnotism wasn’t working. I remembered much more than I wanted to...
‘And that’s when you told him about not being able to see his aura?’ Crow asked.
‘Yes.’
‘What did he say? What
was his reaction?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. But I think you’re right about the hypnotism thing,’ I added. ‘There’s no way on earth, I would voluntarily have let a strange man into my house. He must have done something to me.’
Oh, he certainly had! And it had been the most erotic experience of my life.
I needed a drink. My mouth was dry, my throat scratchy. I levered myself off the sofa, my body as heavy as a tree-trunk and just as graceful. ‘Water?’ I offered.
‘Whisky?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘Coffee, then. Make it a strong one, I need to stay awake.’
Perhaps I should join him. My eyelids were drooping, and every time I blinked, I was in danger of them staying shut. I couldn’t ever remember being this exhausted. I had an awful feeling I knew the reason for it, and I wondered how much blood Rochdale had taken. The thought was sickening. I wanted to believe I’d imagined it or misremembered it (surely the man hadn’t actually bitten me?), but the image of red lips and red teeth, and the way he’d suckled at my breast like a baby, persisted.
I barely made it to my feet, before my legs gave out and I sank back down into the cushions.
‘What’s wrong? Are you ill?’ Crow demanded.
I’d never known anyone ask so many questions. That was all he’d done since he’d arrived. I’d told him as much as I could. I’d told him more than I’d ever told anyone (my family and assorted quacks didn’t count) and now I had nothing left to give. He should go; I wanted him to go. I had to sleep, I...
Chapter 30
Crow
The bastard has drugged her, Crow thought, as he slid his arms underneath Olivia and picked her up, hugging her to his chest. He must have done. Perhaps that was how he operated, with drugs and mind-games. Crow well understood how the right chemicals in the right hands could make a person believe anything, do anything. The awareness had been part of his special forces training.
Then there was the biting thing.
He shuddered, placing his feet carefully on each step as he climbed her narrow, rickety stairs. What possessed anyone to want to bite another person?
It wasn’t normal.
And Olivia herself, so pale and drained and exhausted. That wasn’t normal, either.
Crow knew some people; interesting, useful people. One of them was a doctor who, he hoped, would be able to analyse a sample of Olivia’s blood. He’d have to work fast, though. As soon as it was light, he’d make a call. Until then, he’d let her sleep.
He shouldered his way into her bedroom, taking care not to knock her against the door frame, then pulled back the duvet and placed her gently on the bed. He tucked her in, before going down to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, which he placed on the chest of drawers next to her.
Satisfied she was as comfortable as he could make her, he returned to the living room. He’d sleep on her sofa for what was left of the night; he didn’t want to risk leaving her alone.
Crow made himself a coffee and was wandering around the ground floor while he drank it, picking things up and putting them down again, when he remembered Father Nuffield.
The group the Father had been presiding over appeared to have run on for longer than anticipated, which was why Crow had been sitting on a pew in the nave, when Olivia’s call had come through. Unfortunately, he’d already turned his phone on to silent in preparation for meeting with Father Nuffield, so he missed the live version, but managed to pick up her message instead. He’d left the church immediately.
Father Nuffield must have thought Crow had stood him up.
It was far too late to call the priest now, but he should text him. It was only polite to let the man know that something unexpected had come up, and that he’d phone in the morning to rearrange.
He didn’t expect the Father to call him back so quickly.
‘Mr Robinson?’
‘Yes, Father. As I said in my text, I’m really sorry, but a friend of mine needed some help. I hope we can rearrange?’
‘Come tomorrow. Eleven o’clock. I’ll be in the nave. Meet me there. It’s important.’
‘Great, thanks, I will.’ He’d see if the doctor could take a sample of Olivia’s blood afterwards. Finding out what, if anything, the priest could tell him about Meadow, had to come first.
‘Don’t forget,’ the priest warned.
‘I won’t, and thank you, Father.’
Crow stared at his phone. What was he missing? What was so important for the Father to have rung him back so late, to insist Crow meet with him tomorrow?
Crow sat in the dark for a while, thinking. He’d already checked the doors and the windows, but he got to his feet and checked them again, and as he did so he peered through the glass, fighting the urge to go outside and scout out the area around the cottage. Reason told him Rochdale wouldn’t come back tonight, but his instinct told another story.
He let out a long, slow exhalation – if Rochdale did return, Crow would be waiting for him and he smiled softly, his eyes hard. He looked forward to it.
What the hell was Meadow playing at, coming to Olivia’s house? And why had Rochdale been so concerned about a couple of photos? Crow was as certain as he could be that the man had nothing to do with terrorism, in any of its forms. He was a leech and a parasite, not a fanatic. So there must be another reason why he was so camera-shy.
Camera? Hmm...
Crow thought for a moment, then picked up his keys and went out to his car.
When he returned to the house, he was holding a bag. It was time to get a bit more proactive...
As he worked, unscrewing light fittings and placing the tiny hidden cameras inside, the same questions, ones he’d been mulling over and over ever since he’d discovered Meadow was in trouble, danced through Crow’s head. The main one, and one he wasn’t sure he could ever come to terms with, was why his sister hadn’t come to him at the beginning. She knew he would have sorted it out for her. That’s what he was good at, that’s what he did.
His task finished, although he still had Olivia’s bedroom left to do, but too on edge to rest (probably the result of that strong coffee) he made a cup of tea just for something to do. Without realising, he fished the crucifix out of his T-shirt and ran his fingers over its sculpted planes, feeling the sharp edges of the cross and the softer, rounded carving of the man moulded on it. It wasn’t that he found comfort in it, not in the spiritual sense, but he did feel closer to Meadow somehow. This was a part of her which was so private and so personal, she’d not shared it with him.
Aye, well, she’d not shared her relationship with Rochdale with him, either, and with an angry snort he let go of the crucifix, pocketed the last remaining camera and his screwdriver, and went upstairs to check on Olivia.
The upper storey of the house was just as dark as the ground floor and just as silent. It was only when he reached Olivia’s bedside that he heard her breathing, and he let out a slow breath – what had he been expecting? For her to have died in her sleep, or for Rochdale to be crouched over her, whispering his own particular brand of evil in her ear?
Both notions were utterly ridiculous, although if she’d had an allergic reaction, or Rochdale had given her too much of whatever drug he’d used to subdue her, the former was a distinct possibility.
Olivia appeared to be sleeping peacefully and deeply. Lying on her side, one hand curled up under her chin, she looked young and vulnerable, her normally spikey edges softened by sleep.
He leaned closer, wondering if she really was okay or if the sleep was a coma. Maybe he should have taken her to hospital and risked the inevitable barrage of questions and barely concealed accusations?
She groaned and shuffled, waving her arm in the air as if to bat him away. Crow eased back, but when she settled again, he leant forward once more.
This time, she flinched and let out a small cry.
He didn’t move, worry gnawing at the edge of his mind.
Another cry, this one loud
er, and she opened her eyes. ‘What are you doing?’ she mumbled.
‘Making sure you’re okay.’ He straightened up.
‘By burning me? That hurt.’ Her voice was groggy and full of sleep.
‘Burning you? What’re you talking about?’
‘Hurt...’ she muttered, rubbing at her arm, her eyes closing once again.
He watched her drift away, remaining by her bedside for long, long minutes. Darn it, but he felt responsible for her. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help himself. Besides, she was his only link to Rochdale and Meadow.
But right now, he felt more like a voyeur than a protector.
He grasped the edge of the duvet from where it lay around her waist, intending to pull it up to her chin, and—
Olivia let out another cry and sat up, rubbing her arm. ‘What the fuck!’ she yelled. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Tucking you in,’ he said. What was wrong with her?
‘You’re hurting me.’
‘I wasn’t. All I did was pull the duvet up,’ he objected.
She reached out and fumbled with the bedside lamp, switching it on. In its yellow glow, she looked even more sickly and considerably paler than she’d appeared downstairs. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her face was hollow and gaunt.
‘Look.’ She lifted her forearm closer to her face, rubbing her skin.
He leant forward to see.
There was nothing there, but Olivia cried out anyway. ‘You’re doing it again!’ she shouted and pushed him back. As she did so, she yelped once more.
He glanced down.
The cross dangled on his chest.
‘Sorry, did I catch you with it? The edges are a bit sharp. Here, feel.’ He held it out, and she recoiled.
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