by P. R. Black
Also by P.R. Black
The Family
The Beach House
The Long Dark Road
THE LONG DARK ROAD
P.R. Black
An Aries book
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aries, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © P.R. Black, 2020
The moral right of PR Black to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781789543094
Cover design ©Lisa Brewster
Aries
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.headofzeus.com
For Rory
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
Prologue
It was only when the rain came down hard that Stephanie began to worry.
The pavement had come to an end at about the same time as the streetlights, and dusk had given way to darkness and gloom, with neither a star nor a single slice of moonlight to be seen. She had the whole length of the long dark road still to walk, with no houses on either side – just farmland, dry stone walls, and looming, rustling trees, rendered as swift-moving shadows in the night.
Stephanie put up her hood, thrust her hands in her pockets, lowered her chin to her chest, and crossed over to the right-hand side of the road. This was so she could better see any traffic coming towards her – but then the long dark road began to turn and twist in on itself, becoming serpentine, and a blind corner in one direction was as bad as one in the other direction.
Several cars passed her in the night, and the occupants all remembered seeing her. Stephanie thought, correctly, that a hunched, hooded figure bent into the driving rain might seem quite alarming given the conditions. Most of the time she was able to dodge over to the other side of the road, the sweep of headlights giving her ample time to make a move towards safety. There was hardly any verge to speak of, on the rare occasion when two cars passed each other in the treacherously narrow route; once, Stephanie hugged the lichen-infused dry stone walls, grimacing at the sensation of moss underneath her fingernails, hoping that the driver on her side of the road wasn’t given to cutting a corner.
Once, someone beeped at her. She had a shutter-click impression of a jeering face, and then something was thrown from an opened window – an empty beer can, rebounding off the slate and rolling forlornly after her down a slight decline. Stephanie didn’t even have to dodge it, but the encounter jolted her. I have to get off this road, she thought, and quickened her pace.
Soon she came to the bridge – the trek had seemed longer than when she had previously taken this route, in bright sunshine – and was reassured by its solid archway, as well as the white-letters-on-green-background that read:
FERNGATE – 2 miles
Two miles was nothing, of course. Back in the training days, two miles was the distance she would clock up on a rest day – a trot to ease her muscles on a treadmill, maybe, after some weights. As the rain grew more violent, trickling down the back of her neck and plastering her fringe to her forehead, it occurred to her to run.
Just cut your losses; tonight’s not the night for it. Make an excuse later. You’ve got plenty of time to think one up.
Over the bridge, she glanced at the eerie phosphorescence of the rain-swollen river, a muted white explosion as the flow of the water met the boulders at the riverbank. I wonder if there’s a troll under here, she thought, then quickly thought of something else.
Once she was past the bridge, the road grew straight and flat, bordered only by bushes separating farmland on either side. The rain eased off into a steady drizzle, and Stephanie felt comforted in the simplicity of the route ahead.
A big, heavy vehicle approached behind her. Even before its headlights picked her out in the road ahead, Stephanie could imagine the water it displaced, as if a tank was fording a river. Looking over her shoulder, all she could see were twin beams, painfully bright in the gloom. The vehicle slowed, and pulled up beside her, the rain cast in molten sparks through its headlights. Rain slicked the passenger-side window as it slowly lowered. A cheery, broad face appeared. ‘You all right there, love?’
‘I’m fine,’ she managed, making eye contact with him. Then she spoiled this assertiveness by adding: ‘I do wish I was a duck, all the same.’
The driver grinned. ‘That’s the truth. Don’t suppose I can offer you a lift? It’s a devil of a night to be out here on your own.’
‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m just going along the road, here.’
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely sure. Final answer.’
‘Well… I had to ask. Take care. I hope your god goes with you.’ The window buzzed closed again, and the Land Rover moved off, its tail-lights receding in the horizon, and then lost in a sudden bend.
His name was Jed Mulrine, and the police were very interested in him for a long time afterwards. They took great care to trace his movements, as well as examining his Land Rover in quite literally forensic detail. These inquiries established firmly that Jed Mulrine had made no physical contact with Stephanie, that he was telling the truth, and that he was most likely the last person to see her walking on that road.
This final part of their conclusions was not correct.
After another half a mile of progress, a set of lights approached her from the opposite side of the road.
Stephanie had a long time to consider the vehicle. It had full beam on – understandably, given the conditions and the fact that she was out here in the sticks, utterly alone – and as the laser-bright beams flashed past her, she anticipated that the driver would douse them, upon seeing her. But the driver didn’t, and Stephanie flinched. The
light was unbearable, even with her eyes closed, searing through her eyelids. She had to hold up a hand to block off the unruly brightness.
The car slowed down as it passed. Then the brakes squeaked; she heard the backwash as it came to a complete stop.
Stephanie looked back to see the twin red eyes of the brake lights. Then the reversing lights blinked on, and the car backed up.
Something in this jolted her, and she quickened her step. But the car was quicker, of course, and soon it had stopped just a few feet before her.
The full beam was still on, and she could not make out any details, other than dark paint. The driver’s side door opened, and a long, black silhouette appeared, the image as blurred and inconsistent as a lick of flame in negative.
Even before the figure lunged at her, Stephanie knew what was about to happen. It was the same feeling as when she swam in the sea, and realised she was out of her depth. A yawning sensation, a realisation that what was beneath her might drop down for all eternity. That something that lurked down there might grab her.
She turned; there was a break in the treeline to her left, leading onto the farmland, and she sprinted flat out for it.
Footsteps pounded the road behind her.
No one reported any screams; no one drove past; and that was as far as Stephanie travelled along that long dark road.
1
So that’s the mundanity of the move, and the mediocrity of my mother and father’s farewells, over and done. I intend my time in Ferngate to be an adventure. Looking at the autumn-ready trees and the eager faces of the freshers reminds me of the stories I delighted in as a girl – school stories, friends, enemies, irritants, the masters you hated, the fairy godmothers who helped you. Anything’s got to be better than Mum and Dad shrieking at each other.
From the diary of Stephanie Healey
Georgia watched the headlights slash her driveway in the early morning gloom. The tone of light was different, and the bulbs were spaced further apart than the car he used to drive. So, she was not altogether surprised when a brand-new, pistol-bright silver 4x4 tank crunched up the driveway. It barely made a sound; hybrid vehicle, into the bargain. Probably he thought this was subtle.
Rod looked grave as he got out of the car. With the connection that they might always have, he glanced up towards the window and their gazes locked. He did not look away, continuing to stare as he clicked the key fob. An empty holdall dangled from his hand, a deflated-looking thing that seemed to be as fresh out of the packet as the car.
Big, tall, dull, balding Rod. Ridiculous in his cycling gear, dull and abstemious in his habits, and back again for one last insult.
Georgia hadn’t changed the locks, at the insistence of her solicitor, but he’d had the decency to knock. She didn’t give herself time to rehearse an opening line, but swept the door open.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you’re dressed, great. I just wanted to pop over and collect one or two things.’
Georgia nodded to the silver-grey beast over his shoulder. ‘Sure you’ll get everything in that? It’s big enough.’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. I just came for the CDs, in fact.’
‘The CDs.’ She sniggered. ‘That’s such a bloke thing to do.’
‘I won’t be long.’ He moved forward, and Georgia stepped aside, cursing herself for her weakness, not wanting to get involved in a fight. Not today, not this early.
Stopping to take his boots off in the foyer, in the place where he used to hang his coat, he noticed the bags at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Off somewhere?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘Not heading to Ferngate, are you?’
‘Stop interrogating me, Rod. Get your Hootie & The Blowfish best of, and bugger off.’
‘I’m only asking.’ He headed into the nook room, which was dominated by his CD towers. He snatched handfuls of CDs and shoved them into his holdall, seemingly indiscriminately, although she remembered that he had a strange knack of knowing just where his albums were on the shelves, in spite of there being no discernible order to how they were stored. ‘Papers been in touch with you?’
‘Of course. You know… you shouldn’t really be here, Rod. I thought the lawyers were quite clear.’
‘There’s never been any need for lawyers,’ he said, stiffly. ‘Terrible idea to get them involved. Money down the drain. No reason we can’t be sensible.’
‘If you say so, Rod. Hang on – Carole King, that’s one of mine.’
He paused, frowning. ‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely sure.’ She held out her hand; he handed over Tapestry, warily.
‘You know, Georgia… I also came here to talk to you about the next couple of weeks. I just want to… You know. Get a plan together.’
‘For what?’ She laid down the CD on top of one of the CD towers.
‘Just, to present a united front. We have to do that, for the cameras.’
‘The papers know what’s happening with us. They printed a bloody story on it. What story do you want to get straight?’
‘Just, you know… We need to show unity. People might lose sympathy if we don’t. That’s all.’
‘I see. You heading to Ferngate?’
‘I’m away on business, but one of the papers has been in touch.’
‘They called you up, did they?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And they didn’t call me. That’s a strange one. How much did they offer you, Rod?’
‘If that’s your attitude, I don’t want to talk to you.’
Georgia laughed. ‘They did! One of them bought you up. I can’t bloody believe it. And you wouldn’t have told me. What, did you promise them an exclusive?’
‘Please leave me alone now, Georgia. This is difficult for us both. I only want to get some of what’s mine.’
‘Don’t let me stop you. I’ve been desperate to see the back of that stoner rock bullshit for years. If I never have to hear Neil Young’s voice again, that’s worth paying any price.’
Rod hesitated. ‘Even the house?’
‘Just get what you need and get out.’
She left him to it. He was quick, to give him his due; soon the holdall was full, zipped up, and perched on his shoulder.
‘If you go to Ferngate, give me a call, right?’
‘I’m not going to Ferngate. It’s none of your business what I do, or where I go. And you’ll need permission to get into the house. We agreed on that. I do have cameras set up – you appear at the door, I’ll know, and I’ll contact your solicitor about how you broke the terms of our agreement.’
Soon he was back outside, on the driveway. ‘You let me know if you’re going to Ferngate. Anything could help. Anything could give us a lead.’
Georgia sighed. ‘I’ll think about it, Rod.’
‘Just call me. I mean it. Stephanie’s bigger than us.’
‘Is she bigger than you and whoever you’re shacked up with, Rod?’ It had come out on reflex, a snake rearing out of the bushes.
‘Bye, Georgia. Take it easy.’
‘Because, you know, she could come and sit in with us. Couldn’t she? Maybe people will sympathise with her. Someone might take pity. Someone might call in with what we need.’
‘Take a chill pill.’
‘Bastard,’ she hissed, but he was already in the 4x4. The engine turned over with that unsettling, sibilant sound, made a smart turn, and then drove away.
Georgia returned to the house, listening to the breeze whistle through the foyer. She stared at her bags for a moment, then searched for her car keys.
2
He’s got the most beautiful hair for a boy. I am driven almost insane by its shampoo-advert perfection, and the way his freckles match its colour almost perfectly. I so badly wanted to run my hands through it, to feel it flow through my fingers like fine sand. So, I did.
From the diary of Stephanie Healey
Georgia Healey spotted the boy who’d first reported her daughter missing straight
away, but she did it right – taking her time, getting very close, and remaining hidden until the last possible moment. For reasons she wouldn’t have felt comfortable explaining, she didn’t want him to see her just yet.
Yes, it was certainly him; the hair was a little longer than she remembered, a tawny red that would have been gorgeous on a little boy, but looked merely odd on top of his head at the age of – what was he? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?
He’d put on weight, too, a good stone and a half. The chin wasn’t so square any more, and the dimples that Georgia remembered forming at the corners of his mouth when he smirked were now swamped in the flesh. Although Georgia didn’t like beards, she wondered if one would have suited him – they were still the fashion, going by the other students who left the lecture theatre at the same time, although only just.
When the big moment arrived, Martin didn’t know what to say. His expression said enough – said plenty, in fact. He paused, blinking rapidly when the flashbulbs went off.
‘I suppose…’ he faltered, licked his lips. Georgia laid a hand across his, and he clutched at it – a little too hard. Georgia always remembered how sweaty those hands had been, and also how small – an artist’s hands.
‘I suppose I just want to say – Stephanie, if you’re out there, please get in touch. We’re worried sick, your mum needs you home, and I need you back here, too. You promised you’d help me sort out my essay on George Orwell, remember? The Road To Wigan Pier?’
And then that smile, that awful grin, as if he’d snagged one side of his mouth on a fishing hook; the part-time grimace that would appear on all the websites. No matter that he’d broken down moments later. No matter that he had practically collapsed in that chair, right there, on the last syllable, his spine buckled along with his voice.
They took shot after shot, whirring, robotic long-lens digital cameras with humans optional in many cases, and they focused right in on him, more than they had with Georgia or the chief inspector. He knew, they knew, and everyone watching online or on TV or picking it up on Twitter or even cracking open a paper knew why this was. And so did Georgia.