The nearest staffroom was empty and Tom was suddenly self-conscious as he walked into the room on his own. Sometimes, he still felt as though he was in the wrong place. All his life he’d been on the wrong side of authority figures. Now, he was one of their number. He’d been doing this job for almost two years, leading groups and mentoring individuals, trying to help them find the right path. But still, standing there among the tattered chairs and the cluttered tables, he felt like a child who’d been summoned to see the teacher. He felt like an imposter. He checked his watch. He didn’t have long. Dave wouldn’t want to hang around outdoors with the lads any longer than was strictly necessary.
Tom crossed to the sink and lifted the kettle, giving it an experimental slosh to check the water level. Good, there was already enough water for a mug of tea. He replaced the kettle on the counter and flipped the switch, watching the red light glow and listening to the rising hiss as the water stirred into motion. His attention wandered and whenever that happened, the words were never far from his mind. He heard them now; whispering in the hiss of steam, their murmured rhythm mingling with the gentle rumble of boiling water. “It’s all your fault,” they whispered. No, Tom thought. Not now. But that wasn’t enough. Once the words began to form in his mind, it was always so much harder to make them stop, to make them keep their accusations to themselves. “All your fault,” the words insisted. “But you got away with it. You lied and you got away with it and you didn’t deserve to. But it’s all your fault and you know it. You’ll always know it.”
With a sudden clunk, the automatic switch on the kettle flipped back to the off position and Tom blinked. “Focus,” he muttered. “Focus on one thing at a time.” He reached out for a mug from the shelf over the sink and grabbed a teabag from the packet on the counter. He dropped the bag into the mug and lifted the kettle, pouring the water carefully, watching the brown tea seep into the water. He picked up a teaspoon from the draining board and prodded at the teabag, counting slowly to twelve in his head. He lifted the bag with the spoon and dropped it neatly into the pedal bin. He bent down to open the fridge. There was plenty of milk for a change. Really, I should’ve checked that first, he thought. He added the milk to his mug and stirred it six times. “There we go,” he muttered. “Milk back in the fridge, rinse the teaspoon under the tap. One, two, three, four.” He watched the water flowing over the tea-stained spoon. Had he just said all that out loud? He coughed and looked over his shoulder, scanning the room although he knew he was alone. He sighed and turned the tap off. It’s funny, he thought, I always hated maths at school, but now I count just about everything. And it was true. He needed the reassuring rhythm of the numbers. Sometimes, they were all that held him together.
Tom raised the mug to his lips and blew across the top. He breathed in the fragrant steam and closed his eyes as he took that first slurp; always the same way, always while the tea was still too hot. He felt the heat catch at the back of his throat. And always the same thought: This is it. This is as good as I’m going to feel all day.
He opened his eyes and took another slurp, then raised his gaze to the window and looked out, trying to ignore the grid of metal bars. There wasn’t much to see out there, just a series of chain-link fences and the visitors’ car park. But he wanted to see beyond this place, he wanted to see the sky. At least I get to sign out at the end of the day. I get to drive home and choose what I have to eat. I get to sit in front of the TV and watch football. He sniffed. He was a damned sight better off than the poor kids confined within the centre’s concrete walls and chain-link fences; they hardly dared to dream about the day they’d leave this place.
He watched the clouds for a couple of minutes and sipped at his tea. A crow flapped lazily across the sky and he followed its path, counting every beat of its wings. One, two three, four. As he watched, the crow swooped down into the car park, settling next to a discarded polystyrene burger carton. It pecked at the yellow container, no doubt hoping for a leftover French fry. Tom snorted. The carton was probably from some kid visiting his dad. As young as the inmates were, some of them had still managed to have kids of their own. Tom had seen the teenage mums dragging their reluctant toddlers across the car park. The burger would be a bribe: “Visit your dad and we’ll go to McDonald’s on the way.”
Tom smiled sadly. There but for the grace of God, he thought. He gulped down the last of his tea, but as he turned away from the window, something in the car park caught his eye. He put the mug down on the counter, and moved closer to the window, scanning across the parked cars. What had he seen? There. He’d assumed, at first, that all the cars were empty, but in a dark blue Renault hatchback, a man sat behind the wheel. The man’s face was pale against the car’s gloomy interior and he was leaning forward, staring through the windscreen. “He’s not looking at me,” Tom whispered. “He can’t be.” But that just wasn’t true. There was no doubt about it. The man was not staring at the building, nor at the window, but directly at Tom; watching him, taking in his every move.
Tom blinked. He returned the man’s gaze. Something was wrong. Something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Did he know this man? Perhaps he’d seen his photo in the files. He could be related to one of the lads; an uncle perhaps, or even a grandfather. Tom racked his brain but he just couldn’t place him. Should he wave to him, or acknowledge him in some way? Slowly, he raised his hand to shoulder height and spread his fingers. But the man hurriedly looked away. Tom felt foolish and lowered his hand. He must’ve made a mistake. And yet the man in the car seemed agitated by Tom’s wave. Suddenly, he strapped on his seatbelt and started the engine, then turned his head, looking rapidly from side to side.
“What are you up to?” Tom muttered. The dark blue car reversed from its parking space and sped toward the exit, grinding to an abrupt stop at the barrier. Tom heard the honk of a horn and he smiled to himself. Whoever was manning the barrier would not like that. They’d make the man wait. They might even search his car. It was a shame Tom didn’t have time to watch. He needed to get back to the group. He put his empty mug into the dishwasher and turned toward the staffroom door. He’d hoped for ten minutes of peace and quiet, but now he felt more unsettled than before his tea break. What had just happened? Had he recognised that man or was he confusing him with someone else?
He shook his head and headed back toward the group. He needed to get his head back together. He had work to do. There were sixty-three steps back to the room he used for his group sessions. One, two, three, four. There was nothing to worry about. Five, six, seven. The man had just been a visitor and he’d probably been lost in thought, just staring into space. Eight, nine, ten. Perhaps the man had been embarrassed to have been spotted daydreaming and he’d hurried away. Eleven, twelve. He’d probably been anxious to get away from the centre and forget about the place; most people felt the same—even the staff. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. There was nothing more to it than that. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.
Nothing at all.
CHAPTER 5
3650 BC
BROND’S SCREAM ENDED ABRUPTLY and instantly the whole tribe was in uproar. Women gathered their children and drew their knives. Men leaped to their feet, eyeing each other watchfully, their fingers flicking through the air in silent signals. The dogs barked and snarled for all they were worth, their lips curled back, their teeth flashing white in the firelight.
But Hafoc could only stand and stare, his mouth hanging open. He looked from left to right, but nothing made sense. Brond was strong and brave. Brond was a hunter, a fighter. Nothing bad could happen to him. Could it? Hafoc swayed. The forest floor felt unsteady beneath his feet. He watched open-mouthed as a group of men ran into the dark forest, fanning out, slinking silently between the trees. A few of the dogs followed, but most stayed by the fire, pacing back and forth, growling and snarling.
“Hafoc, no!”
Hafoc turned his head slowly and stared as Sceldon marched toward him, his hand outstretched
.
“Stay here, Hafoc.”
“What?” Hafoc blinked and looked around him. Somehow, without being aware of it, he’d walked to the edge of the clearing. He looked down. His knife was in his hand. Good, he thought. I’ve got to go into the forest. I’ve got to help Brond.
Sceldon caught up with him. He reached out and placed his palm on Hafoc’s chest. “Hafoc, listen to me. Stay here. Let other men deal with this.”
Hafoc shook his head. “Brond,” he mumbled.
“Yes,” Sceldon said. “Brond is in trouble. But the best way you can help him is to stay safe with the tribe.”
Hafoc looked back toward the fire, where the women and children were huddled together for safety. A movement at the edge of the firelight drew his attention, and he watched as Nelda trotted toward him. Even the dog knew what had to be done. “No,” he said. He looked Sceldon in the eye. “Brond is my brother. My only kin. I’m going to help him.”
Sceldon said nothing. He studied Hafoc’s face for a moment. “Go,” he said. He stood back. “But keep your eyes open.”
Hafoc nodded. He gripped his knife a little tighter and stepped forward into the forest. And as he slipped into the shadows, he heard the gentle pad of paws rustling through the undergrowth and knew that Brond’s dog had joined him. “Good girl, Nelda,” he whispered. “Good girl.”
He crept forward through the ferns, scanning the forest, staring into the gloom for some sign of the men who’d set off before him. When Brond had left to get firewood, the sky had been almost completely dark. Now, beneath the forest’s dense canopy, Hafoc could barely distinguish the trees from their shadows. And the men don’t know I’ve joined them in the forest, he thought. Hafoc bit his lip. It would be dangerous to creep up on the others unannounced. He paused and waved the dog forward. “Go on, Nelda,” he said. “You can hear them. Go and find them.”
Nelda trotted ahead. She seemed to know where she was going and Hafoc followed. He watched Nelda from the corner of his eye as he stalked forward, glancing nervously from side to side. Soon, he heard the murmur of voices ahead and he knew he’d been right to trust Nelda’s keen senses. Hafoc walked toward the voices, treading carefully among the undergrowth. Oh Brond, what could’ve happened to you? There’d been no shouts of warning, none of the clumsy sounds of a fight. And Brond hadn’t had time to get far from the camp, so why hadn’t they found him yet? Hafoc shook his head. This was all wrong.
Ahead, the men’s voices stopped abruptly. They’d heard something. Hafoc hesitated. When they saw Nelda, would they guess he was following? Maybe not. Hafoc stood still and stared into the shadows. If this was a hunt, he’d know what to do. The tribe had signals, sounds they could make to keep in touch with each other. But this was different. Here, there could be any number of enemies. Here, the tribe were not the hunters, but the prey. Hafoc took a breath and dropped into a half crouch. He crept forward. For all he knew, the men ahead might already be training their arrows on him.
A voice hissed in the darkness: “Hafoc.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it’s me, Hafoc.”
“Come here. Stop making so much noise.”
Hafoc stood tall. What noise? His face grew hot. He hadn’t made a sound. But this was not the time to argue. He walked forward as quietly as he could. And suddenly, there they were. The men stood in silence and watched him as he approached.
Hafoc’s careful footsteps faltered. Even though he could only make out the men’s outlines, Hafoc knew they’d had no luck. There was no sign of Brond’s familiar shape among them. But even worse than that, the group were standing very still, as though they didn’t know what to do, as though they’d given up hope.
A cold knot of fear tightened in Hafoc’s stomach. He took a breath. “Brond?”
One of the men stepped forward. “No. No sign of Brond.”
Hafoc recognised the man’s voice. It was Tostig, one of the best hunters in the tribe.
“What do you mean, no sign?” Hafoc asked. “There has to be a trail.”
Tostig stepped closer and put his hand on Hafoc’s shoulder. “Hafoc, Brond was here. We found the few pieces of firewood he’d gathered. But that’s all we’ve found. No trail. It’s too dark.”
“But… he didn’t just disappear,” Hafoc said. “We’ve got to do something.”
Tostig tightened his grip on Hafoc’s shoulder. “Yes. We’ve got to go back to the tribe and tell Sceldon.”
Hafoc pushed Tostig’s hand from his shoulder. “That will take too long. We can’t—”
But Tostig didn’t let him finish. “We tell Sceldon,” he snapped, “and that’s an end to it.” He pushed past Hafoc and strode away. The other men fell in behind him and Hafoc was left standing in the darkness. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. This could not be happening. People did not just vanish into the air. But he was on his own. What could he do? A roar of frustration rose in his throat but he stifled it, swallowed it down. He had to go back to the tribe. He needed to convince Sceldon to send a search party. But we have to start now, he thought. If we wait until morning it will be too late to save him.
He took his hands away from his face and stood up straight. He must hurry. If Tostig beat him back to the tribe, he’d probably tell Sceldon there was nothing to be done. Hafoc turned back toward the camp, and as he hurried to catch up with the other men, once again he heard the sound of paws trotting quietly along behind him. He smiled grimly. If nothing else, at least Nelda would be on his side.
Hafoc stepped out into the clearing and marched into the camp. Already, a knot of men stood around Sceldon, their faces grim, their arms folded across their chests. It doesn’t look good, Hafoc thought. But they must listen to me. He strode toward the group. “Quick,” he called. “We’ve got to get going. We’ve got to find Brond—get him back.”
Sceldon and Tostig turned to face him, but the other men looked away or at the ground. Sceldon beckoned for him to join them. “Hafoc, Brond is your kin, so you must help us decide.”
Hafoc stopped in front of the group. Was Sceldon just saying that, or were they really going to listen to him? “There’s nothing to decide. We need to find Brond. We need to help him.”
“And if someone has taken him?” Tostig asked. “If the Wandrian have captured him, what then? Do we all just walk into their trap?”
I knew it, Hafoc thought. I knew they wouldn’t care what I think. He furrowed his brow. He wouldn’t let them treat him like a child—he’d make them listen. “We don’t know that it was the Wandrian,” he said. “We don’t know what’s happened to Brond. That’s what we need to find out.”
Another of the men, Sceort, stepped forward. “Brond is a strong fighter, but he did not call out a proper warning to the tribe,” he said. “He must have been taken quickly and that means he was attacked by more than one man—perhaps by a whole raiding party.”
Hafoc formed his hands into fists and tried to control his temper. “If there’d been a lot of men, they’d have left a trail. You’d have seen it.”
“The Wandrian don’t leave a trail,” Tostig said. The other men nodded at this.
Hafoc snorted in disbelief. “If it was the Wandrian, then why didn’t they attack the camp? Why didn’t we see or hear them?”
Tostig raised his voice. “You know nothing,” he spat. “The Wandrian attack only when they can win. They take those who are foolish enough to hunt alone—which you have done today. It is you who has led them to our camp.”
Hafoc stared at them, his eyes wide. Every face wore the same stern expression. They blame me, he thought. Every single one of them thinks I brought the Wandrian to our camp. “No,” he said. “You can’t think that. I walked in with Brond. With Nelda. She’d have smelled them, heard them. She would’ve warned us.”
No one spoke. The men exchanged knowing looks; they would not be surprised if the Wandrian could not even be detected by dogs. Sceldon took a deep breath. “Enough,” he said. “Tostig, you found spi
lled blood? Any of you?”
“A little,” Tostig said. “The dogs found it straight away.”
“That means Brond was not attacked by an animal. More likely he was wounded by an arrow or a club,” Sceldon said.
“That’s right,” Tostig said. A few of the other men grunted in agreement.
“So Brond is still alive,” Sceldon said. “He was taken by a raiding party. Perhaps they were from the Wandrian, perhaps not.”
Tostig opened his mouth to speak, but Sceldon held up a hand to silence him. “A raiding party may be just two men. If there had been a bigger group, they would have made more noise, left a bigger trail. Hafoc is right. A bigger party might even have attacked our camp.”
Tostig shook his head but it looked as though Sceldon hadn’t finished speaking and Tostig knew better than to interrupt.
“So, this is what we will do,” Sceldon continued. “We will send a small scouting party. They will go now and they will find the trail. When they find Brond, they will bring him back if they can. Otherwise, they will return to tell me what has happened.”
“What?” Tostig spluttered. “We’ve lost one man already. Do we send more men to die?”
Sceldon puffed out his chest and took a step toward Tostig. “We send the best hunters we have. We send men who have the courage to do what is right.”
Tostig held his tongue. He looked at the ground, his eyes blazing with anger. The other men looked on, stony-faced. The only sound was the crackling of the fire.
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