“You couldn’t see his face.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you were telling him about the van. He had his head down.”
As she said it, he’d replayed the scene in his mind. She was right. He and Oakes had been standing up, but Tanya had been sitting close to Martin. She would have been the only one to see his face.
“What happened?”
Her hand slipped into his, and gripped it tightly. “He was frightened.”
* * *
They didn’t go out much these days. Finances were a constraint, but so was the fact that they hadn’t built up a circle of friends since they moved up here. Even if they had the opportunity, neither felt inclined to leave the house unattended.
As evening passed, they waited. The television was on, but neither of them were watching it. They were too distracted, listening out for the kitchen door – or the sound of a van coming into the yard. They even talked to each other. At one point, Ian reflected that maybe something good had come out of this situation.
In recent times, they had taken to sitting separately. Ian had his armchair and Tanya had hers. To sit on the sofa was clearly too much of a risk for either of them to take. It invited companionship. But that was what Tanya had done when she first came into the living room, a gesture Ian had acknowledged by joining her and leaving his hand free for her to hold if she wanted.
Considering the years they’d been together, it was awkward. But he was aware that they both welcomed it too. In Tanya’s case, he knew she was afraid. But, more than that, he suspected that feeling was aggravated by her awareness that it was she who had brought Martin into their home. He didn’t have any answers that could reassure her, so he satisfied himself with offering unspoken comfort.
As it grew later, and more likely that their guest would return, Ian would have liked Tanya to go to bed, out of the way. Then he could talk to Martin without her around. He had already worked out that Martin was more comfortable one to one. But he also knew that she wouldn’t be happy about being on her own. She needed company for now. He contemplated asking her to leave when Martin did come in. Contemplated it, but didn’t say anything. His fears had nothing to do with dog murderers and van thieves. They were about rejection. For tonight, he could hold her hand and be close to her. His own uncertainties lay snugly with their relationship, and he was afraid of what he might find if he faced that head on.
It was after midnight when they heard the engine. It didn’t stop running, just idled for a few seconds, then they heard it rise in volume again as it went away. A moment later the kitchen door clattered open and closed again.
Squeezing his wife’s hand, Ian stood up. He gestured to her to stay where she was. This was his compromise. He was going to head Martin off and talk to him in the kitchen. That way, he didn’t have to risk rejection.
The kitchen was empty when he got there. A light shone in the passageway that led down to the guest room. By the time he reached the doorway, he could see the bedroom door was closing.
“Martin?” He was relieved that his voice didn’t sound too wary.
The door opened again, and a weary figure appeared, his face drawn, almost pale.
“You okay?” Ian asked tentatively.
His houseguest gave him a wry smile. “Not really.”
“Want to talk about it?”
A shake of the head. “Not really.” Then he made a show of looking at his watch. “I’m sorry I’m so late. It’s very inconsiderate of me. I hope you haven’t stayed up just for me.”
Ian opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly found he didn’t know what to say. He had lots of questions to ask. After all, he’d been thinking about them all afternoon and evening. But Martin looked completely shattered, ready to collapse. Maybe now wasn’t the time.
“We should talk in the morning,” he said eventually. It wasn’t perfect, but at least he was making it clear that he wasn’t going to ignore the situation.
Leaning against the doorframe, Martin nodded his understanding. “We will,” he assured him. Then he raised his hand in a parody of a wave, and disappeared into his room.
“Let’s hope so,” Ian murmured to himself, as he turned to go back to Tanya. She wasn’t going to be very happy about the continued uncertainty. He just hoped he could convince her of what he had just seen. They weren’t in any danger from him tonight. That man was in no fit state to do anything other than sleep.
Thirteen
Sleep was the last thing on Martin’s mind. He wanted it. His body would have welcomed it. But his mind was elsewhere.
A myriad of thoughts tumbled around his head. The reason for coming back to the village fluttered in and out as he pondered over what he should do. When he’d left Gran Canaria, he didn’t have a clear plan, but he did know what he wanted to achieve. More sleepless nights hadn’t been on the list.
He didn’t try to sleep. There was no point. He knew from years of experience that the harder he tried, the harder it was to drop off. The best he could hope for was some rest. So he allowed his body to gradually relax, starting at his extremities, methodically easing the tension out. To a point, anyway. It was impossible to let it all go. When certain images flashed across his mind; when the memory of sensations scampered over his flesh; when the voices played back in his head, then the tension crept up on him. Unnoticed at first, until he’d realise that his fists were clenched, or he was grinding his teeth. The process would begin again. Fingertips and toes to start, followed by his hands and wrists, his feet and ankles. Slowly letting his body relax once more.
It was a cycle he would repeat all night. He knew that in advance. At some point, he might sleep, probably for only minutes at a time. If he was lucky, it might stretch out to half an hour. That had been his past experience. Somehow, he doubted he would be fortunate enough to achieve that tonight. Nightmares had kept him awake before. Memories of a distant past. Or so it had seemed. Those had been sufficient to leave him troubled, spending his nights staring into the darkness and wondering about how things had gone so badly wrong.
This was different. The distant past didn’t seem so far away. Perhaps he had confused distance in miles with the passage of time.
With his return to Ravens Gathering, he’d hoped to lay some ghosts to rest. It seemed that there were more phantoms than he’d imagined. Maybe even poltergeists. Certainly his encounter with Adam Hawthorn had left him battered and bruised.
Moonlight filtered through the edges of the curtains. Shadows stirred across the bedroom wall. He knew it would be possible to see all kinds of shapes among them. There was no point in trying to. Not unless he planned to get no rest at all. He closed his eyes.
Sometimes that was worse. At least the things you could see were a distraction from your thoughts. They didn’t take your mind off things altogether, but they could blur the edges. He tried to focus on his fingers and toes again. It worked for a while. Then he knew he had to open his eyes. Another cycle. Another technique he’d developed over the years.
There were times when he got up. Whenever he rented a new room or apartment, he tried to get one with a table. That hadn’t always been the case. But he’d realised that, when sleep was impossible, it often helped if he could write down all the things that were going through his head. As if, by putting those things on paper, he was physically extracting them from his mind and laying them out. It was like taking an engine apart when it wasn’t working. With all the component parts laid out on the ground, you could see them all clearly. You could find the part – or parts – that were causing the problem, fix them, and then put them all back together again. But he’d found that sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched up over a notebook didn’t help that process. A table or a desk was better.
On many occasions, he had spent an hour, or more often two, writing frantically, pouring his thoughts, his troubles, his fears out on to paper. Then he’d crawl back into bed and sleep like a baby. He knew instinctively that no amount of writing w
ould help him tonight.
At night, with no distractions, minor concerns could become major problems. And putting those problems into black and white could provide perspective. Right now, he knew he already had perspective. Minor concerns and major problems would be welcome right now.
So he turned to the question that kept surfacing. Should he leave?
He’d expected trouble. Hell, he’d planned on it. But he hadn’t expected it to take this form. And he hadn’t anticipated the direction from which it would come.
It was clear that his family didn’t want him back. Not that he’d intended to return for good. But they obviously wanted him out of their lives as rapidly as possible. A few hours ago, he’d been ready to press them for answers, wanted to know why. Now he wasn’t so sure he did. It wasn’t worth all this aggravation. Police, accusations, threats against him. And more.
Oh, yes. Much more.
But he didn’t want to dwell on that. If he left in the morning, he wouldn’t have to.
The luminous dial of the alarm clock told him it was after two. Nearly five hours before sunrise, at least six before the first bus left the village. He could be in Westfield by nine. On a train by half past. Out of the county before ten. He hadn’t planned his departure, but he was still pretty confident he could be out of the country by mid-afternoon. If he hired a car rather than relying on public transport, he might even be flying by midday. It wouldn’t be a cheap exit strategy, but money wasn’t his main motivation right now.
So he could move quickly. He just couldn’t start moving yet.
And yet... There was part of him that didn’t want to run. Demons were there to be faced. Perhaps he should do just that. Because one day he might have to do it anyway. Running away from them would only defer it.
He let out a long breath, surprisingly noisy in the still of the night. Focus on the extremities, he told himself, conscious of the tension rising inside him again.
Then he heard another noise. Louder than his breathing. It was coming from outside.
At first he tried to ignore it. Kidding himself, he reflected later. Pretending it wasn’t there, that it had nothing to do with him. It was only when he became aware of the tremor in his hands that he knew he had to make a decision.
It was an engine. Diesel by the sound of it. Distant, but getting closer. It wasn’t noisy. If he’d been asleep, it wouldn’t have disturbed him.
Twenty to three, the clock told him. Since coming to bed, he’d been wanting to get up. Now, when he knew he really had to, his only inclination was to stay exactly where he was.
The engine was moving away now. Still close, but it had passed the house. Steeling himself, he pushed the duvet back. It took a few seconds before he could bring himself to sit up. A few more until his feet touched the floor. But then momentum took over. Jeans, sweatshirt and trainers were quickly pulled on, then he was out into the hallway.
It might have been because he’d moved out of the bedroom, but he couldn’t hear the engine any more. He hurried. He’d been afraid to act, but now he was up he didn’t want it to be in vain.
The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was in darkness. He paused long enough to recall where the table and chairs were. It would have been better to allow his eyes to adjust, but he didn’t have enough time. He headed for the door, guessing where the furniture was, and giving it a wide berth. The key was in the lock. He turned it, grimacing as the inner workings of the locking mechanism ground together. It was unlikely that it would be heard by whoever was responsible for the engine, but he didn’t want to disturb anyone else in the house.
During the day, with all of the other background noise, the sound of a door knob turning would go unnoticed. In the dead of night, it was a different matter. Martin winced as it squealed under his hand. As he pulled the door inwards, he glanced over his shoulder. He was looking for any sign that he may have been heard – the dim glow of light from upstairs, perhaps. Instead, he found the silhouette of a man only a couple of feet behind him.
Fourteen
“What the hell’s going on?”
Martin had been bracing himself, expecting the shadowy figure to lash out at him, or grab him by the throat. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine Ian doing that. Recognising his voice, he felt the increased tension ease a little. Faint movement caught his eye and he reached out to catch Ian’s arm.
“Don’t!”
“Why the hell not? What are you hiding?”
“Us. From whoever’s outside.”
Something in his tone must have struck a chord with Ian, because he relaxed his arm, let it fall away from the light switch he had been stretching for.
“What are you doing up?” Martin asked.
“I thought I heard something, so I came down to investigate.”
Someone else who had been having trouble sleeping then.
“So what’s going on?” Ian continued.
“I don’t know for sure. I heard an engine outside.” He hesitated for a moment, unsure how much he should tell Ian. Time was against him, though, so he made a decision. “After what happened today, I wondered if it might be the van coming back.” It was a plausible enough answer, he reckoned.
“What were you going to do?”
“Go out and have a look. If it is the van, we can call the police.”
“I’ll come with you.” He said it without missing a beat. “Let me just grab some boots and a coat.”
“I’m not sure we’ve got time for that...” But Ian was already half way across the kitchen, heading for the annexe.
In a way, he was relieved about the delay. It might mean they were too late, which could be a good thing. After all, with Ian being involved now, there was an additional risk to going out and confronting the driver of the vehicle.
But the delay was brief. Less than half a minute later, Ian was back with him, a Barbour jacket and wellington boots on. The prolonged time spent in the kitchen had given Martin’s eyes time to adjust, and he could make out more. He could even see that Ian was still wearing pyjamas under his coat. Not ideal clothing if they met up with any resistance.
They opened the door carefully, keeping the noise to a minimum. The rubber soles of the trainers and wellies barely made any sound as they crossed the yard.
The engine had either stopped before they came outside, or it had moved on to another place. If he hadn’t already heard it, he might have doubted himself. At night, it’s possible for sounds to appear to come from directions other than where they have actually originated. So he did wonder if perhaps the engine noise had carried from the main road. Maybe it was just his imagination working overtime.
As they headed towards the gate, Martin thought he caught a glimpse of something moving on the track that ran past the entrance to the yard. It was close to the hedge that ran along the opposite side, so it was very indistinct – it might even have just been part of the greenery swaying under the night breeze. The low clouds overhead didn’t help, cutting the moonlight to a minimum. Ian didn’t comment on it, which made Martin think he was probably imagining things.
When they reached the gate, they leaned over the top of it, looking up and down the track for any signs of activity. None were apparent.
Leaning in close to Ian, Martin said: “Let’s go.”
They opened the gate as quietly as they could, then made their way carefully up the track. If there was someone up at the barn, it was possible they could come back this way, so Martin pulled them to the side nearest the hedge. It offered more shelter and shadow, and would be easier to hide against than the brick wall on the other side.
Well, that was the plan. Until a gap in the clouds passed under the moon, illuminating the whole track and leaving nowhere to hide. Instinctively – though on reflection rather stupidly – they pressed themselves further back against the hedge. Thorns caught on their clothes, snagging the fabric. Fortunately, none penetrated the skin.
Feeling like a prisoner caught in a searchlight as he made a break
for it, Martin turned his head from side to side. Perhaps similarly to the prisoner, he was looking to see if anyone had spotted him. What he saw instead was the backs of two men. They were next to each other, and walking down the track, away from the farm. Because of the angle of the track, he could only see them from the waist up. And almost immediately, even that view was diminished, as they gradually descended.
He looked at Ian. Unlike Martin, he hadn’t reacted as if he was afraid of being caught. He was taking the opportunity to look in the direction they were going, and then at the track in front of them. Martin hesitated, wondering whether to tell Ian or not. He glanced back, but the figures had already disappeared. The decision was made for him.
“Look!” It was Ian, voice low.
Martin followed the direction of his finger. Although it had been sunny here since he’d arrived, he had noticed signs of recent rainfall. The more sheltered paths and tracks still had puddles and pools of dirty water, especially those that were filled with ruts and holes. A few yards ahead of them, just beyond one of those puddles, there was a clear imprint of a fresh tyre track. Not that Martin needed any further evidence. He nodded at Ian.
“We’d better get this over and done with.” He knew his words and tone must have seemed odd, even without the puzzled look Ian gave him.
Safe in the knowledge that there would be no one waiting for them now, he moved out into the centre of the track and started walking. Ian followed. The walk to the outbuildings took less than a minute.
“Which one is it?” Martin asked.
Ian pointed to the two large doors.
“I’ll let you open it,” Martin told him.
“Thanks.” There was more than a touch of irony, but Martin ignored it. He knew they were both safe for now. Whoever opened the door would be in no more danger than the other. It was just more practical for Ian to do it. He knew what he was doing.
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