by Emmy Ellis
Eggleton’s frown deepened, and he raised a hand to his chin. He stared to his right at the floor, then looked up to stare at the ceiling. “Tonight. Yep, I remember now because I thought it was weird having a barn dance in the week, what with work and whatever the next day. Shit, I need to ring my boss, tell him I won’t be in on time today.”
“That will be taken care of. I’ll ring him for you.”
“Cheers.”
* * * *
“It’s me they want to kill,” Oliver said.
They waited in an unmarked car in the street running parallel to Mr Littleworth’s yard.
The sun was struggling to wake, a blanket of mist pulled up to its chin, and as it peeped over the top, the sky was given a dull iron colour. Mr Littleworth’s employees were due into the yard by six to collect their vans and head out to complete the day’s electrical work. Littleworth was already in, having been abruptly woken by Langham’s call that they were closing in on which employees they needed to question.
“What? Surely you don’t know that for certain.” Langham tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, peering down the road for cars containing the men they sought.
“I do. Things have…changed. I saw them in my head. As they would have been in the barn and warehouse. I…fuck, this is going to sound nuts again.”
Langham waved one hand, imaginary fly swatting. “Go on.”
“I went inside one man’s head. Saw what they have planned. Saw myself, in another barn.”
“Interesting. I still can’t get over this shit. Your shit. Not that it’s shit, but—”
“I know what you mean, what you’re saying. I can’t get over it either.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine wh—”
“You don’t want to.”
“No.” Langham sighed. “So they’re calling them barn dances. Sick fucks.”
A dark-grey Volkswagen Golf turned into the yard, a snort of exhaust fumes gusting out of the tailpipe.
“Emissions. Should pull him up for that,” Langham said.
“Hardly top priority.”
“No.”
A black Ford Focus followed the Golf.
“Nice motor.” Langham stopped tapping.
“I’ll go with it,” Oliver said.
“Go with what?”
“Whatever these men have planned. Be available when they…get me. You lot can keep tabs. Follow.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But what if they don’t show up today?” Oliver swallowed. “What if—”
“Then you stick by my side until we find them.”
Oliver mulled over what might be happening inside the office in Littleworth’s yard. The beefy man had been instructed not to let anyone leave once they arrived for work, then, when everyone was present, he was to ring Langham’s mobile so they could go in. Several more cars and a couple of small vans swerved through the gateway then parked, men spilling out of them and entering the office. Ordinary men, most of them anyway, with a couple of crazies sprinkled in for good measure. But that was life, wasn’t it? All right, not everyone had a penchant for killing, but amongst the average were those with a difference, their minds not working the same as everyone else’s, and that was what made up the world. Maybe eighty percent normal, twenty percent nuts.
Langham’s phone trilled, and he answered. “Right. I see. Let them go, get on with their day. I’ll get someone else posted out here.” He ended the call and dialled a number. “Langham. Officers needed outside Littleworth’s. No, just to sit and watch. Men need sending out to those addresses I left on my desk—might catch the bastards before they get up. Yep. I’ll wait here. Let me know when you’ve brought them in.” He nodded, jabbed the END CALL button, then turned to Oliver. “Fucking no-shows. Should have known. Thought they’d have acted as usual, though. Still, we’ll get them. Three men calling in to work, all supposedly sick. Not good.”
“No.” Oliver’s stomach rolled over. “Not good at all.”
Chapter Twelve
Adam rested his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. It had been a hard day. The long soak he’d had in the bath hadn’t done too badly in easing his stretched muscles, but it hadn’t completely made the soreness fade away. He felt himself sinking into sleep and welcomed that weird sensation where he floated between awake and oblivion.
“What the fuck?” Nervous laughter. “Shit, you scared me!”
Adam was shocked to have Oliver Banks’ voice in his head and nearly opened his eyes and sat forward. A sliver of unease crept out of the crevices in his mind. He opened his mouth to call out to Dane who was in the kitchen cooking. The only thing that emerged was a gargle of sound.
A muted scuffle, then the unmistakeable chill of something being wrong filled Adam.
“Mr Banks?” A rush of relief came after he’d spoken, churning with the chill. “That you?” He felt stupid asking when he knew damn well who it was, even more stupid that if Dane came in it would look like he’d been talking to himself.
Minutes passed with no contact.
“Aww, fuck. Adam, you can hear me?”
“Yes! What’s happening?”
“I need… You have to get hold of Langham. They’ve got me.”
“Who’s got you?”
“The fucking barn men!”
“Oh Jesus. Dane! Dane, come here, quickly.”
“What? What’s wrong?” Dane asked, hurtling in.
“Mr Banks…he’s talking to me. The barn men have got him. Ring the police. That Langham fella.”
“What? And say what?”
“Just tell him what I said, for fuck’s sake.”
Adam closed his eyes. There came the beeps of phone buttons being pressed, the tone an annoying pressure on his nerves.
“I’m in a car. A Golf. Moss green. Number plate starting with W and ending KMP. Number 6, I saw that. Bald men, two in front, one next to me. Going full tilt towards you—Lower Repton. I’ll let you know if we go past your place. They’re talking about a barn. Won’t be the last one they used—police presence still there. Fuck. Coming up to the cottages.”
“Our cottage?” Adam gave an almighty heave forward and propelled himself off the sofa.
He opened his eyes and staggered out into the hallway, lurching to the front door, aware of Dane following, phone to his ear, relating what Adam was doing. Adam told him the number plate, the make and colour of the car. He swiped for the door handle, missing several times in his panic before he found purchase, wrapping his fingers around it and turning. He tugged on the door, swinging it open, stumbled out into the night, going down the path. The rumble of a vehicle’s approach sounded as he finally made it onto the street, his breaths heaving out of him.
Where the fuck was the police protection when he needed it? Maybe it was shift change, maybe they’d decided protection wasn’t needed, but shit, it bloody well was. Why hadn’t they been informed that no one would be outside in a car keeping an eye on them? Or had Langham ordered their babysitter to drive in the direction Oliver was coming from in order to waylay them before they got this far?
The green Golf sped past in a blur, no other car following, and Adam raised an arm, waving at it slowly—as if him doing that would make the driver stop. The taillights, two bastard, bright-red rectangular eyes, mocked him, growing smaller, the car creating distance between him and it at startling speed.
“You just went past! Dane, Mr Banks just went past in that car!” His voice sounded like a forty-five on thirty-three rpm, low and distorted, weird as fuck.
“Jesus, they’re going too fast. We’re going to… Get off me! Let me see!”
“Mr Banks?” Adam slurred.
“I can’t see. Blindfold. We’re slowing. Taking a right. Ground uneven—car’s jostling. Potholes. You got that?”
“You turned right. Onto a track. Potholes. Dane, tell Langham. Tell him.”
“Jesus, Adam, you’re freaking me the fuck out,” Dane said.
&
nbsp; “Just do it.”
Adam ran down the street. Frustration bubbled inside him, and he tumbled forward, landing on his knees. Pain shot into his legs, and he absently knew his skin would have angry red scrapes when he investigated them later. He got up, legging it, reaching the last cottage in the row then going past it, stepping into the road where the pathway ended. Dane’s heavy breathing and stuttered commentating behind him let Adam know he was still on the phone, and he felt calmer for that. Help would be on the way, and knowing this spurred him to focus on the road ahead and pace himself so he didn’t burn out before he found Mr Banks.
He judged, from the time lapse between him seeing the Golf and Mr Banks telling him the car had made a turn, that he would be nearing the track soon. But the speed the car had been going—there were two right-hand turns along here. Which one was it? He pushed on, lungs burning, the whip of the cold air freezing his ears. His feet ached already—he wasn’t one for exercise—and his thigh muscles protested with the sharp stab of cramp threatening to make his legs useless. A stitch jabbed his left side, and he raised a hand to cover the area, knowing it would do jack shit in easing the pain, the reflex natural.
The first right-hand turn appeared around a slight bend, and he sped across to it—smooth, newly laid asphalt. He took a chance and carried on.
Dane called out, his voice reedy and thin, and Adam didn’t need to glance over his shoulder to know he was lagging far behind. The sound of another vehicle broke through the ragged breaths in his head, and the sight of a car coming towards him gave Adam hope at first, which switched to dread when he considered the fact it might be the Golf coming back. He darted into the hedgerow, the ends of branches harsh on his bare arms, scratching. The vehicle glided past, a male driver with a female passenger inside, paying Adam no mind.
Relieved, he came out of the hedges then ran on, a road sign way too far in the distance for his liking. When they drove it didn’t seem far at all from Lower Repton to here, but running was a different matter. He remembered the sign read Mereton Marsh and shouted the information back to Dane, not stopping to check if he’d heard or not. Mr Banks being silent was playing on his mind. Had he lost the psychic thread?
“Mr Banks?” he panted out, throat sore from the cold air, his chest tight, a band of strength squeezing. “Can you…can you hear me?”
With no response, Adam battled with the rise of panic spreading through him. He needed to remain focused, not let fear have the upper hand. He trudged on, the road sign seeming to remain far away, and prayed harder than he’d ever prayed before.
Chapter Thirteen
Oliver was grabbed by the arm and pulled out of the car onto soft ground. It sprang beneath his feet—he’d take a guess at it being grass. He dragged in a deep breath, and the cold air seemed to freeze his lungs. Fear played a factor—he was rigid with it, knowing, because he’d had that vision, that he had a way to go before he got to where he’d seen himself bound and ready for slaughter. Part of him wished they’d just take him there now, get it all over and done with so he didn’t have to hold back the piss that threatened to soak his legs. The other part…well, he didn’t want to move at all, could do with stalling for as long as he could so help would arrive before anything happened.
He was tugged forward, the grip on his arm hard and relentless, his skin pinched between what he could only imagine was a finger and thumb. Whoever had hold of him took pleasure in squeezing, and he bit back the urge to call them wankers for giving him sharp, nipping zaps of pain. He stumbled, righting himself quickly while counting his footsteps. He reached only seven, then the ground changed to a harder substance, and if they’d taken him to a barn like he’d thought, then he imagined he stood on concrete surrounding the structure. There were no pebbles, nothing to tell him what else it could be.
A deep wail of sound penetrated his ears, the vibrations unnerving and sinister. Door hinges bemoaning being used. Someone prodded him in the back. He lurched forward, flailing his free arm to brace himself if he fell, but managed to remain on both feet. The air changed, the scent of it, less the freshness of outdoors and more the interior of a stable.
Bumps crackled under his shoes—hay, had to be—and he was released, the disappearance of that hold a small mercy. His skin throbbed as if the biting fingers were still there, and he imagined bruises would leave their ugly, plum-coloured marks by morning.
Would he be alive to see them, or would Hank be the one examining them while Oliver lay cold on the slab? Hank, who could determine that those bruises would have been made while Oliver was still alive.
That thought gave him extra chills, standing alone more so, in a place he couldn’t see. The loss of his sight had been anticipated—Thomas and Jason had been treated to the same, hadn’t they. He’d fallen into the trap of trusting someone he knew, even though that person had crept up on him while he’d been standing outside the station taking a breath of fresh air, waiting for Langham to finish work so he’d get a lift home. And who would suspect an abduction outside a cop shop anyway? Who would be so brazen as to walk over and bundle you into a van with the risk of being spotted by a member of the force?
He listened for signs of what would happen next, although he knew. If they played this one the same as they had the others, he’d be stripped naked soon, told to do as they asked and placed centre stage. That humming would begin. Once that started, his time was limited. Adam and Dane had said the hum had gone on for maybe five minutes until the whipping.
Oliver surmised he had about half an hour of living left.
That sobered him further.
Something coarse—rope?—brushed his hand. He shivered, wincing by instinct in case they decided they were going to hit him. No blow came, nothing but the prickly awareness that they stood close, watching him, gearing themselves up for the treat to come. And it was a treat to them, the highlight of their lives maybe.
His arms were wrenched backwards, wrists held together by the itchy material. His ankles were bound, too, scuppering any chance he might have at escaping. He was a little off balance, and he concentrated on getting used to standing with his feet so close together.
“Stay,” a man said, his voice deep and chilling and calm. “Stay.”
It sobered him yet again, and he forced himself to make his body and mind relax.
Silence loitered around him—maybe the men had gone off to get undressed and discuss the final plans on how they’d kill him, who the fuck knew—but the air held an edge of expectancy. It sizzled around him, menacing, too there for his liking. He ignored it and concentrated on a speck of white, twinkling light in the distance, like the spiky pattern of a hand-held sparkler on bonfire night. It grew in width as he stared, and he wondered if it was the heart of his new gift, the energy he needed to tap in to in order to see the future or reach out to speak to people like Adam.
“Adam?”
His voice lacked strength; it wouldn’t have got through. He projected information to Adam instead, reminding himself of what he’d told the young man. The number plate. The make and colour of the car. Where it had headed. It struck him then that even though there was meant to still be a police presence at the other barn, there couldn’t have been. It was so close to this one, albeit on the other side of the road and maybe half a mile away, but if Adam had passed on the information, Oliver should be hearing sirens about now—or, if the police had decided against audio announcing their presence, at least the crack-snap-crack of tyres outside and the hum of car engines.
There was nothing but the sound of his breathing and the beating of his heart.
“Adam!”
In his mind, free and unshackled there, he ran towards the sparkle of light until it was as tall as he was, all serrated, writhing sparks with a circle of intense whiteness at its centre. Heat came off it, not too hot but enough to warm his face, and energy rustled in the air between him and the light. He inhaled it, the burn travelling into his lungs, and the heat went to work there, too, expandi
ng, growing in strength until his cheeks blazed and he buzzed with other-worldly power. He was as hot as he’d been when finding Thomas Brentworth strung up on that red metal girder.
“Adam! What’s happening? Is anyone on their way?”
The pant of heavy breathing came, and it took a second or two for him to realise it wasn’t himself or the men but Adam.
“Yes! Dane’s…following… Got a few hundred feet to… Soon…”
Oliver filled in the blanks, relief scouring through him, and he relaxed his muscles a bit, smoothing the edge off the pain in his shoulders and neck that had been growing steadily since he’d been taken out of the vehicle. A snap of sound to his left had him tensing again, though, and the full force of the pain came hurtling back, only stronger, with more venom. If he could just get through the next few minutes he’d be saved. Providing Adam had taken the correct turn.
“Can you see the barn, Adam?”
The shuffle of feet.
“Adam!”
Hot breath fanned his cheek, sour-smelling, alcohol-laced. That was a revelation. Neither Adam nor Dane had mentioned the fact that the men had seemed drunk, just that they’d had glazed eyes.
“Adam! Can you see the fucking barn?” The hairs on the back of Oliver’s neck stood at attention. “Please say you can fucking hear me, Adam. Can you see—”
“Yes! I see it. Up on a rise. A car—several cars—some light coming through, maybe a doorway?”
A tug to his T-shirt hem and the sound of material slicing had Oliver’s stomach rolling over, but he held firm, half in this world, half in the other, holding on to that invisible ribbon that bound him to Adam. It could fray at any time. His T-shirt was removed, and the cold steel of scissor blades skirted up his legs, his jeans and boxers cut away. The cold attacked his skin immediately, and he shivered, conscious of his cock dangling, free for them to inspect.
“Argh!”
That word from Adam was accompanied by the sound of bumps and scuffles, much like listening to someone dropping the phone while you waited for them to pick it up again and resume your conversation.