by C. J. Tudor
“Waiting for something?”
He jumped. Or rather, he didn’t. He started, wobbled and grabbed at the railing to steady himself.
“Fuck!”
“Didn’t mean to make you jump.” The man chuckled. “Unless that’s what you want.”
Gabe turned his head. The wind grabbed and snagged at his hair with icy fingers. He felt his eyes water and blur. Slowly, his vision drew into focus.
A tall, thin figure stood behind him. All black. Jacket, jeans, hat. Skin. Just the thinnest rim of white around his eyes. Gabe had no idea where he had come from. He hadn’t heard another car approach. Insanely, Gabe wondered if the man was an angel, come to visit him at the moment of his death, or maybe it was the other way round and he was a demon, come to drag him down to hell.
He giggled, a mad, shivering thing that dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
The man continued to stand and look at him, placidly, hands stuck in his pockets. He looked like he might just stand there all night.
“Something funny, man?”
“No,” Gabe shook his head. “No. This is pretty fucking serious.”
“Killing yourself is a pretty fucking serious business.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m a good listener.”
“I’m a man of few words.”
A chuckle. Deep, throaty. “Got away with them, though.”
“I used to be a writer.”
“Yeah? What did you write?”
“Lies, mostly.”
“Honesty is overrated.”
“Especially in advertising.”
“You worked in advertising? Sounds interesting.”
Gabe smiled. “This won’t work.”
“What?”
“Trying to get me to talk about myself. Distract me. Stop me from jumping.”
“Can’t blame a brother for trying.”
“No. No, I can’t.”
“So you gonna do it?”
“Yeah.”
“Nothing I can say to stop you?”
“No.”
“Any final words?”
“Always look on the bright side of life?”
“Life’s a piece of shit, right?”
“Wouldn’t have had you down as a Python fan.”
“Oh, I’m full of surprises.”
The man pulled his hands out of his pockets. One held a gun. He pointed it at Gabe.
“Do it.”
“What the fuck?!”
“You want to die, go on. Jump.”
He moved closer. Gabe gripped the railing tighter.
“Wait—”
“For what?”
“I—”
So close now Gabe could smell him. Expensive aftershave, mints and metal. Gun metal, he thought wildly. The man pressed the gun into his side.
“Jump. Or I will kill you.”
“No!”
“No?”
“Don’t kill me.”
The man stared at him. No light in those eyes. Gabe’s heart pounded. Sweat was gathering on his palms. The wind was buffeting him back and forth. He wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer.
The man held out his other hand. “Get down.”
Gabe hesitated for a moment. Then he grabbed the proffered hand and swung himself back over the railing. His legs gave almost immediately, all strength evaporating. He slid down, until he was sitting on the ground with his back against the railing. He couldn’t stop shivering. He wrapped his arms around his body and started to cry.
The man sat down beside him. He waited until the tears had dried. Then he said: “Talk.”
Gabe talked—about Izzy, the night he saw her taken. About his grief, his torment, losing Jenny. About spending his days and nights driving up and down the motorway, searching. About his desperation. About how he couldn’t see any end to the torment. And then he told him more. Stuff he had never told anyone else before, not even Jenny. He told the stranger with the gun everything.
When he had finished, the man said: “Give me your phone.”
Gabe pulled out his phone and handed it over. The man tapped in a number.
“Any time you need help, you call me. I will look out for you. I’ll look out for your little girl, too.”
“You believe me?”
“I’ve seen a lot of strange things. The strangest things are often true.”
He stood and held out his hand again. Gabe took it and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.
“You’re not done yet,” the man told him. “When you are, you’ll know.”
He turned and walked away, to a car parked further down the bridge. An angel, Gabe thought. Yeah, right. And then something occurred to him.
“Wait!”
The man paused, looked back.
“You never told me your name?”
The man smiled, flashing very white teeth, one inlaid with a small stone. “I got a lot of names—but some people call me the Samaritan.”
“Right. Cool.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“So that’s what you do? Hang around motorway bridges saving people’s lives?”
The smile snapped off. Gabe felt a sudden chill enter his bones.
“I don’t save them all.”
* * *
—
THE CAFÉ WAS a small, shed-like building set back from the road on what looked like an abandoned building site. Gabe had passed it a few times. The road led to an out-of-town trading estate he occasionally visited for supplies.
He had always thought the place was closed, perhaps about to be demolished. It didn’t even have a name, simply the word “Café” daubed clumsily on the wood in red paint, which had run a bit, like blood. Two cars sat outside, one of which was missing its wheels.
Even the sign hanging inside the door read “Closed.” However, when Gabe pushed it, skirting the debris and broken bricks which formed a pathway, it gave with a painful groan.
Inside, the light was so dim it took his eyes a moment to adjust. Tables were arranged in rows on either side of a small, square room. A serving hatch and kitchen lurked at the back. Lights glowed dimly. Only one other patron sat at a far table in the corner, almost blending in with the shadows.
Gabe had spent a while driving before he made the call, turning thoughts over and over in his head, kneading them like dough. Could he go to the police with the photo, or would they simply dismiss him, make the right noises then file his statement in the shredder? He could already hear their calm, patronizing tones.
You’re suggesting that your father-in-law faked a morgue photograph?
Isn’t it more likely you’re mistaken? The cat must have scratched your daughter another morning.
And then the Samaritan’s voice: It ain’t proof.
No, he thought. Proof lay with the decomposing sludge of the man in the car. He held all the answers, but the only thing he was giving away was noxious gas. That just left the Bible and the notebook. The Other People. What the hell did it mean, if anything? Were the underlined passages and the words he found in the notebook connected or was he trying to link needles in a self-made haystack?
Who could he ask? Not the police. And then a thought prodded him in the gut.
There was one person who probably knew more than the police about criminal activity, the darker side of life. If anyone knew what those three words meant, he would.
Gabe walked over to him. “You invite me to all the best places.”
The Samaritan glanced up. In the dim lighting, his eyes looked like empty holes. “Don’t knock it. This is my place.”
“You own it?”
“Cal
l it my retirement fund.”
The Samaritan must have caught Gabe’s dubious look.
“It’s a work in progress.”
Gabe couldn’t help wondering if it was more about a work in money-laundering, but he knew better than to say anything. He never asked questions about the Samaritan’s business or his life. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like the answers. And it didn’t take much of a leap to assume that a man who worked at night, carried a gun, lurked around deserted woods and refused to divulge his real name wasn’t exactly Santa Claus.
Besides, the Samaritan was a friend, of sorts. Perhaps the only friend Gabe had. And who was he to judge? We’re all capable of good and bad. Very few of us show our real faces to the world. For fear that the world might stare back and scream.
“So, can I get a coffee?”
“If you make it. “Kettle on the side. Instant in the cupboard to your left. There ain’t any milk.”
Gabe walked behind the counter, flicked on the kettle, located two grimy mugs in the sink and added the coffee and hot water. He stirred with a stained spoon from the drainer and brought the coffees back to the table.
“I can see you’re going high end.”
The Samaritan didn’t break a smile.
“You wanted to talk about the Other People.”
So it was straight down to business. Sometimes, Gabe wondered if his perception of their friendship was more one-sided than he cared to admit.
“You’ve heard the name?”
“How did you hear it?”
Gabe fumbled in his bag and took out the notebook. He showed the Samaritan the page with the traced words.
“I found it written here. I wasn’t sure if it meant anything, but…”
“Burn it.”
“What?”
“Take the notebook, burn it and forget you ever saw those words.”
Gabe stared at the Samaritan. It was the first time he had ever seen him anything less than composed. He was almost—and the idea seemed scarcely believable—rattled. The thought disturbed him.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you do not want to go anywhere near that shit, trust me.”
“I do if it will help me find Izzy.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You were sure you wanted to jump, too.”
“This is different.”
“It really ain’t.”
“I told you, I always thought Harry must have been mistaken about the identification. Now I’m sure he deliberately lied. He’s still lying. He may even know who took Izzy. But I don’t have any proof. If this is somehow connected, if it can help me make sense of anything, I need to know.”
Another long pause. The Samaritan picked up his coffee and took a sip. He sighed.
“You heard of the Dark Web?”
Gabe felt his skin bristle. Of course he had. Every parent or relative who has lost someone would, at some point, hear about the Dark Web. The vast sub-surface of the internet, encompassing everything that’s not crawled by conventional search engines. The hidden place beneath the sheen of the official Web.
It was often used by people who simply didn’t trust the normal Web. But it was also used by those who wished to operate outside of the law. Like any deep, dark place, it was where the filth and sediment settled. Child porn. Pedophilia websites. Even snuff movies.
It was the place that every parent who has lost a child feared they might end up. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t that difficult to access. You just needed something called a Tor bundle (a way of hiding your ISP). But once in, you needed to know what you were looking for. Specific links that might just be a cluster of random letters and numbers. It was a bit like searching for a house without a number, street name or key in a neighborhood full of dead-end streets and locked, steel-reinforced doors behind which who knew what horrors lurked.
“Yes,” he said eventually. “I’ve heard of it.”
“It’s where you’ll find the Other People.”
“It’s a website?”
“More a community where you can connect with like-minded people.”
“What sort of like-minded people?”
“People who have lost loved ones.”
Gabe frowned. That wasn’t what he had expected.
“So why is it on the Dark Web?”
“Imagine the police found the person who killed your wife, kidnapped your daughter. Imagine that he gets off, on a technicality. He’s walking around out there, guilty as hell. What are you going to do?”
“I’d probably want to kill him.”
The Samaritan nodded. “But you wouldn’t. Because you’re not a killer. So, you feel angry, powerless, helpless. Lots of people feel like that. Maybe a guy raped your daughter but the police say it was consensual. Maybe a driver mowed down your mum but all that happens is he loses his license. Maybe a doctor is negligent and your child dies but he just gets a slap on the wrist. Life ain’t fair. Ordinary people don’t always get justice.
“Now imagine someone offers you a chance to put that right. A way to make those people pay, make them hurt like you do. You never get your hands dirty. You’ll never be connected.”
Gabe’s throat felt dry. He took a sip of coffee. “So it’s a place where you can hire vigilantes, hitmen?”
“In a way. Some of the people involved are professionals. But money rarely changes hands. It’s more like payment in kind. Quid pro quo. You ask for a favor, you owe a favor in return.”
Gabe thought about this, let the concept settle.
“Like Strangers on a Train?”
“What?”
“It’s a film where two strangers meet by chance and agree to commit a murder for each other. They’ll both have an alibi. No one will connect a random stranger to the crime.”
“Kind of the deal. Except we’re talking about hundreds of random strangers. Everyone has a use, and everyone has a price. That’s how the Other People work. You ask for their help, you’ll be asked to do something in return. It might be something small. They might not even call in the favor right away. But they will. They always do. And you’d better be damn sure you’re up to returning it.”
Gabe thought about the underlined Bible passages again:
“You shall appoint as a penalty life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.”
“What happens if you don’t?”
The Samaritan’s gaze punctured him like a bullet. “You run. As far and as fast as you can.”
Fran didn’t believe in going back. But she had no choice. She had tried so hard. So very, very hard to keep it all together. For both of them. But she could feel her edges fraying, the seams starting to give.
She had had the dream again, the one she thought she had managed to submerge, deep in the murky depths of her psyche, weighted down with heavy chains of denial. But the chains were never strong or heavy enough. Those black, bloated thoughts—guilt, recrimination, regret—kept on floating back up to the surface.
The funeral, the girl in the coffin. Wearing the wrong dress. In some versions of the dream, when Fran drew closer, the little girl sat up and opened her eyes.
“Why did you leave me, Mummy? Why didn’t you come back? It’s dark and I’m scared. Mummmy!”
Then the little girl reached out her hands and Fran turned and ran, through the congregation, who were no longer mourners dressed in black but huge black crows who flapped and cawed at her as she passed through.
“Cruel, cruel. Cruel, cruel.”
But I’m not, she wanted to cry. She had saved her. If she hadn’t run, they would both be dead. She had sacrificed everything to save her. And she would never let her be taken away.
That was why, despite every single nerve ending screaming that this was a bad decision, tha
t she was heading the wrong way, she had to do this. She didn’t have a choice.
“I thought we were going to Scotland?” Alice asked when they had bundled back into the car and headed south, on the M1.
“We were. But this is important, Alice. It’s something I need to do—to keep us safe, okay?”
Alice had nodded. “Okay.”
What Fran hadn’t added was that this was something she had to do alone. But again, she had no choice. And maybe, just maybe, this was a good diversion. The last thing they would expect from her. The last person they would expect her to visit and certainly the last person she wanted to visit.
* * *
—
THEY WERE NOW over an hour from the services. Almost back to where they had started. Their destination was just half an hour away. But it felt like she was driving back in time. Nine years since she had left. Since one terrible night had smashed their family into smithereens. Perhaps it had always been fragile. Most families are. Blood may be thicker than water but it’s a pretty useless substance for sticking anything together.
Her dad had been the only constant and, once he was gone, the rest of them had been cast adrift. No anchor, nothing to stop them floating further and further away from each other. Or, in their mother’s case, farther down into the bottom of a bottle.
Fran’s grief had festered and grown. A constant darkness at the edge of her vision. Sometimes the feeling was so intense she imagined she could reach out and touch the dark cloud around her pulsating with pain, anger and resentment. Even when they caught the person responsible, it hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t eased the constant ache inside.
And then, someone had offered her a solution.
Soon afterward, when she found out she was pregnant—a stupid, drunken misadventure—she decided to move away. She had never really considered herself maternal, but once she knew she had a tiny human growing inside her she yearned to love and protect it.
She didn’t tell her family about her plans. She just found another job, in another town, and left. On the day of Dad’s funeral. A fresh start, putting what she had done behind her. At least, that’s what she had told herself. She had moved several times since then; made several fresh starts. Unfortunately, Fran’s baggage wasn’t the kind you can leave at the station. More like a shadow, and you can never escape your shadow.