Super Dark (Super Dark Trilogy)

by Tanith Morse

  SUPER DARK

  By Tanith Morse

  Copyright 2013 by Tanith Morse

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2013 by Tanith Morse

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  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, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  To Elliot, thanks for your tireless support and dedication.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ONE – Snatched

  TWO – Brief Encounter

  THREE – The Game

  FOUR – The Party

  FIVE – Saatchi

  SIX – Omen

  SEVEN – Transformation

  EIGHT – Muse

  NINE – Greg

  TEN – Revolution

  ELEVEN – Lifting the Veil

  TWELVE – Reconciliation

  THIRTEEN – Deception

  FOURTEEN – Home Alone

  FIFTEEN – Revelation

  Thank You!

  About the Author

  ONE

  Snatched

  “What are you reading?”

  I glanced up from my book. The girl standing over me had a pleasant, open face, but I didn’t return her smile. She was the willowy blonde from my English class who sat two seats back. She wore way too much make-up and her roots needed retouching, but somehow she made it look right.

  She’d tried to catch my eye a couple of times already, but I’d ignored her. If I’d wanted to make friends, I’d have spent lunch in the cafeteria with the others instead of finding this nice, quiet spot on the benches behind the Science department.

  I was hoping not to be disturbed. Fat chance.

  “It’s George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four,” I answered.

  “Any good?”

  “Yes, it’s one of the classics.”

  “What’s it about?”

  I rolled my eyes. Who the hell didn’t know about the Thought Police, Big Brother, and Room 101? Had she been living on another planet?

  Undeterred, the blonde sat next to me. She smelled of soap and chewing gum.

  “I’m Becky,” she said. “We’ve got English together.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re Samantha Harper, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know, it’s funny. When we first met last week, I could have sworn I’d seen you somewhere before. Your face looked so familiar. And then Mr. Maine introduced us and the penny dropped.”

  My stomach tightened. I knew exactly where this conversation was heading. It wasn’t fair. I’d only been at St. Mary’s High School a short time and already someone had recognized me.

  “You’re her, aren’t you?” Becky whispered. “You’re that girl who was kidnapped.”

  For a moment, I let the question hang there. Then I nodded.

  “Wow, I knew it!” she said. “Obviously, you’re a lot older now. But I could still tell.” Her face lit up with excitement.

  I squinted at my book, trying again to immerse myself in the world of Winston Smith, but it was no use. I clenched my jaws, trying to contain my emotion. “If you don’t mind, Becky, I’d rather not talk about this.”

  Her smile dropped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Hope I haven’t offended you.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “It’s just … well, it’s not something I like to think about.”

  “I understand. Bad memories and all that.”

  “Exactly.”

  In the awkward silence that followed, Becky began making little pleats in the hem of her skirt, then smoothed them out and tried a different tack. “Did the police ever find Elliot?” she asked. “You know, the little boy who was abducted with you?”

  My mouth became a thin, tight line. I said nothing.

  Becky kicked a pebble with the toe of her tennis shoe. “I remember seeing your picture in the newspaper. Must be weird being so famous.”

  My mind raced back ten years to a time when the world had seemed a safer place—a time before my innocence was cruelly shattered. I could see it all as if it were yesterday.

  Elliot Marsh had lived next door to me since we were toddlers. We’d attended the same nursery and primary schools, and our parents were the best of friends. He was the type of kid who’d take a punch for you, lie for you, or share his last Snickers bar with you. He seemed tough, but he had a big heart. If anyone picked a fight with me at school, I always knew Elliot had my back. I knew I could depend on him, no matter what.

  Elliot and I spent most summers together, climbing trees, having water fights, playing video games, watching cartoons, and teasing the neighbor’s dog. We even went to Disneyland together once. We had the kind of friendship that only comes around once in a lifetime.

  Neither of us could have imagined what was about to happen.

  The snow had come early to London that dark Halloween night as Elliot and I started trick-or-treating on our street. We were both seven, but he was six months older. The two of us had felt so grown up dressed as Batman and Batgirl, trudging from house to house in search of candy. By the time we’d finished the rounds, our buckets were nearly filled to the brim. People had been generous—but I wanted more.

  “Let’s start heading back,” Elliot said.

  “But I still have a little room in my bucket,” I whined. “And I hardly got any chocolate.”

  “You know what our parents said.”

  “They’ll never know. Let’s try one more street.”

  “Do you reckon we should? Didn’t my mum say we should stay where she can see us?”

  “What are you, a scaredy cat?” I teased.

  “No, I’m not scared of anything.”

  “Then let’s go!”

  “But dinner’s gonna be ready soon. I’m hungry.”

  “Eat some candy. If you’re too chicken, then I’ll have to hit the next street on my own.”

  He hesitated, then relented. “Okay, okay, I’ll come.”

  We took a left turn at the roundabout and started trudging up an unfamiliar street. Our boots, now ankle-deep in snow, made eerie, hollow sounds as they crunched on the pavement. We could see our breath in icy clouds.

  Suddenly, I felt an odd sensation, as if something had thrown a handful of wet leaves at my back. It made me freeze in my tracks.

  We heard the sputter of an engine—an old, tired sound, like the last chokes of a dying witch. We spun around and saw a battered, white van speeding in our direction, its headlights blinding us. When the vehicle pulled up alongside us, it screeched to a stop and an enormous man jumped out.

  He was the most hideous creature I’d ever seen: seven feet tall, with bloodshot eyes, dirty brown overalls, and a matted beard that hung down to his waist. His bushy brows met in the middle, and his neck and hands were covered in thick, black hair. His lips scared me the most: they were purple and punctured with teeth marks.

  What happened next was a kind of blur. One minute we were standing by the curb, clutching our trick-or-treat candy—and the next minute, this monstrous creature had scooped us up under his arms and shoved us into the back of his van. Candy spilled from our abandoned, overturned buckets, making a colorfu
l stream in the snow.

  Inside, the van was dark and damp. The floor was covered with large clumps of hay, as though it had been used to haul livestock. The putrid smell of rotten meat was overwhelming.

  As the van rattled up the road, Elliot and I huddled together like a pair of scared rabbits, holding each other tight for comfort. I’ll never forget the warmth from his tiny fingers as they interlocked with mine, or the way he tried not to tremble for my sake. Elliot was putting on a brave face, but I knew he was just as frightened as I was.

  As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I noticed we were not alone. Sitting a couple of feet away was a silhouette; when we passed a streetlamp, I could see it was a woman with swarthy skin and long, dark hair that was gathered back in two big bunches. She was dressed in strange layers of embroidered cloth that reminded me of a Russian Matryoshka doll. Chunky, gold bracelets weighed down her spindly wrists, and her calloused fingers sported an array of antique medallion rings.

  I gasped when I saw her eyes: black, unflinching, and potently evil.

  I burst into tears, and once I’d started, I couldn’t stop. I was terrified. Elliot cradled me in his arms, stroking my hair to make me feel warm and protected, but I could tell he wanted to cry, too.

  “What are you going to do with us?” he asked, trying to make his voice sound serious and brave.

  The woman didn’t answer.

  “I want my mum,” I whimpered.

  Elliot continued trying to calm me. After a moment, he looked the woman dead in the eye, an expression of defiance on his face. When he spoke, his voice sounded much older. “Let my friend go,” he said. “I don’t care what you do to me. Just let her go. She doesn’t want to be here.”

  The woman folded her arms across her chest and glared in reply, her face as grim and impenetrable as ever.

  My sobs intensified. I believed now that we were going to die. This was it. We were Hansel and Gretel, about to be eaten by the witch.

  “Let my friend go,” Elliot repeated. “I promise I’ll be good. I won’t scream or anything. I’ll do whatever you say. Just please … let her go.”

  Abruptly, the woman made a violent stabbing gesture with her hand, and then she turned toward the driver. “Muzas gost!” she rasped. Her voice sounded unearthly.

  The man hit the brakes and the van skidded to a halt. The woman continued muttering in a strange, foreign language as she wrenched me from Elliot, unbolted the back doors, and shoved me out onto the street.

  The last image I had of my best friend was his sweet, tear-stained face, his tiny hand waving goodbye to me as the van doors closed.

  I never saw Elliot Marsh again.

  As I picked myself up, I saw that the snow had begun falling again. Huge, white flakes sifted down from a treacherous sky, like a terrible judgment from God.

  I glanced left and right, trying to get my bearings. I was in the middle of nowhere, miles from home, alone and terrified.

  The windows of the houses around me were dark and as empty as a skeleton’s eye sockets. I just stood there, frozen, not knowing what to do. Then, wiping my nose on my sleeve, I took a deep breath and started walking up the driveway of the nearest house.

  When I got to the door, I found I was too short to reach the brass knocker, so I had to call through the letterbox. “Help me, help me! My friend’s been kidnapped!”

  Instantly, the lights came on in the hallway and an old lady in a flannel dressing gown appeared. “What on earth’s the matter, love?” she asked. “Has someone hurt you?’

  I collapsed in her arms, sobbing. “Please miss, a man and a woman have kidnapped my friend. You’ve got to help me find him.”

  The old lady ushered me into her living room and told me to start from the beginning. I was talking so fast that everything came out in a jumble, but eventually, she got the picture. She phoned the police and reappeared moments later with a cup of hot cocoa. When I sipped it, I finally stopped shivering.

  Thirty minutes later, a patrol car arrived to take me home. As my parents comforted me, a detective took a detailed description of my kidnappers. I told him as much as I could remember.

  A nationwide search for Elliot was launched. The media got wind of the story, and before I knew it, my name and face were plastered all over the front pages. Everything just seemed to snowball from there. All the big news stations wanted a piece of me. I made televised appeals, posters went up everywhere, and hundreds of hoax sightings poured in.

  Our abductors were dubbed the Gruesome Twosome on account of their hideous appearance. At one point, a famous tycoon even offered a £50,000 reward for Elliot’s safe return, but it was never claimed.

  Despite an extensive search, no trace of my best friend was ever found. Without any new information, public interest quickly waned and the police had to admit that they were no closer to solving the mystery.

  My life would never be the same.

  I had missed a lot of school because of all the media attention, and everywhere I went, people recognized me. Kids pointed at me in the street while their parents shook their heads and thanked God I wasn’t their child. I felt like a circus freak.

  Broken and traumatized, I wound up seeing a counselor every month until I was twelve, to help me cope with the situation. I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression. I had trust issues, insomnia, a fear of large crowds, and a dozen other problems I was barely even aware of.

  Then, when I was fourteen, things got worse. My parents divorced, Mum was given custody, and we spent the next couple of years living like two hobos, moving from place to place and trying to make ends meet. Mum took what temp work she could to pay the bills and keep a roof over our heads, but nothing was ever permanent. Nowhere felt like home. I lost count of how many times I had to change schools. We were always on the move, always on the run, but the past was never far behind us.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” Becky said impatiently, bringing me back to the current moment. “Did the police ever find Elliot?”

  The sun had gone behind a cloud and there was now a dark chill in the air.

  “No, they didn’t,” I replied.

  “How sad.” Her icy stare never wavered.

  I glanced at my watch and saw that my lunch time was over. I snapped my book shut. “Listen, I’ve got to go. My next class is in five minutes. Maybe I’ll see you around.” Before she could answer, I swung my bag over my shoulder and headed toward the foyer.

  St. Mary’s High School was a labyrinth of gloomy corridors and locked doors, a half-dozen Neo-Gothic buildings scattered across a wide expanse of badly tended grounds. There were so many rooms that I often got lost on my way to class. Armed with the crumpled floor plan I’d been given on the first day, I tried to find my last period history class.

  I liked History with Mr. Treagus because it reminded me that there were people in the world with lives worse than mine. World War Two, the Black Death, and the Russian Revolution helped put my problems in perspective. The whole planet was screwed up. Somehow, I found this perversely comforting.

  Mr. Treagus had a chronic smoker’s cough, a middle-aged spread around the waist, and a penchant for old tweed jackets with suede elbow patches. But he was passionate about history. When he spoke, his dark eyes gleamed like those of an excited hamster, willing you to be as enamored with the facts as he was.

  After calling for silence, Mr. Treagus scrubbed down the whiteboard and scribbled the words: August 28th, 1963.

  “Right, does anyone know what happened on this date?” He rolled up his sleeves and faced the class. “Here’s a clue: it didn’t happen in the UK.”

  Someone raised their hand. “The great march on Washington?”

  “Well done, Enid!” Mr. Treagus boomed. “At least I know I haven’t been talking to myself all this time.”

  The class tittered.

  “Okay,” he said, “turn your textbooks to page twenty and we’ll continue where we left off on Tuesday.”

  We wer
e studying the American Civil Rights Movement, which was fascinating, but today I found it difficult to concentrate. I was nervous and on edge. Since my impromptu meeting with Becky at lunch, I felt sure everyone was watching me, maybe even laughing at my misfortune. How many of my classmates have Googled me? How many of them are talking about me behind my back right now?

  I slumped down with my hood pulled low over my face, hoping I’d blend into the background. Now I was convinced that it was only a matter of time before someone else approached me and started asking stupid questions. If that happens, the only answer they’ll get is my fist.

  “Everyone, I’ve got a special treat for you.” Mr. Treagus pulled out an old tape recorder from his desk and played us Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech. The words were so uplifting, the voice so melodious and righteous, I forgot myself for a while. I started to calm down a little. Perhaps I was over-reacting and being paranoid. Nobody was watching me, really. Maybe I can do this after all.

  When the bell finally sounded at the end of class, I packed up my things and slipped out the door before anyone got too close. After racing through the foyer, I left St. Mary’s behind and made my way to the bus stop on the high street. It had started raining heavily, and I’d forgotten to carry an umbrella; within a few minutes, I was totally soaked. But I only lived twenty minutes away, and the buses home were as regular as clockwork.

  Eventually, the bus arrived. After swiping my card, I climbed to the top deck and took a seat behind a couple of rowdy school kids. I stared out the window at the pelting rain and marveled at how similar Elmfield was to every other town we’d lived in: a grim myriad of high-rise blocks, industrial estates, and Victorian terraces. Like every other town, the occupants were as gloomy and miserable as the weather. Elmfield was non-descript, unremarkable. The perfect place for me to remain anonymous.

  When I arrived at my stop, I climbed off the bus and ran down the street like a mad person, holding my bag over my head for shelter. The rain was turning my books to papier-mâché, but I didn’t care. It was worth the sacrifice to save my hair. I’d spent the whole previous night straightening it, and I had no intention of letting the frizz back yet.