Ron walked into the barn. ‘What the hell? Where did this come from?’ He could see a new-looking bin that had been pushed out of sight. There were drag marks in the dust on the floor. They looked fresh. He tugged off the lid and looked inside. There was a white all-in-one suit inside. He had used them plenty of times before when he was working with crop sprayers or when he was decorating. He lifted it out. It was a large size and it looked brand new. There was a plastic sheet and a black sack underneath it that had been tied shut.
‘Has there been any work going on, on site? That looks like something a workman might wear?’ Steve said. He had moved to the back of his truck. He was closer to Ron now. His casual demeanour had dropped away a little bit. He rested on the back of his truck, both his hands pushed behind his back. ‘There’ll be asbestos all round this place. Maybe somebody’s been thinking about removing it already,’ he lifted his eyes to the roof.
‘Not that I know about,’ Ron said. He moved towards the back of the container and paused at the door. He rattled a chunky padlock. He stepped back out so he could see Steve by his truck.
But Steve was closer still — in the barn, just a step away with his hands in his pockets now. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.
‘You see this? This weren’t here the last time.’ Ron held the lock and bent to inspect it. ‘I put my own on here. Have you messed with this? Did you put this on here?’
‘Ron, please! I’ve told you my business up here. I have no interest in containers. Just land and existing buildings. I guess you need to get those gates in sooner rather than later!’
Whatever Steve said, there was definitely something not quite right about him. Ron couldn’t put his finger on it. He had thought at first that the man was nervous but now he wasn’t so sure. ‘Right, well I’ve got some croppers in the car. This kind of thing has happened up here before. I thought it was gypsies. They go out on the rob and then they stash the goods on somebody else’s land until the heat is off. There was a quad bike in here once that somebody had nicked.’ Ron strode to the back doors of the Land Rover and pulled the rear doors open roughly. He told Tucker to stay where he was. Tucker jumped through onto the back seats, close enough to smell his freedom.
Ron picked out his bolt-croppers, big ones, designed for heavy-duty cutting. He struggled a little under their weight as he moved back past where the man was still leaning on his truck, casual with his hands in his pockets. A little way into the barn, Ron’s front foot caught on a loose rock and he stumbled. He felt a drop of sweat on his brow as he lifted the croppers to the lock. He was breathing heavily. He had to step back. The handles were long and the cutting jaws were heavy and cumbersome. Too big — they couldn’t fit within the metal arms of the lock. They weren’t going to do it. ‘Dammit! I haven’t got anything smaller,’ Ron said.
‘You want me to have a look in my truck? I can see if I’ve got anything that might fit?’
Ron spun towards Steve’s voice. He was almost leaning over him. Ron took a step away. He considered his options. He made a show of checking his watch and then he shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much. I’ll be back this afternoon. I got a booked-out shoot to run all morning.’ Steve was still close. He was staring at Ron, too, his eyes seemed to have gained intensity.
‘Let me have a look. Just in case.’ Steve lingered for just a second then walked back to his truck. Ron stayed put. Steve lifted the tailgate and the hydraulics hissed. He leaned in and there were scraping noises as he searched and then what sounded like a toolbox rattling. Ron took the opportunity to wipe his brow. Steve turned back towards him. ‘I can’t say I’ve snapped too many locks. I’ve got a toolbox full of gear — most of it I’ve never used. You can have a look . . .’ He stepped away from the truck and gestured at the space within. ‘See if anything in there’ll do the job if you like.’ Ron moved a little closer to see into the back of the truck. A metal toolbox had been dragged out onto the dropped-down tailgate. Beyond it, plastic sheeting covered most of what was inside.
Ron deliberately rubbed his chin as if weighing things up. ‘You know what? It don’t matter now. I’ll be back in a few hours. I can have a look then.’ He gave Steve a slightly wider berth as he walked back to the Land Rover. As he saw it, his options were to return later when he was on his own and he could cut the lock off and then call someone if he needed to. Or maybe this Steve had something to do with whatever stolen gear was in there and he would take the opportunity to get it out while Ron was gone. Either way, Ron didn’t need to get himself involved with anything right now. The man’s story was plausible. Now that he was closer and the paperwork had been removed he could even see that the man’s truck had McCALL’S written across the front door. But there was still something about Steve that made Ron feel uncomfortable.
‘I assume you’ll be gone by the time I get back, son?’
‘Don’t you worry. I’ll be long gone. I’ve got a meeting to get to myself today.’
‘Well, okay. This is your last chance — don’t forget. We should have those gates up soon. You make sure you do what you need to do.’ Ron peered over at the container one last time.
‘I’ll make sure of it, Ron,’ Steve said.
‘I’ll sort this out later.’ Ron pulled the door shut and started the engine. He crunched a gear as he moved off. He looked in his rear-view mirror, watching the man called Steve getting smaller. He was still standing, leant back against his truck, his hands pushed firmly into his pockets. Ron’s eyes snatched away from the mirror when Tucker pushed his wet nose under his hand. He patted his old companion.
‘Well, Tucker. We didn’t like him, did we?’
* * *
Ron exhaled as the last of the punters’ cars accelerated away. As a final service to his clients, he had shown them back to the area of hard standing that served as their car park. Saturday mornings were hard work — amateur hour. But it was always a relaxing time when they were all gone, leaving him on his own to clear up a few bits and pieces and have a last cup of tea in the peace of the woodland setting. Ron and one other had taken a group each through the twenty stands where the punters each took their turn at hitting the spinning clays. They varied from first-timers to casual fanatics. Some were on a team-building exercise, some on stag weekends. All were a pain in his arse. He was getting too old to be babysitting. He much preferred the day-to-day running of the site that was his normal responsibility through the week.
He made it back to the club-hut. It was little more than a wooden shack really, but it did the job. From here he could cook the bacon rolls, fire up the urn for hot drinks and provide some covered seating out of the inevitable British rain. Not that there had been too much of that recently.
‘Ah well, Tucker. Another shoot closer to retirement.’ The only reply was the breeze through the leaves. ‘Tucker?’
Tucker was never far from Ron’s heels — apart from when the bangs started, then he would retreat and lie under a makeshift bed beneath the wooden table in the hut. Ron checked under the table. No Tucker — just a solid rubber ball with teeth marks and hair stuck to it. If Tucker wasn’t with him then he would be with his ball. ‘TUCKER!’ Ron shouted and then froze, listening for the sound of paws running towards him. There was nothing. He peered out into the woods, spinning on the spot where he stood. He retraced his steps, back to where he had taken the group to their cars. The path was short with wild ferns and trees on either side. The sun was brighter where the trees thinned out for the car park. There was just his Land Rover left.
A bark!
He stopped still. He heard it again; it was Tucker’s bark, over to Ron’s left. He walked towards the sound, just a few steps. There it was again! He thought it was coming from the road. He walked to the entrance. The car park was solid mud and stones so the tarmac of the road was a relief underfoot. It was mud-stained and the sides crumbled into potholes left over from a harsh winter. He took a couple of steps out into the road. Tight country lanes led right and left. The
turning for the gun club was on a bend and punters often overshot. A dusty mirror was fixed opposite to aid drivers pulling out. He stopped again. He could hear an engine, ticking over just around the bend. Maybe Tucker had been running out in the road and someone had stopped. It wasn’t like him.
‘Tucker!’ He shouted. The responding bark was immediate and clearly coming from the other side of the road. There was a gap in the hedge opposite, part of a footpath with a stile. Ron moved towards it. Tucker came into sight in the field on the other side. He was straining against a rope tied off round his collar.
‘What the hell?’ Ron quickened his pace.
He was vaguely aware of the change in the engine tone and the sound moving towards him but his thoughts were fixed on his faithful spaniel and the mystery of why he was tied to a tree. As Ron moved across the sun-drenched country lane he didn’t consider that the engine noise meant that the vehicle was coming for him — not until it was too late.
He turned to the sound. He barely had time to see movement. The sun was reflected so brightly in the vehicle’s metal front that it was like being hit by a beam of light. Then he was aware of the engine sound moving over the top of him as it revved and surged. And then all was silent. The beam of light was gone and there was only darkness.
Chapter 3
She gasped for air. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t remember falling asleep or how she got here. She tried to sit up. Her neck shot with pain as she tensed, her stomach too, and she cried out. She felt dizzy. She didn’t know if it was pitch black because there was no light or because her eyes were shut. She tried to move her arms to feel her environment, to rub at her face. Her arms were stuck!
Other senses were coming back to her. She calmed her breathing enough to detect a rancid smell. It was thick in the air, palpable, like nothing she had smelled before. No, wait! She had smelled it before, but she couldn’t think where. She couldn’t think about much at all. Some of the fuzz was clearing from her mind. She couldn’t move any part of her body and so she tried to focus on her breathing; she needed to stay calm, to work out where she was and why she couldn’t move. There would be an explanation. There would be a way out.
Eventually, she was able to roll onto her back. The feeling of the cold metal against her cheek was gone but the chill and the pungent smell were evidence enough that she wasn’t dreaming. She couldn’t be; it was all so real. Her arms felt numb, her legs too. There were pins and needles in her hands and fingers now that she had moved. Little pinpricks of light came into focus above her. She centred on them, straining her eyes, trying in vain to make out what they were. She concentrated on listening instead. There was a buzzing sound, constant but changeable, like a tiny motorbike moving closer then further away. She had assumed it was part of the dizziness and her confusion. Now she considered that it might not be. It was suddenly loud in her ear — then it stopped. Something tickled her face. She tried to move her arms again. The sensation moved across her face, onto her lips. She slammed her mouth shut and shook her head and her neck flashed with a searing pain. She blew hard. The tickle was gone for just a few seconds before it was back somewhere different. Something walked over her eye. Flies.
She jerked, her neck shot with pain again. She tried to roll back onto her front, away from the buzzing. The movement made her feel nauseous and she retched. She tried to force her mouth shut but her lips opened in a spasm as she coughed out bile and froth. The pain in her stomach was sharp, almost unbearable.
She stayed as still as she could to try and recover. It took a while. Where her eyes had started to get used to the gloom, it now felt like the darkness was closing in around her. She couldn’t move any part of her body. She stopped trying. She was overcome with exhaustion. Her face tickled again. She didn’t even have the energy to react. The buzzing drifted away to silence.
Chapter 4
‘Thanks, Dad!’ Lisa Simpkiss forced a smile. Her stepfather’s glance lingered on her. He was looking at her the way he always did when he dropped her at her meetings. He didn’t need to drive her. She’d have been happy to walk, but her dad always said, ‘I like to make sure you get there okay,’ which actually meant I like to make sure you go.
Lisa stood up out of the car and pushed the door shut. She was conscious that he didn’t pull away. When she made it to the door of the sometime Scout hut in the seaside town of Langthorne, the car was still ticking over behind her. She was thirty-three years old and her dad was actually watching her to the door of her Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. This was not the way she had envisaged her life panning out.
She made it through the door without looking back. An older lady with a smile so welcoming it verged on the patronising sat on a chair to the left. She looked expectant.
‘Lisa,’ said Lisa.
The woman held her smile. ‘And are you here for the meeting?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Okay, great. I’ll just mark you in. There’s tea and coffee in the main hall. It’s on your left as you walk in.’
‘Thanks.’ Lisa knew the drill. She had been to enough of these now. She had argued the first time, though. She even made a bit of a scene when they asked her for a name. She just went off on one — not giving them time to explain. She remembered it like it was yesterday. It hadn’t been a good time in her life and she’d been an angry ball of frustration, only there to please other people in her life. If she had taken the time to listen she would have known that you only had to give a first name — it didn’t even have to be your own. It was about fire regs and noting how many people used the facilities, nothing more. It had been a perfectly reasonable request at a time when Lisa was anything but. Now she’d come to appreciate the pattern of her meetings and of her movements when she attended them. She had come to understand herself and grasp just how important a clear structure was in keeping her on track. If that structure slipped away she could never predict what direction her life might take.
She moved to the coffee laid out on a table and poured herself one from a flask. One sachet of sugar stirred with a plastic stirrer. She turned to the open room. The blinds were pulled across the windows. They looked like they were glowing, a hint at the strong sunshine outside. The light levels overall were low. Perfect. It smelled of dust and polish and the temperature was verging on too hot to be comfortable. The door to the kitchenette on the other side of the room was open and she could hear a bubbling urn. It wasn’t loud, barely noticeable normally, but it was the only sound. Four people were in the room already and she recognised them all. The chairs were laid out in a sort of circle, the seated patrons spread out as much as possible. She didn’t tend to talk to people at these things. Most didn’t in her experience. Normally you got just one or two who would be desperate to tell the rest about how close they had come to not being there at all. Lisa didn’t want to talk about her own experiences of it. But she did like to listen. She liked to hear the desperation, stories from around the room of people hiding from the world, ashamed at what they had become, and of how they were still lying to their friends and families — and to themselves. She didn’t want to talk about it herself but she liked to hear it all. She took comfort from knowing that other people were doing it, too.
She moved to sit down. The seats were moulded plastic. Not comfortable. She tried the coffee. It was far too hot. She leaned down to put it on the floor and got her phone out. It told the time as 12:53. The meeting would start in seven minutes. More people came in and they all made for the flasks. There was some hushed conversation and Lisa looked over. Two of the regulars were sharing a joke. One laughed a lot harder than the other. He sat down first. The quieter guy sat a few chairs away. The first man looked as if he had expected the other to sit closer and to continue the conversation. He looked put out. She liked to watch people, to see how they interacted with the world. She was still watching when a chair scraped to her right.
‘Shit!’ It was a man’s voice. Her leg suddenly felt warmer. She looked dow
n. He’d knocked her coffee over. The liquid ran against her trainers, the steam rose up against her bare leg.
‘I’m so sorry!’ She looked up. A man was standing over her with his palms out towards her. ‘I didn’t see it on the floor there. Hang on!’ He jogged to the kitchenette and came back with a roll of tissue. He tore off several sheets and laid them out on the floor. Immediately they stained brown. He dabbed at her trainers.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, hurriedly.
‘I don’t think I got any on there. It’s just round the bottom—’
‘Don’t worry! It’s fine!’ she snapped. She turned away, back towards the coffee. She considered getting another. Maybe he read her thoughts.
‘Let me get you another one.’ He was still stood over her. She had kept her eyes down but looked up at him now.
‘Honestly, I’ll go get my own. It happens.’
‘Least I can do!’ He smiled. He was about her age and had dark features and nice eyes. His head was shaven close to his scalp and he had two-day-old stubble. He wore a designer polo shirt buttoned all the way up so it gripped tight around his neck. He was good-looking in an effortless kind of a way. ‘How do you take it?’
She shrugged. ‘One sugar.’
He stepped away immediately and she followed him over to the table with her eyes. He wore tight-fitting jeans over white trainers. His back looked strong and broad, his white t-shirt strained over it as he bent forward to sugar her drink. He came back to where she was sitting, two cups in hand.
‘I figured I would get one for myself while I was over there.’ He smiled again.
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ She fell silent. She moved her attention back to her phone, scrolling idly through it. She didn’t care for phones. She barely used hers aside from as a prop to repel conversation.
‘Is this your first?’ He persisted. Her prop had failed.
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