by P. R. Black
Also by P.R. Black
The Family
The Beach House
The Long Dark Road
THE RUNNER
P.R. Black
An Aries book
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aries, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © P.R. Black, 2021
The moral right of P.R. Black to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
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, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (PB) 9781800246355
ISBN (E) 9781789543131
Cover design ©Lisa Brewster
Aries
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.headofzeus.com
For Angie
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
1
Hey. You awake? All right in there?
Not too cold, are you?
Sorry it’s taken so long. I won’t keep you in suspense much longer.
Don’t worry, I’ll tell you where you are in a second.
Now, look… There’s no need for that. I told you when we set off. Please don’t… Look. I’ll let you out, OK? Just don’t kick the panelling. Did you know this van has been to Afghanistan? That’s what the guy told me, when I bought it off him. Seemed to think this was a unique selling point. Hah! Please, show a bit of respect to the old girl, OK?
Calm down. I said calm… down. I will let you out. And I’ll untie you. That’s a promise. No joke, all right? It’s not a trick. Definitely a trap, though. Heh heh.
Look… I don’t have earplugs. Don’t scream. Point one, it’s not very nice. Point two, there is no one here to help you. Understand? No one’s coming. There is no one here but you and me. Point three… you’ll need to save your energy. It’s really, really important. This is serious. Your life depends on it.
Ah. That’s got your attention. Great! Now you’re settled, I can tell you a bit more about where you are.
Listen. You hear that sweet sound? Isn’t it grand? Takes me right back, I tell you. Funnily enough it makes me think of a painting my granny had in her bathroom. What does that sound suggest to you? Where do you reckon we are?
Hello? That was a question. It requires an answer. Would you like me to come in there and squeeze one out of you?
That’s right – the seaside. Good. You’re switched on. Back in the zone. Great. You need to be alert. You have to be focused. And you have to listen to what I’m saying to you. There are important points for you to pick up.
You are at the seaside. Lovely smell, too, eh? Maybe a little bit rank, at this stretch of coast, but never mind. Can’t have everything. We’re on a nice quiet stretch of the coast. There’s an old pier maybe a mile and a half down the road, heading south… that’s to the right, as far as you’re concerned.
It’s funny, I’ve driven past this way a few times. Someone’s hanged old stuffed toys from the outside railing of the pier. Just let them dangle in the wind, there. If you didn’t know they were there, you’d probably call the cops. From a distance a few of them look real!
Do you know how lucky you would need to be for someone to actually do that, right here, today? You’d be the luckiest girl in the world.
Anyway, the pier is your target. Got that? You’re heading south, down the beach, to the right as you come out of the van, towards the pier. The tide’s coming in, but you needn’t worry about that.
Keep the pier in mind. Got it? It’s an old, rickety pier. Part of it got burned. You used to get dossers bedding down for the night, but there’s no one there now. The council sealed it all up. But there’s a board loose in there. I need you to get into it. Or I should say… you need to get into it. You’ll see the loose board when you get there. If you get there.
You with me? Taking this all in? I need an answer – yes or no.
What’s that?
Good. You’re listening. We’re at the…? That’s right. And you’re heading to the…? Great! You know, you might be all right. You might do well out of this. You’ll be right as rain.
Now. I’ll open the door in a few moments. I can actually see what you’re doing, right now. There’s a webcam on you… No, don’t bother looking for it. Take my word for it. So that stupid stance you’re taking up, in front of the door, as if you’re going to kick me when it opens… Not going to help. I’ll finish you right there. So back up. That’s it. Up on your haunches. Slide your knees up, under your chin… You’re a very flexible lass, I must say. Bet you kick like a dray horse, as well! I chose you well, my love. I chose you very well.
As I said, I’m going to cut the cable ties, and you’re going to be released. No trick, no joke. I’ll have to use a knife to do it, so don’t freak out.
Now, it’s a dull day, not too sunny, but you’ve been in there in the dark for quite a while, so brace yourself, all right? Hang on… Three, two, one…
There we go!
Sorry. I did warn you.
Now, don’t be getting upset. The mask is just for show, all right? I know, I should have warned you. Don’t worry. Shut your eyes for a moment, take a few deep breaths. All about conserving energy, at this stage. Focus. You’re into your fitness. You know how this goes. A runner, hey? You’re a big strong lass. And you’ve got the gear on, hey? The right gear is so important, I find. Or equipment
, in my case.
OK, here’s the knife… I know, I know, this looks awful. But I promise, I’m only using this to cut the ties… Let’s not be silly. Stop it now. Don’t struggle.
I said don’t struggle!
Sorry. I don’t want this to be harder for you than it needs to be. OK? I’m cutting the ties. Once they’re cut, don’t move. You might think you can make a run for it, but I will be forced to do nasty things if you don’t… That’s good. Stay still. Great. Almost there… And done! Simple as that. I bet you’re thinking, ‘I wish I’d had my own knife, I’d have been out of here in a jiffy!’
OK, bad joke. Right. Here it is. You’ve got to run. That’s the element I didn’t take you through first of all. You have to run for it. Fast as you can. I will give you a twenty-second start. I’ll let you get your circulation back. You can even warm up for a bit. There’s a bottle of water on the floor, there. I won’t completely hobble you.
Now, when I catch up with you, this is what I’m going to use. I’ll use it to chop you up into tiny bitty pieces.
Crying won’t help you. Nothing will help you. But you still have a chance. Got it? Focus. Be strong. Be fast. Part of me wants you to get away. You understand? I like winners. I want you to be a winner.
You get to the pier before I get to you, you’re free. I’ll run back to the van, and I’ll be off. Then you can make your escape as you see fit.
You make for the sea, I’ll get you. With this. See it? Don’t look so shocked. Yes, it’s real. And it’s loaded. See?
You make for the rocks and the scrub, and try to get up the hill, or hide somewhere… ditto. I’ll drop you. Be a dawdle for me. I’m good from any distance. Believe it.
Those are your choices. You’re lucky to have choices, aren’t you?
Some folk in your position get no choice, look at it that way. Let’s be philosophical.
Look, I’ve drawn a line in the sand. Take your time to get warmed up… That’s it! You get the idea. You have to be ready. Because there are no second chances. It’s this or nothing. Got it?
Good.
Now get ready.
Now run. Run… RRRRUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNAHHHH…
2
Deep breaths; in and out, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Prepare. Focus. Find the target.
Freya Bain stood still at the mouth of the alleyway, taking a breath, and preparing to run.
As alleyways went, it was somewhat genteel. It ran between two ranks of smart houses, built in the past twenty years or so, three- and four-bedroom units for families with toys and mobiles visible through the windows. It was a genuine pathway to the canal, and the park, and Freya’s preferred running route – it wasn’t a place of skips, bins, and even more unspeakable refuse, the places from the city centre threaded through with grim invertebrate piping undulating along the brickwork, the guts of the buildings strewn around the back where no one could see it. This was a smarter place, bordered with largely unvandalised fencing, a place where you hardly ever saw anyone. But it was still an alleyway, and still lonely.
She fed the earbuds into her tiny ears, cued the playlist, stretched her troublesome calf muscle one more time, and began the run.
Even if the sun was high in the sky, this opening section was dark and foreboding. A willow tree fifty yards down had even been cut back earlier in the spring, but it had now come into leaf. Freya had to angle her shoulders and let it pass, one single frond tickling her cheek. Someone could have been hiding there, and her imagination actually placed someone in among the tree, every time she passed. She wondered what her fitness tracker showed, every time she passed this place – a spike in the heart rate, until she was through.
Once through the ginnel and back out into the open, things got better; she had loosened off completely, and fell into a nice, steady rhythm. There was only the odd dog walker around here, as the houses backed onto a play area, one of those combination football pitch/basketball places, which did not have people playing either. One Friday evening there had been drunken teens. Freya had shied away from getting her trainers on after that, on a Friday.
The play area gave way to another slightly curved path, and then she was on the canal bank towpath at last. This was dodgier terrain, with many things to avoid in her path. The dog waste bags were somehow most offensive of all – at least mother nature could deal with the shit, she reasoned, but not the bags – and there was sometimes broken glass to contend with, or large puddles sunk into the rough, pitted surface, kneaded and bubbled like modelling clay by the elements. Other runners and cyclists were common. She shared a nod with these as they passed – dressed in Lycra and neoprene like her, with trainers that could have been doing with an upgrade long before – although she did not recognise any of them. She knew the canal was a different prospect after dark, particularly when it skirted some of the rougher estates, but she didn’t concern herself with those times. Late afternoon, when lunch had properly settled in her stomach, was best.
Before long she was into the zone. Freya disliked to hear about people talking about The Zone as some gym bunny’s motivational phrase. In her mind, the zone was a place of sublimity, where she couldn’t feel pain and she wasn’t out of breath; when the impact on her joints and gravity’s remorseless tug were minor considerations. Today was one of the good days, one of the days where running became a habit, something to be enjoyed, not endured. Ducks scattered as she approached, taking to the water. A spindly black silhouette followed her through the turbulence as she pressed on.
Three K, four K, four and a half… she was barely out of breath, fully engaged in the tunes, but all too soon came the turn-off, back through another, scrubbier estate where young children out on their bikes had once spat on her as she passed. Once she was through here, she was back on the high street, past the shop where her mother used to send her for bits ’n’ pieces, the businesses such as the Carpet Hatch and the fireplace outlet, which somehow still clung on to existence beside the vape shops and the internet café, which had devolved back into a simple café with the advent of smartphones. And finally, past the pub, which her mother had once owned, and the flat on top where she had once lived.
Freya put her head down and didn’t look inside. It was the best way of guaranteeing no more pain, although it had only been two weeks. Two weeks since the hospice, and her mother turning that shade of yellow – Saturday morning cartoon yellow, unloved pepper at the back of the fridge yellow, the yellow of a boiled sweet that would suck out your fillings, something that couldn’t be good for you. The promise that everything would be all right, when Freya knew it wouldn’t.
She ran aggressively at the end, keeping up the endorphins. Fight the sadness, she thought. Fight the sickness. Hold it all back.
Freya was wheezing by the time she reached the new block of flats, the place where just about every window had been filled with a man leering at her as she directed the removals men – a smart enough place, but not populated by smart enough people. She slowed down to a jog before she turned into the cul-de-sac, fringed with black waist-high railings that cast the coat of a tiger onto the front of the building at night.
And it was here, with the security door in sight, as she had just stopped the playlist on her phone, with the sweat beginning to drop down her forehead and along the length of her nose, that the man jumped out at her.
‘What the fuck?’ she cried.
‘Oh, sorry.’ It was the postman – a bald man in his early forties who vaped constantly, every time Freya saw him pass the front of the building. Though it wasn’t particularly warm he was wearing shorts and a pale blue short-sleeved shirt, with the mailbag looped over his shoulder. He looked genuinely chastened, holding out a hand. ‘It’s Ms Bain, isn’t it? Flat 2/1?’
‘Yeah… Sorry.’ She smiled. ‘I didn’t mean to swear at you.’
‘Don’t you worry – I’ve been called worse on this job. It’s my fault – shouldn’t have startled you. There’s a letter for you – you have to s
ign for it.’
Dismay clutched at her guts as he held out the Recorded Delivery letter. She recognised the letterhead, even upside down, as she signed the postie’s keypad. It was from the solicitor. Today would be the day she would find out. Her mother’s promise.
3
On Freya’s mantelpiece, she kept one picture of her mother from healthier days – when Freya had been perhaps fifteen or sixteen. Mary Bain had been red-headed, and what they called ‘big-boned’, without meaning ‘fat’ – an Irishwoman with good strong cheekbones, fleshy where lots of men had liked it, and with quick, bright, blue eyes that could radiate mockery or mischief across an entire room. It was a contrast to the way she’d been near the end; it was the way Freya liked to remember her. There was a wicked twinkle in those eyes. It was the side of her mother she had loved best.
Freya took a deep breath and opened the envelope. It was from the solicitors. Her mother’s will.
‘We regret that you could not be present for the reading of the will. There follows a letter from your mother, enumerating her estate.’
The second section began, marking out her mother’s will.
‘Owing to policies put in place, I hereby leave all my belongings to my daughter, Freya, my only living relative. This includes an annuity of £5,000 pounds per year, guaranteed for ten years, as well as a lump sum of £22,000. On top of that, my daughter may not be aware that I actually purchased the family home, and the mortgage has been fully paid. I bequeath this flat to my daughter, as well as all my possessions therein.
‘There is also £11,000 in Premium Bonds, which will automatically pass to her upon my death. There is also savings totalling £152,678, and the flat above the pub, which I leave to my daughter.’
Freya stifled a gasp, heart thudding. She had to wipe away some tears, pacing the room, before she could continue.
‘Now comes the part that pertains to personal matters, and the answer to a question you have long asked.
‘You have always asked me who your father was. I am sorry that I was never able to tell you. Being an orphan myself and raised by psychopathic nuns, I was painfully aware of the effects that a fractured family line can bring to a person. I know it can be alienating. I lied to you, and I feel a sense of shame. I told you your father was up in heaven. Later, as you grew older and more curious about the details, and then suspicious of my evasiveness on the subject, I told you a half-truth; that he was just someone I had known briefly.