The Runner

by P. R. Black

  She tugged the padlock. It had rusted through; the two parts separated and the padlock clinked to the concrete.

  ‘Oh thank God! Thank you, God!’

  In full panic mode now, Freya pulled open the hatch and started up the ladder. The entire structure vibrated; she had a terrifying vision of the whole ladder extension separating from the building and clattering down, much as the padlock had.

  Then she reached the first platform, got to her feet, and looked down.

  He was already there, at the bottom. Axe in hand, gazing up at her.

  He doesn’t know what to do.

  Freya said nothing. She fought for breath; she wiped away tears and snot; she got her breath back; she ached from every cut and scratch, at every joint.

  ‘I could come on up,’ he said, out of breath himself. ‘But you’d have a clear advantage. I could go and get my shotgun, but you’ll be long gone by the time I get back. And, fair play to you, Freya. I set the game, and you won it. You won it. The first one to do so. There comes a time you just have to take your hat off.’

  He laid the axe down at his feet. Then he straightened up and applauded, muffled reports that echoed out into the darkness as his gloves came together.

  ‘Bravo, lass.’

  Then he picked up the axe and padded away the way he had come. From higher up, Freya could see an opening in the ground, like a subway entrance, with steps leading down underground. She must have run close enough to fall down the steps; another lucky break.

  That’s where he had come from, and likely how he had managed to get the drop on her on top of the roof. The place must have been a warren of them, and he knew them all.

  Freya stayed put. The only danger was if he did come back with his shotgun. But for him, that was a risk. All Freya had to do was hit the open ground and get running. The site was ring-fenced, but even in the gloom, and from a distance, she could see the gaps in it. Behind that, some forest. And if she made it to the forest, he would have to be supernaturally lucky to find her.

  Freya had a sudden flashback to Cheryl Levison’s bare feet, and the pain she must have felt running on loose stones without shoes. He’d handicapped her, Freya thought. Levison had been fit and strong, and too much of a risk.

  He hadn’t hobbled Freya. He had underestimated her fitness. And that was his mistake.

  Then nausea struck home. She sobbed, running her hair through her hands. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, gazing towards the hill where the bunker lay. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…’

  She would stay put and keep watch. Freya had no idea of the time – her watch, and of course her phone, were long gone. But he could not stay here forever. Not with a body to dispose of.

  Freya heard a crackle of flame. Fingers of fire tickled the edge of the pit, surely coming from the roof of the bunker – too bright, surely using petrol or some other accelerant.

  The bastard could smoke me out.

  But he didn’t. A moment or two later, on the other side of the pit, a pair of headlights came on. It was the white van; the lights flashed twice, as if in farewell. Then the van reversed out, and headed back along the supply route, winding its way around a hill and then disappearing out of sight.

  57

  She waited until it grew light, then clambered down. The smoke from the fire had brought no attention, climbing high into the still air. But surely it had been spotted from a road, somewhere. But no one came, and it burned itself out. Thankfully there was no stench, either – though possibly he had removed what remained of Cheryl Levison. Despite a life that had lately been filled with unusual experiences, Freya had never smelled burning human flesh, and it was hardly an ambition.

  She dropped to the ground, every ache amplified as she loped away from the crane – away from the tiny road they had come in on, past the chasm of the quarry, and into a forested area beyond a patchy iron link fence. This, too, was dangerous. Knowing how sly and well prepared he was, if there was a secondary ambush to mop her up, then this is where he lay in wait. It was overgrown, without any obvious path through the trees. She followed her nose – or more specifically, her ears – towards a very faint sound of running water.

  She came to a river, a natural twist in the ground, with lots of stepping stones in the form of slabs probably blasted from the quarry. She skipped across, and then she heard the traffic.

  There was a main road nearby, but Freya emerged onto a lonely single-carriageway route, a place without crash barriers. Soaking wet, tired and hurt, she waited by the side of the road.

  It took a while for any cars to come past. She signalled one, but it was a tiny car driven by a tinier woman, and Freya caught a look of sheer alarm as she speeded up, weaving into the middle of the road to get out of the way.

  ‘I suppose I look a fright,’ she muttered. Then she cried a little.

  She had better luck with the next vehicle: a lorry. It had a load of live chickens, and the stench was awful as it went past; but the brake lights came on, and the truck stopped, hazards blinking, while she ran up to the cab.

  It was a darling old man, surely past retirement age. His bald head creased in worry. ‘You all right, there? I thought I was looking at a ghost or something, when I spotted you!’

  Freya told a story about a mountain biking trip going wrong, having an accident and her bike being useless – not completely false, now that she considered it – and complained of being hurt and needing a ride home. He hadn’t asked any other questions, but allowed her to drink from a flask. Fine irony if the Woodcutter turned out to be nobody. If I should take a drink from a drugged flask, then wake up back where I started.

  But she didn’t. She was soon back in the city, where the old man implored her to go to hospital and get her cuts and scrapes checked. She gave him a kiss on the forehead, and walked back home, where she was particularly struck by how little attention she drew from the masses, desperately minding their own business. Despite the tears streaming down her face, and an alarming twitch that had developed in her lower lip. The pain had come in, too, dreadful sparks going through her knee and ankle joints. At one point she stopped, and hunkered down to relieve an awful cramp. People simply flowed around her. Freya supposed she might have done the same.

  She had a spare key planted behind a cracked section of brick outside. She let herself in, turned on every light, screamed aloud before she hurled open each and every cupboard, poked underneath the bed with a broom handle and was particularly vicious with every pair of curtains before she was satisfied that she was absolutely, positively alone. Then she blessed the negligence that had meant she kept her landline, called Tamm, and barely got past the first few sentences before her cries became hysterical, and the pain in every injury became unbearable.

  Finally he calmed her and got the details. ‘Wait – a quarry, you said? An old excavator? I know exactly where that is. Don’t worry, Freya. I’m coming round.’

  When he was there – just him and a kind-looking female officer who might have been younger than she was – he listened to her intently.

  ‘Did you find her?’ Freya asked.

  Tamm only nodded.

  ‘There was nothing I could do, nothing, I swear to God…’

  ‘There’s nothing anyone could do,’ he said. ‘There’s no blame, no guilt, with someone that black-hearted. Someone so lacking. He’s not even human.’

  ‘I thought when he fell, he might have broken his neck. I thought it was over.’

  ‘Did you see anything – eye colour, skin, anything?’

  ‘I can’t even be sure of the skin colour. Couldn’t tell you his height, exactly.’

  ‘Was there anything you recognised? Inflection, pattern of speech, anything?’

  She shook her head. Then she looked less certain. ‘I can’t be sure.’

  ‘What’s your gut feeling? Tell me.’

  ‘I… I can’t be sure. Was it him? Was it my dad?’

  Tamm swallowed. ‘We don’t
know. We’re going to speak to him now. It’s highly unlikely, but we’ll soon find out.’

  ‘Whoever it is, I think I can catch him,’ Freya said. ‘I think there’s a way. But we’ll need to be quiet about it.’

  58

  Glenn was nervous when he appeared at the door of the pub. Freya was sat underneath the immense red and silver coffee machine, perched on top of a glass-fronted counter, her face nestled among a tempting display of pastries. When he saw her, his jaw dropped. ‘God almighty… are you all right?’

  ‘I’ll live.’ She smiled as he sat down.

  ‘You didn’t say anything about being hurt…’ He reached out and touched her arm.

  ‘Ah it’s nothing, just cuts and scrapes when I fell over. No serious damage. Lost my bike, that’s the most annoying thing. At least I managed to back up my phone.’

  ‘Can I get you a drink? I know it’s early…’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve got things to do, today.’

  ‘Well… Gads, why don’t you move in with me?’ He blurted it out with such gauche charm that she giggled. It was the first time she’d giggled in a long while.

  ‘Bit forward, mister!’

  ‘I mean it. When I couldn’t get in touch with you that night… I was fucking frantic. I came over to your flat. I know I shouldn’t have. I didn’t know where you were. I thought I’d failed you, leaving you alone, after everything that happened. You were in danger.’ He shook his head, trying to clear an unpleasant thought.

  ‘Hey. It’s fine. Nothing’s your fault. I didn’t tell you I was going to meet my dad. You remember? So you could have been with me. Had you been there, we might all have been fine.’

  ‘Except for Levison.’

  Freya said nothing. She looked at the glass case, and their faces reflected in it.

  ‘You seen him since?’ Glenn asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I think it’s best for all concerned that I don’t see him for a while. He had an alibi for that night. It’s unlikely it was him.’

  ‘Unlikely?’

  ‘Yeah. The concierge at the flat he stayed in can’t be sure if he left by the back staircase or not late at night. But given he stayed at the restaurant on his own for a while, it’s really unlikely he managed to kidnap both me and Levison in good time.’

  ‘So, am I going to get to meet him, then?’

  ‘Definitely. We’ll have to wait until things die down, though. Or until they catch the new Woodcutter.’

  ‘Thought it was just one Woodcutter?’

  ‘So far as anyone knows.’

  He frowned. ‘You know something. Or you’ve heard something.’

  ‘Just a hunch,’ Freya said, with a smile.

  ‘You’re up to something,’ Glenn said, frowning. ‘You’re planning something. I’m not sure I like it.’

  ‘You’ll find out. I’ll play it close to my chest, for now. But you’ll know soon.’

  ‘Why the secrecy?’

  Freya took a deep breath. ‘I don’t want you involved, Glenn. The person who spoke to me that night… They know who you are. And I don’t think they like you very much. I think you’d be as well keeping away from the inquiry. And being as safe as you can. Can you move back to your parents’ for a while? He’s clever, whoever he is. He might be a berserker when he’s set loose, but he’s all about the planning in the run-up. And one other thing: don’t pick up any loose coins or notes if you see any.’

  Glenn folded his arms and eyed up her jacket, boots and rucksack. ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘A day by myself. I’m going to visit some friends.’

  ‘Can I come?’ he said, at last.

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry. Single ticket, this one. I’ll be in touch, Glenn. Things get too interesting when we’re together. I don’t think I’m wrong about that.’

  He looked as if he might actually cry. ‘No. Not wrong.’

  ‘It’s best you go, Glenn.’

  He nodded, and then he was gone. Freya took a deep breath, checked her watch, then put on her rucksack.

  The waitress, who had been annoyingly nosy while this exchange was going on, cocked her head at Freya as she got up. ‘He was nice, love,’ she said, brazenly. ‘Not giving him up, are you?’

  ‘Nah,’ she said, smiling. ‘Just letting him go, to see if he comes back.’

  ‘Doesn’t always work like that,’ the waitress said. ‘Take it from me.’

  After paying up, Freya heaved the pack onto her back, and walked to the station.

  He had followed her, of course. He didn’t even try to hide it particularly well, only thinking to duck into the waiting room once Freya rounded the corner.

  She beckoned to him. He approached, a shy child called out by the teacher.

  ‘I don’t think you’re the best listener,’ she said. ‘I’m not being secretive because I want to get one over on you. I’m not doing a deal or working a hustle. It’s dangerous. I can’t get you involved. This is life or death, now. I can’t have that… I can’t think about it. I don’t know how I’m going to recover. I don’t know…’ She couldn’t say anything else. Her rucksack thudded against the concrete. She covered her face.

  Glenn’s hands were gentle. He took one of hers in his. ‘And I’m not here for a scoop. Or an angle. Or a book deal. I’m here for you. Whatever you’re going to face, I’m facing it with you.’

  *

  After a long train journey into flat, green countryside, they emerged on a rural station. ‘Glad you’ve got your walking shoes on.’ Freya indicated, as she tied the hem of her waterproofs. ‘This place is out in the sticks. They all were, really.’

  ‘So what drew you to this place?’ Glenn said. ‘If you didn’t get any more clues, that is.’

  ‘It’s close to where Florence Ceulemans vanished. Dutch fruit picker on a gap year. It’s an old industrial unit, massively overgrown… Already searched by Bernie Galvin’s team, when it happened. Given the previous locations, I thought it was a good fit.’

  ‘I never focused on Florence Ceulemans – too many other variables in that one. It makes perfect sense to me. Seems like… him.’

  She nodded. ‘I thought so. Gut feeling. I’d like to have a look.’

  ‘I’ve not been the world’s most consistent person on this, but shouldn’t we get a hold of the police, now? I think our cloak-and-dagger time is up. For you it is, definitely. He already tried to kill you. We’re flirting with disaster.’

  ‘We might be. It’s dangerous. I told you. And I don’t want you out here. How can I make it clearer to you?’

  ‘Surely call Tamm. Run it past him.’

  ‘I did.’ Freya looked down at the table. ‘He told me he thought I was reading too much into things. He said he thought I should stay away from it all.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Glenn said. ‘Meddling in it, after what happened to Cheryl Levison… It’s a bad idea. I think we should quit, tell the police what we know, and let them handle it. If the man’s out there, they can get the place surrounded and then make an arrest.’

  ‘He said he will look out for me, whatever that means. So there’s that. Unless the Woodcutter is a policeman. Him, specifically.’

  ‘What reasons do you have for saying that?’

  Freya smiled. ‘You add up the coincidences, then it seems ridiculous to call them coincidences. Showing up that afternoon when I saw the carving in the woods… That’s suspicious. But it’s just an idea. I don’t think it’s him.’

  ‘Who do you think it is?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Your dad?’

  There was a long silence before Freya shook her head. ‘Not him. I might be wrong. It’s just an idea. But I think today’s the day we find out.’

  ‘You’re planning something. Not just a search.’ He frowned. ‘Spill it.’

  ‘I’ve invited one or two people out here to meet us. I think one of them, or both of them, is the Woodcutter. You’ll see soon enough. I’ve got an idea how h
e operates. How he’s been killing people. How he catches them. Everything. But today is the end to it. I think we can bring the Woodcutter down. And if we’re clever, no one gets hurt.’

  ‘You have to at least tell me…’

  ‘I can’t, Glenn. You’ll see soon enough. I’ve got my reasons.’

  ‘It’s in case it’s me, isn’t it?’ He looked angry, now. ‘That’s why you won’t say. You can’t be sure.’

  Freya shook her head. She couldn’t answer that. Because she didn’t want to lie. He’d know.

  She turned to the window and watched her reflection, scratched a thousand times by the blurred trees outside. If only I could slow my heart just a little, she thought. Just a tiny bit.

  *

  The station was unmanned, and deserted. After consulting her new phone, Freya took Glenn along an overgrown path, where every flicker of greenery seemed to conceal an assassin. It was an odd day for July; cool out, with cloud cover and spots of rain. It was the time of day that might have been unpleasant for being overcast, but it felt more like early October than the height of summer.

  The path stretched out, taking in farmland, then forest. Soon they reached an open area where some buildings had once stood, but which were now not even rubble. Just the outlines of various structures remained on a grid pattern across an expanse of concrete, threaded with upstart weeds grown to freakish height. The landscape was flat, leading towards trees on the horizon, with only two or three small storage buildings or even outhouses clinging to the far end of the foundations.

  ‘Online mapping’s telling me nothing,’ Glenn said, glancing at his phone. ‘You said this was an industrial unit?’

  ‘Yeah. What you’re looking at used to be a fat-processing plant.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Somewhere you change animal fat into useful things. Can be made into all sorts of products. Gummy sweets; creams; soaps; cooking oil; they don’t waste anything. It went out of business years ago. Still smells a bit. No one’s sure why. Maybe there’s some underground storage facility that was left there everyone forgot about it.