by Tom Hoyle
Megan tried to turn, but Viper held her. “No. I’ll do it. I’ll stay. Put me in there.”
Coron suddenly shouted, “Then tell us where ADAM is!”
Megan looked down, frozen by thought, then mouthed to Peringuey, “I’m so sorry.”
Megan lay back on her bed and tried to force the experience from her mind. She was stubborn and resilient. Wasn’t she?
But she couldn’t stop thinking about the other girl. And Adam, and the Feast (what was that?) and her worried parents. And her own death. The thoughts dug deep into her mind like roots. She buried her head into her pillow and cried, grabbing handfuls of the soft duvet and pulling it tightly around her. Why were people like this? And, finally, the wail of utter desperation—It’s not fair—which became an anxious groan.
Finally, fitfully, Megan fell into an uneven and thin sleep.
Megan slipped out of bed and crept across the room. She had heard the key turn last night and the door was still locked. The window was also bolted—she had considered smashing it with the bedside table, but flashlight beams had been wobbling about outside and she’d heard the occasional yelping of dogs; even if she’d broken out and somehow inched herself down, her situation was hopeless. And maybe they would kill her if she attempted to escape. If she tried, she would have to make sure she succeeded.
She thought of her parents and how they would be consumed with worry, rigid with tension, eyes full of tears. Then she thought of Adam. Surely by now her abduction would have made the news? Perhaps Adam would have seen it?
Then she thought of the other girl, guiltily: I should have considered her first. She’s suffering because of me.
There was a knock at her door. A woman came in, with Viper behind her.
“I hope you slept well and had sweet dreams,” said Viper.
“Go to hell,” said Megan, the words spilling out before she had time to stop them or to craft a better insult.
Viper smiled as Megan seethed. “We have woken up grumpy. I hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to be awkward. Get dressed and come with me.”
As they walked through the building, Megan realized there were lots of people around, including many she hadn’t seen the day before. Heavy boxes were being moved, and with some urgency; it was like an evacuation before a storm. With all of this activity, could she slip away? Could she send a message?
Megan was led down a central hallway and into a room that resembled an office, except for a large painting above the fireplace of a dark angel emerging from a swirling cloud. Megan noticed a chilling normality about the room: a London A–Z, a guide to modern architecture, scissors, phone, briefcase.
Coron leaned against his desk. “Megan. Now that you have had a chance to reflect on the suffering that Peringuey is enduring because of you, perhaps you would like to stop it by telling us where Adam is?”
No. She couldn’t say. They would kill him. At least the girl wouldn’t die. “I don’t know.”
“You won’t tell.” Coron moved to the other side of his desk and gazed out onto a lawn and what appeared to be a summer house beyond. He spoke with his back turned. “I feared you would be stubborn. Let me be very clear.” He turned around and put his hands together, steepling his fingers. “If you don’t tell me by this evening, I will kill your parents.”
“What?” Megan shouted and stared. “What?”
“I would kill a hundred parents if need be. A town. A city. More depends on finding Adam than you can imagine. I will do whatever it takes.”
Despite everything, Megan still wondered if the threats were idle, an adult frightening a child. Maybe. But her parents? This was the worst possible nightmare. Whatever she did, someone would be hurt.
Perhaps saying where Adam was would be the lesser evil. At least he would be expecting trouble. Maybe he had moved. And he might have heard about her kidnap. At least she had until that evening and the Feast.
Coron nodded as he looked at Megan. “You will tell us at the Feast. Of that, I am certain.”
Megan sat in her room and looked at her watch. Maybe she could drag out the seconds. Each nudge of the hand brought the possibility of rescue. But time dripped on, relentlessly ticking closer and closer to the Feast.
Occasionally Viper would come into the room to torment and threaten; once an old lady visited and explained about The People.
“I hope you will listen to what Lord Coron says,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to miss out on what is going to happen. Once the boy has been sacrificed, we will guide the world. That is a great thing to be involved in. Perhaps you will join us.”
Megan frowned and lowered her voice. “Can’t you see that it’s all wrong, that it’s all mad? That killing is wrong? And Dorm Thirteen—you know that’s torture?”
“Oh dear, what a strange thing to say. We are guided by the Master and live well. No one steals here; we all walk around safely; and Dorm Thirteen helps those who are bad. Lord Coron wouldn’t allow it to be used without good reason.”
Much later, the door opened and Megan was given a new white dress and told to put it on. It was an hour until the Feast. “This is our final Feast in this house, Meggie,” said Viper. “A very special occasion. The celebration begins at midnight; afterward we will leave this house to prepare for our new reign.”
About thirty people sat around a table with Coron. They banged their knives and forks on the table and shouted, “Feast! Feast! Feast!”
Led by Viper, Megan walked in, her eyes drawn to two kneeling figures at the far end of the large room. It looked as if their hands were tied behind their backs. Between them was another table, but this one had a tablecloth. No, Megan thought, not a tablecloth. An ALTAR cloth, like in a church.
NO!
“Feast! Feast! Feast!”
Paintings hung on the walls, each one depicting sacrifice, and Megan saw words painted just below the ceiling: “I will deliver you into the hands of brutal men who are skillful to destroy. You shall be the fuel for the fire; your blood shall be in the midst of the land.”
“Feast! Feast! Feast!”
Coron stood and the chanting stopped. The only noise was whimpering from the far end of the room.
Arms outstretched, Coron started. “The Master is here. He wants to feast on a worthy sacrifice. And there is no worthier sacrifice than a willing one.”
I can’t cope with this, thought Megan. It’s too horrible. I can’t think.
“The Master tells me that Adam will come as a willing sacrifice. And tonight, we may have a willing victim. Megan?”
The room spun slightly with confusion. Megan felt faint. “No. No.”
“Megan, you have a choice. Tell us where Adam is, or there will be a willing sacrifice.”
“I’m not willing.” Confusion. Spinning. So many smiling faces.
“If you don’t tell us, it will be your will that these two people are sacrificed.” Coron gestured toward the kneeling figures.
Megan shouted, “That’s not willing. I don’t want anyone to be hurt!”
“Then tell us! Tell us and your parents will live; tell us and these visitors will live.”
A deathly and evil silence hung in the room.
“Tell us, and you will live!”
Tears filled Megan’s eyes. The words formed in her mind: He’s in number 53, top flat. She looked at the eager faces.
She pushed her lips together to stop any noise coming out. He’s in number 53, top flat.
Smiling, grinning, smirking faces looked at her.
And Megan realized that whatever she said, they would not let her go. They could not let her wander away to the police. Adam would certainly die. Her parents? These people were capable of anything.
No. She would not tell. If need be, she thought, choking back tears, she would die as she had lived, trying to do the right thing. She . . .
At that moment she heard movement behind her, and a figure rushed straight to Coron. There was whispering.
Coron smiled a
nd looked up. “People, the Master is a wonderful god. The boy Adam has been seen. I believe he is on his way here.” Then he began to laugh. It wasn’t a sound that came from his mouth alone, it bellowed from deep within him. “The Master is indeed God; he is perfection. Adam will be a willing sacrifice; he will surrender himself to us. And the Traitor will deliver himself for punishment. ‘The Traitor will choose to place himself in Dorm Thirteen.’ It is all written! Just as it is written that we will rule the world and the universe!” He walked toward Megan, who stepped back and nudged into two men. “If only you were not blind. One day all will serve the Master.” The men held Megan tightly.
She started twisting and pulling, then Coron’s nearness made her fight furiously to free herself. “Get away from me. Let me go. . . .”
Someone appeared from behind her: Viper holding a cloth. It came closer, smelling strange. Sweet. It was pressed to Megan’s face. She couldn’t get free, though she kicked and wrestled. And her world tipped upside down and faded.
Megan fell to the floor.
33
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 2013, EARLY MORNING
Underneath a dripping tarpaulin, Simon’s small motorcycle waited for the two of them. It was five doors away, across paved yards and small gardens behind houses. Now fully at ease with furtive behavior, Adam enjoyed the midnight drizzle on his face and drank in the damp autumn air.
Simon took the front wheel and Adam the back as they heaved the bike up the steps at the side of number 48. It was when Simon pushed it to the curb that the man standing directly opposite, like a sentry at the entrance to the park, suddenly noticed them. In the seconds before helmets went on, he clearly saw Adam with Hatfield’s son. Wide-eyed, he hissed to someone behind, “Quickly!”
The moped groaned under the weight of two people as it pulled away. Simon saw a figure, arms flailing, in his rearview mirror, and used the throttle, urging the machine on as the man lunged. Fingertips just grazed the back of the seat, then the man fell, instantly unmoving, as the angry buzz of the motorcycle drifted off into the distance.
Another man came out from the shadows of the park and immediately phoned the Old School House; within ninety seconds, Coron had been informed of the sighting.
Adam dared not speak; he simply clung to Simon just as he had a few weeks earlier. They traveled mainly by side streets and then avoided the highway, even though this added over an hour to the journey. Simon stopped twice to consult the map, but he recognized the way as they neared the Old School House.
It was about 1:30 a.m. when Simon pulled off the main road onto a much smaller track running between trees. The mud was a slippery gruel that meant the bike had to be pushed for several hundred yards. Apart from trees gently rustling like a hushed audience waiting for the start of a play, there was utter silence.
After about twenty minutes, Adam could see the eastern boundary of the site. It took Simon five or six minutes to cut the wire topping a six-foot-high wall. Adam imagined running down the drive, helping Megan as cops streamed in, then hugging his parents while a grateful police force applauded.
He was thrust back to reality as Simon called down to him. He’d dragged himself onto the wall, and now put out a hand to pull Adam up. Together they sprang down to the other side.
Adam looked back up at the wall. There was no going back now. He could see the Old School House to his right. To his surprise, the building was bathed in a yellow glow, giving it the appearance of a country church eager to attract tourists. He expected lights to be shining away from the house, seeking him out. Instead, every light in the building was on.
Adam squinted; halfway up the front of the house he could see a large black smudge, insect-shaped, dangling like a spider. Fear scampered over him. He didn’t want to draw the obvious conclusion. No, it isn’t a person. It can’t be.
“The lights are new,” whispered Simon. “What is that dark thing?”
They edged closer to the house through thin woodland. Snaps and rustles were shouts and warnings. But sounds in the distance concerned Adam more: the barking of a dog, the ticking of an engine, the slamming of a door.
There definitely was something or someone on the face of the building. No, not Megan, please. It can’t be. Adam was dizzy with fear. He took deep breaths to ease his nausea.
Then they saw a piece of cardboard nailed to a tree. There was writing on it: Sidewinder—Hurry. The cardboard was damp rather than sodden: it had not been there for long. Simon was pale. “That’s me. Sidewinder.”
“What?”
“All the kids have names of snakes; that was mine.”
A few trees later, they saw another: Sidewinder—Help.
“They know we’re coming,” said Simon. “But they couldn’t have known the route we would take. These signs must be everywhere.”
Adam listened, his face and body rigid, and wondered if he would hear a bullet before it hit him. If he died, would he know about it? Or would the world just go black? Years of life, thousands of hours, millions of minutes ending in one unexpected second. Doubt poured into him. Was he right to have come?
Between the trees, they saw the black shape against the building: it was twisting slightly in the breeze, center stage in the lights. It was definitely a person.
And the tree they waited behind had another crude sign: Sidewinder—Quick!
Adam wanted to run. He now pictured himself running down the road away from the house, the thin rain cooling him as danger gradually disappeared pace by pace.
“We don’t need to see any more,” said Simon. “That’s a body, and I’m calling the police.” He pulled out his phone and dialed 999. The call shot from cell tower to cell tower, then onto wires, under roads and beneath buildings, until it rose through the floor under a desk into the headphones of an operator.
“Emergency. Which service?”
“Police,” said Simon.
The line buzzed and Simon was asked to explain the nature of the emergency and give his details. “Something terrible has happened at the Old School House on the London Road. And I think Megan James is being held there.”
“Please stay on the line. . . .”
Simon was silent.
“Please stay on the line. . . .”
But Simon had seen something. “No, no,” he muttered, pointing.
“This is all wrong,” said Adam. “Why the hell would they do this?” He could now see that the dangling figure was a young man. Dead. Thirty feet from the ground, arms stretched between two ropes. For a terrible moment Adam felt relief—it wasn’t Megan!—but this was soon replaced by dark panic and horror. “Let’s go back,” he whispered. “Let’s wait for help.”
But Simon went closer still, silently, until he pushed Adam back behind a bush, out of direct sight of a surveillance camera on the corner of the building.
Adam was more afraid of the light than the dark. He had expected to be dodging spotlights and jumping from ditch to ditch. Perhaps The People were all hiding somewhere out here?
“I’m going in.” Simon looked toward the building and pointed to an open doorway. There was a sign made from a large wooden board: “Sidewinder. You are needed inside to stop your sister’s pain.”
“No,” hissed Adam. “No. Wait.” Why were the police taking so long?
Without a word, Simon ran across the grass, the powerful lights forcing two shadows from him. The open doors led straight into some sort of conference room. Every light was on: four chandeliers and nine wall lamps. There was no one there. On the table he could see a large piece of paper covered in black capital letters.
Adam waited. Silence. He checked the bushes behind for a trap. Nothing. Still silence.
Suddenly Simon was shouting, an anxious wail. “Adam, Adam! Come here! NOW!”
Adam sprinted across the lawn and through the doors.
Simon was pointing at the table. “My sister is upstairs; Megan’s in the summer house.” He pulled open an inner door and was gone.
Ada
m noticed the sheet of paper: “Viper is in Dorm Thirteen. Time is running out. Megan is in the summer house. Adam—be quick.”
“No, let’s wait! This is very wrong.” But Adam still dashed outside. Summer house? Yes, he could see a small timber building at the edge of the light.
Simon tore through the building, heading for the main stairs. He took them two or three at a time, throwing open two doors, and then went up the final flight. The door at the top was closed. Locked. He could hear noises from inside: screaming, rattling, bells.
Help Me was written underneath the Dorm Thirteen label.
NO! He smashed against the door.
It is written that the Traitor will choose to place himself in Dorm Thirteen. Coron laughed. The Master laughed. They both laughed.
Simon hurled himself against the door again. Desperation flooded through him.
Adam ran across the lawn toward the summer house. As he reached the stone path he slipped, both feet disappearing from under him. Ignoring his bleeding leg, he sprang up and hobbled on.
Further seconds slipped away as he peered through the dark windows. He tugged at the door: locked, but it looked flimsy.
Adam smashed once, twice at the door.
Simon smashed one more time. The door splintered. Screams tore through Dorm Thirteen. Were they Viper’s?
Adam and Simon both shoulder-barged their doors. Adam’s door cracked open; Simon’s door shattered.
In the gloom, Adam could just about see a large envelope with his name on it. Stepping back into the light, he tore it open. Inside was a cell phone and a plan of the grounds and surrounding roads, including a snaking dotted line. There was a large letter C at the end of the line and a message: “Use the phone.” He swore, then stepped back and looked up at the main building. Simon?
Simon stepped into the room. He saw thirteen packets of putty-like explosives and two words scrawled on the wall: The Traitor.
He saw the wires that led back to . . .
The door.
Simon heard a bleep.
He raised his hands in a futile attempt to shield himself. There was an enormous explosion.