“Come on, let’s get it over with,” she whispered. She took a deep breath and rapped on the door.
She waited, expecting Seaton’s usual cry of “Advance and be recognised.” But there was nothing. Silence. Cally checked her watch. She wasn’t late. Perhaps he’d forgotten all about her and cleared off to the pub after all. Cally lifted her hand and rubbed the stiff muscles in the back of her neck. She’d just finished a long stint in the library and she still had a mound of work to get through when she got home. I’ve got better things to do than stand around here. She looked up and down the empty corridor. The doors to all the other offices were closed. The corridor was completely silent. The whole department felt deserted. And she’d waited long enough. She turned on her heel, but as she stepped away, there was a sudden sound from Doctor Seaton’s room; perhaps the creaking of a floorboard. She stopped and turned to face the door. There it was again. And again. The sound had a rhythm. And it could only be one thing: footsteps. Cally swallowed hard. Again, she looked along the corridor. I should go. She took a step backward. And another. The handle on Seaton’s door rattled and then, very slowly, it began to turn. Cally gasped. She should never have come. Not on her own. What was she thinking? She stared at the door, transfixed. Another step backward and with a jolt, she came up against the wall. She cried out—she couldn’t help herself: “Bloody hell.”
And at that moment, the door swung open.
Chapter 4
2014
TOM RAN A HAND OVER HIS FACE and slumped back in his plastic chair. “No,” he said. “Of course you wouldn’t hit him. Where would that get you?” He looked around the group of lads, every one of them lounging back on their chairs, every one of them trying so hard to show they didn’t give a damn. They all wore the same defiant smirk. Sometimes, I feel like banging their heads together, he thought. But that wasn’t why he was here. He glanced up at the CCTV camera in the corner, counted five blinks of the red light, and his anger faded away. For a moment he wondered if anyone up in the detention centre’s control room was watching, laughing at his efforts to get through to these lads. And that’s all they were, just lads. He couldn’t give up on them. He had to give them a chance; the same chance he’d had at that age. “Anybody?” he asked. “Anybody hazard a guess at exactly where that course of action could lead?”
A couple of the lads fidgeted on their seats. One lad, Steve, stretched out in an exaggerated yawn, deliberately reaching his hand toward the lad sitting next to him; a heavyset youth named Jesse. Steve paused, savouring the moment, then flicked Jesse’s ear as hard as he could. In an instant, Jesse turned in his seat, his face a mask of cold hatred, his fist raised. “Try that again,” he snarled.
Steve’s face lit up with a savage smile, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
Tom glanced around the group. The rest of the lads weren’t slouching now. They sat bolt upright, on the edges of their seats, their shoulders back, their fists ready. A few of them were licking their lips. And every single one of them was thinking quickly—choosing sides and calculating the odds. Their minds were working faster now than they’d ever done in classrooms or exam halls. You could cut the tension in the air with a butterfly knife.
Tom knew exactly what they were feeling: blood buzzing in their ears, pure adrenaline coursing through their bodies, snapping every dormant muscle into life, sizzling through every nerve. They felt fantastic. This was what they lived for. This was what they were good at.
But Tom just sighed. He’d seen it all before. He sat up and raised his voice. “That’s enough,” he warned. “Any more of that and you know what happens—you don’t come next week.”
Steve and Jesse scowled at each other. But they knew Tom was serious. He’d kick them out of the group in a heartbeat. And the group was a soft option. It was easy time. Time away from the drudgery, the monotonous routine, the confinement. Nobody wanted to miss out on that, and Tom knew it. It was the one thing that gave him power over them, the single chink in their armour. It wasn’t much, but it was something he could work on. And week by week, if he was lucky, he’d get a few of them to let their guards down long enough to face what they’d done.
Jesse shook his head in disgust and sat back with his arms folded. Steve smiled and followed suit. The rest of the lads slouched back on their chairs, disappointed.
“OK,” Tom said. “Back to the situation we were talking about. You’re out having a drink with your mates, and someone, a complete stranger, pushes past you and makes you spill your drink. Danny here said he would hit the stranger. Steve, perhaps you could tell the group where that response could lead.”
Steve tilted his head and stared at Tom. The lad’s eyes were glassy, emotionless, the pupils unnaturally constricted. Strung out, Tom thought. Where the hell do they get it from? But he pushed the question from his mind. Crystal meth, heroin, ketamine—whatever you wanted, there was always a way to get it. Tom knew that better than most. But Steve had no right showing up in this state. The lads were all supposed to be clean before they were allowed to join the group. There were meant to be urine tests. Perhaps someone at the centre was getting sloppy and skimping on the routine. Tom made a mental note to check the paperwork later.
Suddenly, Steve sat up straight and leaned forward, fixing Tom with a hard stare. All heads swivelled to watch. If Steve was going to kick off, they didn’t want to miss a single moment.
“Is it true?” Steve said. “What they say about you—is it right?”
Tom shook his head wearily. “Not this again. Listen, we’ve been through all this.”
“No,” Steve said. “No, we haven’t. You’ve never owned up to what you did.”
“You know what I did,” Tom said. “I got mixed up with the wrong crowd, I dealt in drugs, got into fights. But that was all years ago. I’ve done my time. I’ve put it behind me.” He looked around the group for support. “And so can you—all of you. If you want to.”
But Steve was smirking and shaking his head. “No way. You can’t get away with that. You know what I’m talking about.”
Tom looked Steve in the eye. “No,” he said. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” He let the silence hang in the air for a moment. “But do you know what?” He looked around the group and forced himself to smile. “I reckon it’s time for a break.” He looked over to the guard by the door. Dave Howard was one of the older prison officers and he knew the drill. Generally, he stood quietly at the back and made himself invisible. He knew Tom needed to handle the group in his own way, but he’d step in soon enough if the situation called for it. Tom guessed this was a soft option for Dave, too; indoors and not too much to do. “That all right with you, Mr. Howard?”
Dave nodded and took up position by the door that led outside to a small yard.
Tom rubbed his hands together. “OK then. Ten minutes. And then be ready to participate in the group, OK?”
No one answered. Instead, the lads pushed their chairs back and stood, already pulling crumpled packs of cigarettes from their pockets. Then wearily, as if they’d just been asked to climb a mountain, they shuffled to the door. Tom watched as, without being told, they formed a patient line in front of the prison officer. Look at them, he thought. They look like little children queueing up for the morning break. They’d only been in the centre for a few months and already, they were institutionalised. Tom stood up. For a moment, he was tempted to join the back of the queue and go out into the yard for a smoke. But no. He hadn’t smoked in years. He lived a clean life these days. No cigarettes, no alcohol, nothing. Not since…He shook his head to dispel the thought. A cup of tea. I need a cup of tea. Dave would watch the lads for ten minutes while Tom slipped back to one of the staff rooms. A nice hot cup of tea and he’d be ready to get the group back on track.
The nearest staffroom was empty and Tom was suddenly self-conscious as he walked into the room on his own. Sometimes, he still felt as though he was in the wrong place. All his life he’d been on the wron
g side of authority figures. Now, he was one of their number. He’d been doing this job for almost two years, leading groups and mentoring individuals, trying to help them find the right path. But still, standing there among the tattered chairs and the cluttered tables, he felt like a child who’d been summoned to see the teacher. He felt like an imposter. He checked his watch. He didn’t have long. Dave wouldn’t want to hang around outdoors with the lads any longer than was strictly necessary.
Tom crossed to the sink and lifted the kettle, giving it an experimental slosh to check the water level. Good, there was already enough water for a mug of tea. He replaced the kettle on the counter and flipped the switch, watching the red light glow and listening to the rising hiss as the water stirred into motion. His attention wandered and whenever that happened, the words were never far from his mind. He heard them now; whispering in the hiss of steam, their murmured rhythm mingling with the gentle rumble of boiling water. “It’s all your fault,” they whispered. No, Tom thought. Not now. But that wasn’t enough. Once the words began to form in his mind, it was always so much harder to make them stop, to make them keep their accusations to themselves. “All your fault,” the words insisted. “But you got away with it. You lied and you got away with it and you didn’t deserve to. But it’s all your fault and you know it. You’ll always know it.”
With a sudden clunk, the automatic switch on the kettle flipped back to the off position and Tom blinked. “Focus,” he muttered. “Focus on one thing at a time.” He reached out for a mug from the shelf over the sink and grabbed a teabag from the packet on the counter. He dropped the bag into the mug and lifted the kettle, pouring the water carefully, watching the brown tea seep into the water. He picked up a teaspoon from the draining board and prodded at the teabag, counting slowly to twelve in his head. He lifted the bag with the spoon and dropped it neatly into the pedal bin. He bent down to open the fridge. There was plenty of milk for a change. Really, I should’ve checked that first, he thought. He added the milk to his mug and stirred it six times. “There we go,” he muttered. “Milk back in the fridge, rinse the teaspoon under the tap. One, two, three, four.” He watched the water flowing over the tea-stained spoon. Had he just said all that out loud? He coughed and looked over his shoulder, scanning the room although he knew he was alone. He sighed and turned the tap off. It’s funny, he thought, I always hated maths at school, but now I count just about everything. And it was true. He needed the reassuring rhythm of the numbers. Sometimes, they were all that held him together.
Tom raised the mug to his lips and blew across the top. He breathed in the fragrant steam and closed his eyes as he took that first slurp; always the same way, always while the tea was still too hot. He felt the heat catch at the back of his throat. And always the same thought: This is it. This is as good as I’m going to feel all day.
He opened his eyes and took another slurp, then raised his gaze to the window and looked out, trying to ignore the grid of metal bars. There wasn’t much to see out there, just a series of chain-link fences and the visitors’ car park. But he wanted to see beyond this place, he wanted to see the sky. At least I get to sign out at the end of the day. I get to drive home and choose what I have to eat. I get to sit in front of the TV and watch football. He sniffed. He was a damned sight better off than the poor kids confined within the centre’s concrete walls and chain-link fences; they hardly dared to dream about the day they’d leave this place.
He watched the clouds for a couple of minutes and sipped at his tea. A crow flapped lazily across the sky and he followed its path, counting every beat of its wings. One, two three, four. As he watched, the crow swooped down into the car park, settling next to a discarded polystyrene burger carton. It pecked at the yellow container, no doubt hoping for a leftover French fry. Tom snorted. The carton was probably from some kid visiting his dad. As young as the inmates were, some of them had still managed to have kids of their own. Tom had seen the teenage mums dragging their reluctant toddlers across the car park. The burger would be a bribe: “Visit your dad and we’ll go to McDonald’s on the way.”
Tom smiled sadly. There but for the grace of God, he thought. He gulped down the last of his tea, but as he turned away from the window, something in the car park caught his eye. He put the mug down on the counter, and moved closer to the window, scanning across the parked cars. What had he seen? There. He’d assumed, at first, that all the cars were empty, but in a dark blue Renault hatchback, a man sat behind the wheel. The man’s face was pale against the car’s gloomy interior and he was leaning forward, staring through the windscreen. “He’s not looking at me,” Tom whispered. “He can’t be.” But that just wasn’t true. There was no doubt about it. The man was not staring at the building, nor at the window, but directly at Tom; watching him, taking in his every move.
Tom blinked. He returned the man’s gaze. Something was wrong. Something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Did he know this man? Perhaps he’d seen his photo in the files. He could be related to one of the lads; an uncle perhaps, or even a grandfather. Tom racked his brain but he just couldn’t place him. Should he wave to him, or acknowledge him in some way? Slowly, he raised his hand to shoulder height and spread his fingers. But the man hurriedly looked away. Tom felt foolish and lowered his hand. He must’ve made a mistake. And yet the man in the car seemed agitated by Tom’s wave. Suddenly, he strapped on his seatbelt and started the engine, then turned his head, looking rapidly from side to side.
“What are you up to?” Tom muttered. The dark blue car reversed from its parking space and sped toward the exit, grinding to an abrupt stop at the barrier. Tom heard the honk of a horn and he smiled to himself. Whoever was manning the barrier would not like that. They’d make the man wait. They might even search his car. It was a shame Tom didn’t have time to watch. He needed to get back to the group. He put his empty mug into the dishwasher and turned toward the staffroom door. He’d hoped for ten minutes of peace and quiet, but now he felt more unsettled than before his tea break. What had just happened? Had he recognised that man or was he confusing him with someone else?
He shook his head and headed back toward the group. He needed to get his head back together. He had work to do. There were sixty-three steps back to the room he used for his group sessions. One, two, three, four. There was nothing to worry about. Five, six, seven. The man had just been a visitor and he’d probably been lost in thought, just staring into space. Eight, nine, ten. Perhaps the man had been embarrassed to have been spotted daydreaming and he’d hurried away. Eleven, twelve. He’d probably been anxious to get away from the centre and forget about the place; most people felt the same—even the staff. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. There was nothing more to it than that. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.
Nothing at all.
Chapter 5
3650 BC
BROND’S SCREAM ENDED ABRUPTLY and instantly the whole tribe was in uproar. Women gathered their children and drew their knives. Men leaped to their feet, eyeing each other watchfully, their fingers flicking through the air in silent signals. The dogs barked and snarled for all they were worth, their lips curled back, their teeth flashing white in the firelight.
But Hafoc could only stand and stare, his mouth hanging open. He looked from left to right, but nothing made sense. Brond was strong and brave. Brond was a hunter, a fighter. Nothing bad could happen to him. Could it? Hafoc swayed. The forest floor felt unsteady beneath his feet. He watched open-mouthed as a group of men ran into the dark forest, fanning out, slinking silently between the trees. A few of the dogs followed, but most stayed by the fire, pacing back and forth, growling and snarling.
“Hafoc, no!”
Hafoc turned his head slowly and stared as Sceldon marched toward him, his hand outstretched.
“Stay here, Hafoc.”
“What?” Hafoc blinked and looked around him. Somehow, without being aware of it, he’d walked to the edge of the clearing. He looked down. His knife was in
his hand. Good, he thought. I’ve got to go into the forest. I’ve got to help Brond.
Sceldon caught up with him. He reached out and placed his palm on Hafoc’s chest. “Hafoc, listen to me. Stay here. Let other men deal with this.”
Hafoc shook his head. “Brond,” he mumbled.
“Yes,” Sceldon said. “Brond is in trouble. But the best way you can help him is to stay safe with the tribe.”
Hafoc looked back toward the fire, where the women and children were huddled together for safety. A movement at the edge of the firelight drew his attention, and he watched as Nelda trotted toward him. Even the dog knew what had to be done. “No,” he said. He looked Sceldon in the eye. “Brond is my brother. My only kin. I’m going to help him.”
Sceldon said nothing. He studied Hafoc’s face for a moment. “Go,” he said. He stood back. “But keep your eyes open.”
Hafoc nodded. He gripped his knife a little tighter and stepped forward into the forest. And as he slipped into the shadows, he heard the gentle pad of paws rustling through the undergrowth and knew that Brond’s dog had joined him. “Good girl, Nelda,” he whispered. “Good girl.”
He crept forward through the ferns, scanning the forest, staring into the gloom for some sign of the men who’d set off before him. When Brond had left to get firewood, the sky had been almost completely dark. Now, beneath the forest’s dense canopy, Hafoc could barely distinguish the trees from their shadows. And the men don’t know I’ve joined them in the forest, he thought. Hafoc bit his lip. It would be dangerous to creep up on the others unannounced. He paused and waved the dog forward. “Go on, Nelda,” he said. “You can hear them. Go and find them.”
Nelda trotted ahead. She seemed to know where she was going and Hafoc followed. He watched Nelda from the corner of his eye as he stalked forward, glancing nervously from side to side. Soon, he heard the murmur of voices ahead and he knew he’d been right to trust Nelda’s keen senses. Hafoc walked toward the voices, treading carefully among the undergrowth. Oh Brond, what could’ve happened to you? There’d been no shouts of warning, none of the clumsy sounds of a fight. And Brond hadn’t had time to get far from the camp, so why hadn’t they found him yet? Hafoc shook his head. This was all wrong.
Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) Page 3