Instantly, the forest was filled with the sound of men crashing through the undergrowth. My captors stared at one another for a heartbeat, and then they ran. They scattered, leaping over the ferns and darting around trees. In moments, they were gone, melting into the shadows. Even the dog had disappeared.
I laughed. “Oh my god. If I’d known it was that easy, I’d have done it ages ago.” But then I saw the men running toward me, and suddenly I knew exactly why the teenager had been so scared.
They charged into view, tearing through the forest, screeching and howling as they closed in on me. The sound shuddered through me, chilled me to the core. But their blood-curdling yelps were nothing compared to the sight of these men. Their wild, staring eyes burned with a furious lust for blood. Their snarling lips were pulled back to show their crooked, savage teeth. Their pale faces, twisted in rage, were masked by a frenzied design of swirling black lines, and each of them carried a weapon; a crude axe held at shoulder height, ready to strike, to split a skull.
I pulled frantically against the rope. It bit into my wrist, but the knots held it tight to the tree. I stumbled forward. I had to untie myself. But it was too late for that. Too late to even try.
The painted men had seen me straight away. Now, they slowed their pace and homed in on me. There were six of them, and they moved with the swift, determined rhythm of a pack of wild dogs. They were unstoppable, relentless. A fierce, insatiable hunger smouldered in their dark, pitiless eyes.
I backed against the tree. “No,” I whispered. “This can’t be happening.”
The men gathered in front of me. They stood, breathing hard, their teeth bared in vicious smiles. They exchanged glances, their eyes alight with excitement, glittering with greed.
My legs buckled beneath me. Only the tree at my back prevented me from collapsing onto the ground. My mind reeled. What have I done? But I knew the answer. I knew I’d just made a terrible mistake. And I knew one other thing for certain—my life was over.
Chapter 23
2018
CALLY SIGHED and scanned the crowded tea shop for any sign of an empty table. She gave Andrew an apologetic smile. She’d known the place would be busy, but this was ridiculous. Still, Andrew seemed happy to stand quietly and look around the room, a faint smile on his lips. He’s patient, Cally thought. That’s nice. Then suddenly, he wasn’t by her side, but moving across the room, squeezing his way through the narrow gaps between the tables.
Andrew stopped next to a table near the window, where a woman was trying to organise her two young children while simultaneously gathering up their discarded jumpers and waterproof coats.
“Excuse me,” Andrew said. “I’m sorry to bother you.” He bent down and scooped up something from the floor. A flash of annoyance crossed the woman’s face. She was getting to the end of her tether, but her frown melted into a grateful smile as Andrew stood up and she saw what he was holding.
“I think you dropped this,” Andrew said. He held out a piece of paper that was thoroughly covered with a mass of bright colours.
“Oh, thank you,” the woman said. “We’ve have been looking for that for ages.”
“No problem,” Andrew said. “We can’t have such fine artworks on the floor.” Andrew offered the paper to the children. “Now, who’s the great artist?”
The woman beamed. “Go on, Helen—say thank you to the gentleman.”
“Thank you,” the girl said. She grinned, but she was too shy to reach out and accept the drawing.
“You’re welcome,” Andrew said. “I’ll just put it here for now.” He found a space for the drawing on the cluttered table. “I’d better get back to my friend.” He nodded toward Cally, then made as if to walk away.
“Oh, haven’t you got a table?” the woman asked.
“No such luck,” Andrew said. “I think we might have to try somewhere else.”
“Well, we’re just leaving. Please, have this table. We won’t be a minute.”
Andrew smiled. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
The woman bundled the assortment of jumpers and coats under her arm and picked up her handbag. “Come on,” she said to the children. “We’ll sort these out later. Don’t forget your drawings.”
The children dutifully stood up and Andrew waved Cally over.
Cally picked her way across the room, trying not to smile too widely. So, he’s charming and polite, he behaves like a gentleman and he’s good with children. Was there nothing wrong with this man? She couldn’t think of a single thing. She bit her bottom lip. This was all going very well. It felt like the start of something. Something good.
Andrew stood aside as the woman herded her children toward the door. She gave him a little smile as she left and Andrew nodded in acknowledgement. He turned to Cally. “This table OK for you?” he asked.
“Yes,” Cally said. “Perfect.”
Andrew put his rucksack on the floor and they sat down. He picked up the menu and passed it to Cally. “You choose. My treat.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Cally said.
“I know, but I’d like to. That is, if you don’t mind.”
“OK,” Cally said. She took a breath. “But only if I can pay next time.” She felt her cheeks flush and she held up the menu to hide behind. Seriously? What’s got into me? She peeked around the edge of the menu, pleased to see that Andrew wasn’t staring at her in horror, but looking out of the window. She followed his gaze. The cathedral was bathed in sunlight. The mellow stone seemed to glow. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Andrew looked at her. Her pale blue eyes were wide in wonder as she admired every detail of the cathedral’s stonework, every intricate carving. “Beautiful,” he murmured.
Cally glanced at him and their eyes met for an awkward, wonderful moment that made Cally smile. But suddenly, Andrew’s expression changed. He doesn’t want to be here, Cally thought, and her smile faded away.
Andrew looked down at the table. What the hell am I doing? He was making a mess of this. He needed to change the situation. He needed to think. “Listen, would you order something for me? I’ll just pop to the, er…” He pushed his chair back and stood up.
“OK,” Cally said. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Er, coffee please. Americano. A large one if they do it.” He picked his rucksack up by the straps and turned away.
“Andrew,” Cally said, her voice louder, shriller than she meant it to be. “You are coming back, aren’t you?”
Andrew stopped in his tracks. A few heads had turned at the sound of Cally’s voice, and now several of the customers were watching him with interest. If there was a chance of some drama to liven up their morning, they didn’t want to miss it. An elderly lady put down her scone and glared at him in contempt. Andrew groaned inwardly. A couple of words out of place and suddenly he was the centre of attention; the awful man who’d abandoned that pretty girl. People would remember seeing them together. They’d remember his face, his name. He forced a smile and turned back to Cally. “Of course. I won’t be a minute.”
“It’s just, you seemed…I mean, is something wrong?”
“No, no. What makes you say that?”
“Well, why are you taking your bag with you?”
Andrew looked down at the rucksack, dangling from his hand. “Oh, no reason. It’s got my phone in and I don’t like to leave it lying around, in case someone pinches it.”
“Oh. It’s all right. I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“Right. OK.” Reluctantly, he lowered the rucksack onto the seat of his chair. What else could he do? “Thanks. I won’t be long.” He hurried away. It’ll be all right, he thought. I can still do this, I just have to get things back on track. He’d dash into the toilets, splash some cold water on his face, and get his thoughts together. He needed to plan out exactly what he was going to say and do.
Cally watched him go. First dates could be awkward, miserable affairs, but this one—if that’s what it was—was j
ust incomprehensible. Every time things are going well, he shies away from me. It was as if he was afraid of something. But afraid of what? After all, they’d only just met. He couldn’t be afraid of getting to know her, could he? She looked down at the tablecloth and traced random patterns on the white cotton with her fingertip, lost in her thoughts, until suddenly, she heard something. What was that?
There’d been something like a faint beep. It seemed to have come from Andrew’s rucksack. She listened carefully. Yes, there it was again. It must be Andrew’s phone. She glanced around the room. There was no sign of him. She must remember to tell him when he came back. She sat back and folded her arms. He would be coming back, wouldn’t he? For an awful moment, she looked at the rucksack and thought of bombs and terrorists. But then, she looked at the quaint arrangement of carnations on the table and remembered where she was, and who she was with. The tiny Cathedral Tearoom was an unlikely target, and if Andrew seemed a bit secretive, surely that was just down to shyness. He probably hasn’t had a lot of girlfriends, she decided. And that was a point in his favour.
She looked at the rucksack. It hadn’t beeped again, so it was probably just a text message. Even so, she wondered if it might be urgent. Or perhaps his phone’s battery was flat—that sometimes made them beep. Perhaps she should check. No. I can’t do that. I can’t possibly. Cally stared at the rucksack, then slowly, and in spite of herself, she moved her hand toward it.
Chapter 24
2014
TOM STOPPED WALKING and looked around as though getting his bearings. He didn’t need to check where he was, not really. This part of the quarry had hardly changed since he last saw it. Perhaps a few more few spindly saplings had sprung up, and maybe there were more patches of dense brambles than he remembered, but that was all that was different. I know exactly where I’m going. I just need a moment to try and get my head together. He ran a hand over his face. He needed a way out of this, and he needed it now. The ledge was just ahead. He could already see the telltale dip in the undergrowth that marked its position. Soon, he’d be stepping down onto the place where it had all happened, the place he’d hoped never to see again. And then what? What the hell was he going to say? What the hell was he going to do? He closed his eyes for a moment and raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. It was no use. It wouldn’t matter what he said or did. There was no way he was getting out of this in one piece.
“Why have you stopped again?” the man demanded. “What’s the matter this time?”
Tom didn’t bother turning to face him. “Just checking. Don’t want to go the wrong way.”
“You know the way. Don’t even think about leading me on a wild goose chase.”
Tom took a breath and stifled a few rough words. “We didn’t usually come this way. We used to come in from the footpath—on the other side of the quarry.”
The man clenched his jaw. “Christ,” he hissed. “Do you know the way or not?”
Tom allowed himself a smirk. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing in the world, to irritate the madman, but it showed he could rattle him. Maybe, if he could annoy him enough, the man would lose his temper and make a mistake, and that might give Tom a chance to even things up. “All right, keep your hair on, I know the way,” he said. “Just try and keep up.” He set off, shuffling forward as quickly as he could. But he couldn’t go fast enough to outpace the man. Tom’s knee threatened to let him down at every step. The only way he could carry on was if he hobbled forward with one foot, then dragged his other foot along the ground. The pain shot through his leg with every step. It was only a matter of time before he wouldn’t be able to walk at all. But as long as the man had the baseball bat, Tom had no choice but to grit his teeth and struggle on.
He ducked under a low, crooked branch, brushing aside the curtain of tangled, trailing ivy, and stepped onto the edge of a short, steep slope. And there it was. Directly below him, the ledge was exactly as he remembered it: a narrow strip of flat rock cut into the side of the quarry, and covered in scrubby grass. It was the only thing that stood between him and the long, sheer drop to the quarry floor. The only way down from the ledge was a set of narrow steps, cut into the rock face, and those steps were hidden among the ferns and ivy that clung to the bare rock.
“It’s here,” Tom said, more to himself than to the man.
But the man wasn’t listening. He’d seen the ledge for himself. “Bloody hell. I’d no idea…”
Tom half turned and sidestepped onto the slope, inching his way down. The soil on the slope was loose and mixed with gravel. A cascade of small stones scattered beneath Tom’s feet as he half slipped, half staggered down the slope. After a few steps he started picking up speed. I should’ve started off slower. But it was too late to change that now. He looked ahead, and suddenly he realised that for the last metre or so, the slope gave way to an almost vertical drop down to the ledge. Normally, he would have jumped down onto the ledge easily, but with his injuries, that was impossible. His leg was already screaming in pain, and the impact of landing on the flat rock would be agony. But he was already moving too fast. There was no way he could stop in time. So he did the only thing he could think of; he closed his eyes and threw himself down onto his back. His body still slid down the slope, but not as fast, and it gave him enough time to prepare. As he dropped onto the ledge, he twisted his body and took the brunt of the impact on his good leg. His foot slipped through the coarse grass and he landed heavily on his behind, but he’d made it. “Bloody hell,” he hissed. He buried his face in his hands. His back was in shreds and his head felt as though his skull had split wide open, but he was on solid ground, and at least he’d managed to keep well away from the far edge, and the deadly drop to the quarry floor.
The man’s voice came from above: “Are you all right?”
Tom shook his head in disbelief, but he didn’t answer, didn’t even look up. How could that bastard have the nerve to sound concerned? What the hell did he care? If it hadn’t been for him, none of this would’ve happened. Tom lifted his head and stared into the distance. “To hell with this,” he muttered to himself. “I’ve had enough.” He gathered his strength and pushed himself up to his feet—just in time. He heard a noise and turned. A scattering of stones and soil rattled down the slope toward him. He stepped back to get out of the way and looked up. The man was careering toward the ledge, dislodging a hail of stones as he stomped down the slope. It was almost a comical sight. Almost.
The man flailed his arms to keep his balance, but every step sent him further out of control. He stumbled, pitching forward, then staggered clumsily as he tried to stay upright. But it was too late, and he cried out in dismay as the ground seemed to fall away beneath his feet. In a last desperate attempt to save himself, he tried to leap down onto the ledge, but he misjudged the distance and jumped too soon. The grassy ledge promised a soft landing but the layer of grass was thin, and beneath it, the ledge was solid rock. The man’s body was too old for this, his reflexes too slow. He tried to land on both feet but failed dismally. His right foot hit the ground first and took the full force of his fall. His ankle twisted beneath him, and as the pain seared through his leg, his ankle gave way and he fell awkwardly, landing on his side. He didn’t have time to put his hands out to protect his head, and his skull slammed against the unforgiving ground. He let out a guttural grunt of pain then lay still, his eyes closed, his mouth hanging open. His fingers uncurled and the baseball bat slid from his grip.
Tom stood over the man and stared down at him. The man wouldn’t be unconscious for long; he was only stunned. He’d probably managed to give himself a concussion but he’d be back on his feet very soon. Tom bent down and picked up the baseball bat and his lips curled into a cold, hard smile. He could end this now; a swift swipe into the bastard’s ribs, just for the hell of it, then one good, hard swing to his head. He could split the man’s skull and leave him for dead.
Tom held the bat with both hands. It felt good. He tensed his biceps
and gauged the distance. His nostrils flared as he took a breath. And he froze, staring at the baseball bat in his hands. Suddenly, it was as if he was seeing himself from a distance: a vicious thug about to attack a defenceless man. “This isn’t right,” he whispered. “It won’t solve anything—it can only make things worse.” How many times had he delivered that line to the lads he worked with? Too many to count and he’d meant it every time. He knew the truth of it. But what would the lads think if they saw him now? Just look at me—what’s happened to me? There must be a better way to deal with this—he just needed to look for it.
Tom lowered the bat and let it fall from his fingers. All he needed was a head start and his phone, and both were there for the taking. He bent over and took hold of the edge of the man’s coat. Gently, he lifted the coat and slipped his hand into the left pocket. Nothing. He tried the right pocket. “Sod it,” he whispered. Both pockets were empty. Where did he put it? The phone was too big to be in a trouser pocket, wasn’t it? Tom looked down at the man’s jeans. He really didn’t want to go fishing around in there, and because the man was on his side, Tom could only get at his left trouser pocket. There was no telltale bulge that might be his phone. Tom bit his bottom lip. If the man was lying on his phone, there was a good chance he’d broken it when he fell. But maybe not. After all, it was about time he had a lucky break. He’d just have to roll the man over. Tom put his hands on the man’s chest and pushed gently. The man didn’t budge. Tom held his breath and shoved harder. The man’s upper body twisted and rolled. His head turned, but his legs stubbornly stayed where they were. Tom tutted to himself and let go. Slowly, the man’s body started to roll back into position, and as his face settled back against the ground, he moaned.
Tom’s flesh crawled. He stared at the man’s face and watched in horror as his eyelids fluttered open.
“Wha—what happened?” The man winced and lifted his head, and suddenly he was wide awake, his eyes locked onto Tom. “You,” he said, his voice thick. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, grimacing as he untangled his legs. “Damn it,” he hissed. “My ankle.”
Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) Page 19