by Jodi Taylor
JODI TAYLOR
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2018
Octavo House
West Bute Street
Cardiff
CF10 5LJ
www.accentpress.co.uk
Copyright © Jodi Taylor 2018
The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.
ISBN 9781786156075
eISBN 9781786156068
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A
Also by Jodi Taylor
The Chronicles of St Mary’s
Just One Damned Thing After Another
A Symphony of Echoes
A Second Chance
A Trail Through Time
No Time Like the Past
What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
Lies, Damned Lies, And History
And the Rest is History
An Argumentation of Historians
The Chronicles of St Mary’s short stories
When a Child is Born
Roman Holiday
Christmas Present
Ships, Stings and Wedding Rings
The Great St Mary’s Day Out
My Name is Markham
The Very First Damned Thing
A Perfect Storm
Christmas Past
The Battersea Barricades
The Steam-Pump Jump
The Long and Short of It – a St Mary’s collection
The Frogmorton Farm Series
The Nothing Girl
Little Donkey
The Something Girl
A Bachelor Establishment (as Isabella Barclay)
The Elizabeth Cage Series
White Silence
Dark Light
Author’s note
A part of this story was inspired by the archaeological discovery of a small house at the very centre of Avebury. This tiny house was attached to a single obelisk and the whole surrounded by a rare, a very rare, stone square. Not a circle – a square.
Everyone else is, of course, having a rational and balanced discussion about this find. I, however, being neither rational nor balanced, have – and without any evidence whatsoever – immediately leaped to the unlikely conclusion that the square was built to keep something in.
As I speculate in this story – reputable archaeologists and historians might want to look away now, please – suppose our prehistoric stones were by no means as benign as we suppose. They’re all dormant now, but suppose, suddenly, they weren’t. And never had been. What could happen if they suddenly woke up?
Suppose something the size of Avebury suddenly switched itself back on …
Dark light shines on a different world.
A world we could not reach if we travelled ten thousand times ten thousand years. And yet it is less than a hair’s breadth away from our own. And sometimes the walls are very thin.
Prologue
My name is Elizabeth Cage and I’ve never done anyone any harm in my life – at least, not intentionally. But I have what some might call a gift. I call it a curse. Let’s call it a talent. I can see things. No, not dead people – although I have seen dead people – I see something else. I see people’s colours.
Years ago, when I was a child, before I’d ever heard the word aura, I called it a colour. Everyone has one. A shimmering outline of colour that constantly changes shade and shape as they react to whatever’s going on around them. Everyone’s is unique. Some are a distinct shape, thick and clearly defined. Some colours are rich and strong and vibrant. Others are pale and insubstantial. Sometimes there’s a dirty, dark patch over their head or their heart and that’s never good.
Sometimes, friends or family, people who are close, have similar colours. Colours that are related in the spectrum. You may have noticed that there are people for whom you feel an affinity. That’s because your colours are similar. Some people repulse you. You feel an urge to keep your distance. You might not know why, but your colour certainly does.
Your colour tells me things about you. Things you might not even know yourself. Things you might not want others to know. Give me ten minutes and I can tell you whether you’re happy or sad. I know if you’re lying. I know if you’re afraid. I know if you’re bluffing. You don’t have to say a word, but you’re telling me just the same.
I don’t know how Dr Sorensen found out about me but he did. He runs a clinic – ostensibly a rest home for those rich enough to be able to afford his very discreet services, but that’s just a front. He works for the government.
I’d never actually heard the phrase ‘psychological warfare’ until Michael Jones explained it to me, but apparently that’s what Sorensen does. He devises ways of misleading, deceiving and intimidating people. And don’t fall into the trap of thinking he confines these dubious activities to ‘enemies of the state’. According to Jones, he’s pretty indiscriminate in his targets. Sometimes our friends can be more dangerous than our enemies. He’ll have a go at anyone he’s told to. And, from my own experience, he’s not above using his resources for his own ends either.
He’s an expert on people’s behaviour, which is what makes him so dangerous. He can predict how people will behave under certain conditions and how to manipulate them accordingly. He can tailor-make propaganda tools. He can advise on how to mislead, deceive or even intimidate anyone he’s instructed to. He seeks out other people’s vulnerabilities. And not for good reasons.
I know he has plans for me … As Michael Jones once said, ‘My God, Cage, we could sit you down in a room full of world leaders and you could tell us everything we needed to know. Who’s lying. Who’s afraid. Who isn’t …’
Except I didn’t want to be sat down in a room full of world leaders. I just wanted to live a quiet life. I didn’t ask to see these things. It’s not a gift to know what people are thinking. And it’s definitely not a gift to see those shadowy figures, half in this world and half out of it … I just wanted to ignore it and move on from my husband’s sudden death and I thought I had. I thought I had found a friend. Someone I thought might, one day, become much more than a friend. Michael Jones was big and competent and damaged. His colour should be a rich mixture of reds and glowing golds, but by losing someone he’d lost his own way. He was vulnerable. And that bastard Sorensen had exploited that vulnerability and used him to get to me.
It was Jones himself who told me what he’d done. It was Jones who gave me the opportunity to get away. Jones who told me to run while I still could.
I had no choice. I had to escape this web of Sorensen’s making.
So I ran.
Chapter One
I stared out of the big black window. The darkening sky and the lights in the railway carriage meant that, for most of the time, all I could see was myself. I gazed at this other self and my other self gazed back again. My face was a pale blob surrounded by darkness. Actually, that’s not a bad metaphor. A small white face surrounded by big black nothingness.
I was in trouble. I was in so much trouble. I’d been running for three days now, although it seemed much longer. I could barely remember a time when I wasn’t hurtling through the night on a half-empty train or rattling down strange lanes on a rural bus boarded at random.
I couldn’t afford to fall asleep. I had to stay awake and keep checking my fellow passengers. I had to watch for anyone leaping on at the last moment or look out for someone who might be discreetly paying me extra attention. At any moment, I expected to hear the shout, ‘That’s her,’ or feel a heavy hand on my shoulder. Or hear the sudden screech of brakes as a car pulled up and I was bundled inside before I had a chance to call for help.
I’d begun well. I’d run from my house in Rushford, suitcase in hand, down the hill and across the bridge. In a blind panic I might have been, but the sensible part of my brain took me to the bank.
Inventing some family emergency – I don’t know why I did that. I kept telling myself I had no need to account for my withdrawals, but it seemed I couldn’t help it – I withdrew as much cash as I could without awkward questions being asked.
From there, I pushed my way along the crowded post-Christmas pavements, heart thumping with fear, always looking over my shoulder, desperate to reach the railway station.
Mindful of the ever-present CCTV cameras, I kept my face down and, to the bemusement of the ticket clerk, bought a one-way ticket to Edinburgh and then another to Penzance. I was hasty and frightened and I dropped things and my hands were shaking and I knew he would remember me. Just for good measure, I used my credit card to buy the tickets. I was certain they would be monitoring my bank account.
From there, I trundled my suitcase into the Ladies and turned my coat inside out. It looked odd but that was the least of my worries and now it was silver instead of black, which was the best I could do for the time being.
Leaving the Ladies, I left the station as well, heading for the bus depot next door. I counted three buses down the line and jumped on the fourth. I had no idea where it was going to but that wasn’t important. It was the going from that was so vital.
I jumped off the bus at the next town and did exactly the same thing again – three buses along, catch the fourth, jump off that one at a randomly selected stop – and do it all again.
I ate sandwiches of varying quality as I went. I slept in snatches, sometimes only for seconds, waking with a jerk at strange noises or sudden braking. Or I huddled, too cold to sleep, on hideously cold metal seats in bus stations. The ones specifically designed to prevent anyone ever being comfortable on them. I had no idea where I was most of the time. I kidded myself this was a good thing. That if I had no idea where I was then neither would anyone else.
And always, I kept moving. I never stopped. After three days, I was exhausted. I smelled. I looked dreadful and felt worse. Three days seemed a very long time and they hadn’t caught me yet. Was it possible I had escaped? Had I actually managed to get away? And for how long could I stay away?
It was when I was alighting from my umpteenth bus on its way to somewhere unknown that my legs gave way. I struggled to a nearby bench and sat down heavily. People were looking at me, probably thinking I was drunk or on drugs or both. This had to stop. I hadn’t been well when I’d run from Michael Jones and now I was making myself really ill. I’d done headlong panic – now I needed to slow down and think carefully. I’d run from the past. Now I needed to plan for the future.
I emerged from the bus station into a busy but anonymous town. Traffic roared past in several different directions. I stood for a while, getting my bearings, while people streamed around me on the pavement. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to go. Except me. There was a large department store opposite and I trundled shakily across the road to use their facilities. They had a very nice restroom and I washed as much of me as was possible and scrabbled in my suitcase for something else to wear.
I’d only packed for the Christmas holiday – and what a long time ago that seemed now. Almost another life – so I didn’t have a great deal of choice, and then I realised I was in a department store. They sold clothes. And toiletries. And I had money. I could hear Michael Jones’s exasperation. ‘Really Cage, you’re not bright, are you?’
I bought another pair of jeans and a couple of t-shirts and warm sweaters. And a beanie. All in greys and blacks. I had gone off colour forever. Colour had been the curse of my life. And I bought a new coat as well. I asked them to cut off all the labels and changed in the toilets.
Examining myself in the mirror, I looked completely different. The beanie covered my hair and a scarf covered my face. I was pleased with the result and this gave me enough confidence to sit in their café and gulp down a hasty bowl of soup and a sandwich. I was huddled in a corner, as out of the way as I could manage, but when someone dropped a plate it frightened me so much I nearly jumped out of my skin, and the urge to move started up again. I stuffed down the rest of the sandwich and headed back to the train station where I bought a ticket for the first town whose name I recognised. I wouldn’t go all the way. I’d jump off at a random station and do it all again.
Keep moving. I had to keep moving.
Anyway, here I was, staring at myself in a blank window, wondering what I was doing, where I was going, and what on earth I was going to do when I got there.
Chapter Two
I exited the train station to a downpour. It wasn’t just raining – it was hurling it down. Grey rain cascaded from the sky and bounced off the pavements. It gurgled from downspouts and spread across pavements. Cars splashed through oily rainbow puddles. The sky was dark and overcast. This was rain that wasn’t going to let go any time soon.
I stood under an awning and looked around me. The street lights were coming on. People hurried past, entangling their umbrellas in their race to get out of the wet. The carpark was rapidly emptying as those travellers lucky enough to have someone to meet them were whisked away to warm homes and warmer welcomes. The last taxi disappeared and I stood alone in the rain.
On the other side of the car park, an engine started with a throaty cough and a single-decker red bus – the only splash of colour in the entire afternoon – opened its door with a hiss. Passengers filed slowly on board.
I didn’t even stop to think, splashing across the car park and dragging my by now quite battered suitcase behind me.
The driver looked at me. ‘Yes, love?’
His colour was a soft dove grey, tinged with fawn and pink. In a way, he reminded me of my dad.
I cursed myself for an idiot. I hadn’t thought to look at the front of the bus. I had no idea where it was going and if I asked he might remember me. For all the wrong reasons.
‘How far do you go?’ I asked. Same question, but slightly rephrased.
‘Greyston,’ he said, printing out the ticket before I could say anything else. The decision had been taken out of my hands. It would seem I was going to Greyston. Wherever that was.
The bus was crowded but I was able to get a seat at the back on the right-hand side – and no one could see me from the pavement there. We wove through the traffic and I watched the other passengers disappear one by one. I don’t mean that anything sinister happened to them, only that they got off and, after we left the town, no one replaced them. The interior was very warm. The lights were bright and reflected off the drops of rain running down the window.
I kept an anxious eye on my suitcase, parked in the rack near the front. It wasn’t much but it was all I had and without it I would be in trouble. No – I was already in trouble. I would be in even worse trouble, although it was hard to see how that could be possible.
The bus bumped and lurched is way down ever narrowing country lanes. The journey seemed endless, which bothered me not one bit. I was warm, I was safe, and there was no sign either of Michael Jones or Dr Sorensen so it could go on forever as far as I was concerned.
It didn’t, of course.
Eventually there was just m
e and a young woman only partly visible behind the most enormous rucksack on her lap. Her colour was a mingled turquoise and blue – rather pretty, I thought.
She turned to me. ‘Greyston?’
I nodded. As if by not speaking I wasn’t committing myself. As far as I could tell, this was just a friendly enquiry. I made an effort to be polite. ‘Are you going to Greyston too?’
She pulled her scarf away from her neck. It was hot on the bus. ‘Well, you have to make the effort for the New Year thing, don’t you?’
‘Mm,’ I said, not wanting to say the wrong thing.
‘Yes, I always come home for the New Year. We all do.’
I assumed she meant members of her family and said no more.
The rain eased, the sky lifted slightly and I rubbed a patch on the steamed-up window and tried to catch a glimpse of the outside world. I saw a jumble of lights reflected in the wet road and that was about it. The bus slowed and splashed to a halt. The driver called, ‘Greyston,’ and switched off the engine. Wherever Greyston was, plainly we had arrived.
He busied himself with a clipboard, checking off figures and ticking boxes, and paying no attention to us. My fellow passenger nodded farewell, said, ‘See you on New Year’s Eve,’ collected her gear and disappeared into the night.
I made my way slowly down the bus and hauled my small suitcase from the rack.
The driver looked up. ‘I go back in ten minutes, pet.’
‘Is there nowhere here to stay?’ I asked in sudden alarm, wondering if, like Jane Eyre in her headlong flight, I’d been dumped in the middle of nowhere and would nearly die of exposure and starvation on the high moors.
‘I think the pub puts people up and there’s a small guest house.’ He jerked his pen – presumably in the direction of this guest house. ‘On the other side of the green.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, preparing to step down. Of course I had to get off. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life yo-yoing between town and village because that wouldn’t be strange at all, would it? Should one of Sorensen’s minions come looking for me with even the simplest query, ‘You haven’t seen a woman, have you? Behaving oddly? You know, a bit strange?’ and a positive forest of hands would point in my direction. Besides, I could see by his colour that the driver meant me no harm. He was simply a kindly man making sure I had somewhere to go on a wet night.