Realm of Darkness

by C F Dunn

  I fought the urge to leap up and run as his mouth crushed against my neck, his free hand yanking my clothing from my hips, roughly nudging my legs apart with his knee to leave marks on the soft skin of my thighs, like accusations. I thrust a hand beneath the pillow and felt the slippery steel of the butter knife hidden there. Blunt, it would still do the job driven beneath the armour of his ribcage and into his heart.

  Self-defence.

  Curling my fingers securely around the handle, I began to draw it out, but the shrill summons of the mobile sliced the air. I released the knife. He grunted.

  “It’s my mobile,” I said, needlessly.

  “Shut the effing thing up; I can’t concentrate.”

  He rolled off me and I went to retrieve it from my bag. “Hello?”

  “Don’t answer the bloody thing!”

  I partially covered the phone. “Shh, it’s Elena. Hi… what’s up?” Guy made to get off the bed and take the mobile from me, but I waved him back with a frown. “No, I’m at the hotel with Guy. Yes, that’s the one – in the centre of town. Elena, I can’t explain, but I’m leaving with him. Yes, you heard me – I’m leaving now. He’s got what it takes to make me happy, and I can’t go on living a lie.” I listened for a moment, biting the nail of my thumb. “What do you mean? He’s coming here? Blast… no, I’ll go to college first, he won’t expect that – pick up some things and get out of here. I’ll leave my phone on; call me if you hear anything.” Grabbing my blouse from the bed, I hurriedly began dressing.

  Guy sat up. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s Matthew – he’s guessed where I am and he’s on his way here now.”

  “You can tell him you’re leaving him for me…”

  “No!” I shouted in his face so that he flinched back. “You don’t understand. He gets really jealous and he’ll kill you if he thinks I’m leaving with you. He’s a crack shot with a gun and he’s always suspected I never got over you. Hurry up and get dressed. He can’t touch us at college; he wouldn’t dare with everyone else there.” Stuffing my feet in my shoes, I crammed the journal into its bag. “Come on, Guy! We’ve got to get out of here!” Using my movements to cover the sound, I ripped the used pages out of the notepad when his back was turned. I shoved the blank pad into the portfolio and then thrust it into his hands.

  I didn’t have a plan as such; I was just buying time.

  Purple tumescent clouds disgorged a steady rain, becoming torrents as we left town in my car, windscreen wipers in a futile battle against the storm. Guy vetted every passing vehicle through distorted glass. “Is that his car? What does he drive? You can’t possibly see in this.”

  “I can see enough.” Headlights barely visible through the rain, I nonetheless kept up a steady pace, water parting in sheets on the deserted highway. Occasional lights reflected in my rearview mirror, and once I thought I saw a low red car close behind, only to look hard and find it gone.

  White-knuckled, Guy clung to the portfolio on his knees, body braced against sudden turns in direction. “You’re driving too fast, slow down – I want to get there in one piece.” Blue flashing lights pierced the gloom in front of us. “For Pete’s sake, slow down!” He lurched forwards as I brought the car to a sudden stop, the highway blocked by a single police car. Already drenched despite waterproofs, the patrolman leaned forward to shout through my window over the hissing rain. Water cascaded off every angle of him and he used a hand to shield his eyes.

  “Road’s closed, ma’am. There’s no way through here; the bridge is close to going under. Turn back.”

  “I need to get to Howard’s Lake, we’re late.”

  “Road’s all closed between here and out of town. Worst storm in a century. It’ll not last long, so you’d better go back and wait it out. Be safe now.” He tapped the roof in salutation, returning to the shelter of his vehicle.

  The car purred expectantly as I worked out what to do next. I couldn’t go on; I wouldn’t go back. I would have to find another route.

  Guy seemed relieved as I circled the car in the middle of the road under the watchful eye of the patrolman, and set off the way we had come. “We can go to another hotel. Your husband won’t be able to find us and we should still make it in time for my presentation. We can entertain ourselves until then.”

  “No, we flippin’ well won’t,” I muttered, taking a sharp right turn. He slipped his hand under my skirt. “Take your hand off me!”

  To my surprise, he laughed. “I wondered how long you’d keep up the act. I didn’t think you’d be prepared to give up all this…” he indicated the luxurious interior of the car, the rings on my finger, “… for an impoverished academic. But it was worth a punt – I nearly got to screw you.”

  I seethed at his assumption that I had married Matthew for money. “None of this has anything to do with money.”

  “No? What is it for then? Love? You would have screwed me for love? What has love to do with anything? Love is a delusion. You deluded yourself that your grandfather loved you, that you loved me, but it was all about ambition, wasn’t it? His, yours, and this…” He yanked the journal in its bag. “This is what drove him – and you – and this is what will ensure I am remembered as the historian who rewrote history.”

  He knew.

  Rain battered the windscreen, nail-driven drops through my flesh. I forced out words. “How long have you known?”

  “For certain? Not until this morning. I had my suspicions of course, but then Richardson filled in the gaps and you – you confirmed them.”

  The engine screamed as the car skidded on a sheet of water, neatly aquaplaning for a dozen yards before the tyres found the surface again, and I regained control.

  “How?”

  Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead as he clung to the armrest. “Slow down…!” His words were lost as I cut him dead.

  “How did I confirm your suspicions?”

  “You turned up.”

  My heart attempted to keep up with the frenetic beat of the blades. Breathing too fast, too shallow, my head dazzled, and all I could see in my memory was the mutilated wreck of a car and the eyes of a dead woman staring back at me, ermine-faced, crushed, beyond life.

  “Emma!”

  I came to, yanking the wheel over as a car, blaring its horn in an extended bleat of complaint, narrowly missed us.

  “For Pete’s sake, are you completely insane? Stop, will you!”

  I didn’t stop – I had come too far to stop now. Too much had been said, a line crossed. There could be only one way to go, and that was forward, to the end.

  We left the main highway and joined a side road. Storm drains had reached their capacity some time ago and water flooded all but the centre of the road. I used the yellow stripe to mark my passage without slowing. In my bid to buy time Guy had revealed his hand as Matthew said he would. Now I needed to find out what he knew and how far he had uncovered the truth before I took it from him and buried it. Devoid of emotion, I said, “Tell me what you know.”

  He must have been waiting for me to ask. Despite the circumstances, he couldn’t resist rubbing my face in it, revelling in his discovery. “Matthew Lynes, born 1609, died – well, he hasn’t, has he? A miracle, a phenomenon, a mutant – whatever you want to call your freak, I don’t give a toss. You must have thought you had it made when you discovered him. How did you do it – or did your grandfather give you a helping hand? That’s why you came out here in the first place. When were you going to reveal it?” I swerved to avoid a rock washed onto the road, and my mobile slid across the dashboard. It, not him – like an object, like an animal. He reduced Matthew to a convenient meal ticket. Guy enjoyed the moment too much to notice the speedometer creeping up as I steadily increased the pressure on the accelerator.

  He continued. “That first day at the conference I thought you’d beaten me to it. Or had you something better planned? Tell me, Emma, does he know why he didn’t die, or does he put it down to divine intervention? Do you?
Don’t tell me you buy all that miracle rubbish now you’ve found Jesus.”

  If he stopped, if he just shut up or gave some sign that there might be another way, I could perhaps find an alternative to what he was driving me to do.

  “You’ll be the laughing stock of every history department, Guy, in every university – globally. Do you really think anybody in their right mind will believe you?”

  “Why not? You did. Besides,” he stroked the journal, “this makes compelling reading, and the photographs are the icing on the cake, so to speak.”

  “They prove nothing.”

  “Keep up, Emma – where have you been? Technology is an amazing thing. You can take two photographs and, using forensic digital analysis, compare facial features that are unique and specific to the individual. They don’t even change over time. A hundred per cent accuracy – guaranteed. One photograph taken in… when was Ellie’s great-grandmother married – 1936? and the other taken only last month. With digital analysis it will take seconds to confirm they are one and the same man. I’ve a contact who owes me a favour in the Forensic Investigation Unit who can confirm it…” He broke off at my sudden choked exclamation and gave a self-satisfied smile. “But we both know the outcome, Emma, don’t we?”

  Yes, I knew the outcome; I knew how one thing would lead to another, how our fragile existence, so solid and everyday, would be blown apart like ash in the wind. “What did you say to them?”

  “Now that would be telling.” He peered through the rain. “Where are we going? I don’t know this route.”

  “To college via a back road. Nervous?”

  He looked at me sharply. “No.”

  He should be.

  Rain-slick clapperboard houses and small commercial units with empty forecourts gave way to trees hugging verges. The road twisted in long curves and blind bends that on any other day I would have approached with caution. But this was no ordinary day, and caution was something I used to observe when I had something to live for. Unnaturally calm as I suppressed the storm raging inside me, my voice was oiled water, waiting for a match. “What do you intend to do with the information?”

  He looked at his watch. “In exactly forty-three minutes I will announce to the gathered brotherhood of our discipline something that will blow… their… minds.”

  No, you won’t. Don’t make me do this.

  “It will destroy Matthew and his family, and I can’t let you do that.”

  “That’s their hard bloody lookout; what do you think you can do to stop me?” I didn’t respond. He stared at me incredulously. “You don’t think you’re going to kill me? You are out of your mind! You won’t kill me – you’re too soft. I could stick a gun to your head and you’d help me pull the trigger.”

  Behind us, a car’s headlights momentarily distracted me. And again. I sped up. “I don’t think you’re capable of understanding me and you never have been because you can’t see beyond your own self-interest. You’re right – I wouldn’t kill you for myself, Guy – but I might do it to protect those I love. I’d do it for Matthew.”

  The road took on a familiar bend. He rammed his foot against an imaginary brake, swearing viciously. “Slow down!” The silvered planks of the bridge were oil-black with rain, the churning river unrecognizable in its fury. Lights flashed ahead and Guy suddenly shrieked, “Watch out…!”

  The ABS system prevented the car from skidding out of control as I packed the brakes, engine roaring. Braking too hard, too late, the driver of the oncoming truck saw us, spinning into our path, spewing the load of metal rods like spillikins across the bridge. Appalled, I watched powerless as the driver battled with his wheel, eyes rolling in terror as the truck slid across the worn planks, ploughing its flank into the low metalwork which split and peeled apart as we slewed to a halt in front of it. There was nowhere we could go. For a fleeting second all was still, and then the air shook as the full impact of the truck hit us, the windscreen collapsing into an opaque mosaic, the airbag exploding in my face, smothering sight and sound for an instant. And then a shudder and the slow scream of metal tearing as the car tilted forward, hanging suspended long enough for me to register what was happening, and then falling, falling into the river below.

  My ears were full of rushing, and something crushed my legs to my seat. I took a gulp of air, and then another, blinking water out of my eyes, spitting gritty water from my mouth. Through the gap where the windscreen had been, I could just make out the banks of the river through the rain.

  “Guy?” I called, but the sound of the water drowned me out. I couldn’t see him; something blocked my line of sight. Water coursed through the car and it rocked and lifted slightly. The current found its weakness, and slowly, the car began to tilt.

  “Guy,” I yelled, “we’ve got to get out – it’s not stable!” He said something I couldn’t make out. “For goodness sake, come on!”

  We were wedged against the remains of a tree trunk slung at an angle across a narrow channel, itself lodged against an outcrop of rock in the shadow of the bridge. A heavy branch, thrust through the space where the windscreen had been, held the car temporarily in place and kept us from sinking any further. The river was rising fast, threatening to wash us clear over the barrier. We had minutes before the car lifted free and fell victim to the torrent.

  The flaccid remains of the airbag sucked at my hands, and I managed to reach the seatbelt beyond the imprisoning spur, but couldn’t undo it. “Guy, you’ve got to get out; we haven’t much time.” I tried to slide up but it was no use. “I’m trapped. Get out.”

  The car jarred violently, pivoting on its spur, and weight lifted from my legs. Now able to shift, I wasn’t strong enough to pull myself over the bough. I tried to open my door, but the force of water held it shut. Blurred movement to one side caught my eye, then a voice called out over the violent surge.

  “Don’t move.” Balancing on the only rock still above water, Matthew assessed the car before slipping into the current. He grasped the edge of the chassis with one hand, trying to wrench my door open with the other.

  “Matthew! I’m trapped.”

  “I know, hang on. Turn your head away and cover your eyes.” I heard glass shatter and opened them again in time to see the skin of his knuckles heal. Without hesitation he leaned through the driver’s window and punched the airbag out of the way. The window gone, water piled through the car, pulling it further down. He put his arm around my waist, supporting me above the water as he fought to free me from the seatbelt tangled around the stump.

  “I think Guy’s hurt. It happened so quickly. I… I couldn’t stop it,” I stuttered.

  The car lifted and, for a split second, threatened to roll. Matthew braced himself. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  “Help him, please, Matthew…”

  He glanced over at the passenger seat, grimaced, and hooked his arm securely around me. “You first; I’ll deal with him later. Push with your legs as I lift…” He suddenly gasped, partially loosening his hold as pain flashed across his face.

  “What is it? Matthew, tell me!”

  Compressing his lips he bore my weight again. “It’s nothing. Push.” My legs slipping, on the second attempt I wriggled myself free. The car shifted again and Matthew moaned and creased in agony. I cried out, but he straightened. “Hang on to the car; I’m going to lift you onto those rocks.” He nodded to a scattering of foam-crested boulders, not yet submerged. “The water’s rising fast – I want you out of here.”

  “What about Guy?”

  Now free, I tried to twist around and look at him, but Matthew began to pull me away. “There’s nothing I can do for him.”

  From the other side of the spur, Guy’s voice – weak at first, but gathering strength as he spoke – loomed eerily calm, words slurring a little. “It’s alll-right Em-ma. You’ve nothing t’be worri’d about. No witnesses.” And he laughed, but it sounded like bubbles. I wrestled free of Matthew and around the spur of wood, fighting the wate
r. Speared like a fish, Guy sat upright. A long rod of steel pierced his chest and pinned him to his seat. Around him the water flowed, a steady stream of his blood staining it red as it ripped away his life.

  “Guy!”

  Glassy eyed, his forehead creased in a familiar frown. “Don’t cry; you… won.” He licked at the blood oozing from his mouth. “Last… man… standing.” He closed his eyes and I started forward, but he drew breath and coughed, blood coating his mouth and chin. Matthew reached around my waist; I could hear the pain he tried to suppress in the urgency of his voice.

  “Emma, come away; the car’s not secure.”

  “I can’t leave him.”

  “I’ll stay, just let me get you to safety first.”

  The sky had rained itself dry, and a first weak gleam of sun broke through.

  Guy opened his eyes and my heart wrenched as I recognized the look I had last seen after he tried to kill himself – the look of a man with nothing to lose – honest, unveiled. “Em’a…” The car lurched deeper and Matthew hauled me back as water rose to Guy’s shoulders. His eyes lost focus, glazed, and found me again, haunted, pleading.

  “I forgive you,” I whispered, before Matthew succeeded in dragging me from the car. The last thing I saw of Guy Hilliard – the last thing I remember and which will haunt me for the rest of my life – was the sunlight fading from his face, leaving nothing but the trace of a smile.

  Paramedics and police wove down the sharp slope, slippery with mud, towards us. Matthew lifted me from the current as it tried to take my legs from under me.

  “Matthew…” I began.

  “I’ll go back to him. I won’t let him die alone.”

  The first of the paramedics reached the banks. Matthew called out to him, “She’s all right – no sign of internal trauma, just shaken and with superficial contusions. I’ll be back to look after her.”

  He started into the water. A policewoman, still encumbered by heavy waterproofs, raised her voice at his retreating back. “Sir, don’t go in there; the water’s still rising.” He raised his hand in acknowledgment, but didn’t turn around.