The Two O'Clock Boy

by Mark Hill

  ‘Your word.’ Owen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Five minutes, then. Any later and Perry will introduce his cricket bat to your lady friends.’

  Perry rested the bat on his shoulder, as if in readiness for a long night’s work.

  Elliot ran into the howling wind, the gale lifting his heels. Cloud raced across the moon. Leaves flew around his head like demented bats. He sensed Owen watching at the barn door. The wind chime was turned sideways, its metal threads thrashing, white noise in his head.

  Inside the cottage, the final embers of the fire clung to blackened logs. The kitchen door was closed. Elliot took the stairs two, three, at a time, and slipped into his bedroom.

  Grabbing the rucksack from the wardrobe, he unzipped it, took out the gun. Part of him wondered whether he should hold Owen and Perry at gunpoint and call the police – give himself up, then and there – but he didn’t want anything to do with the weapon. Just wanted it gone, and them gone. Elliot dropped it into the bag with disgust and zipped it up.

  He was about to go back downstairs – five minutes, Owen had said – but couldn’t help himself. He took out his phone and called Rhonda’s number. It rang and rang and dropped to voicemail. Elliot wanted to assure her that the worst hadn’t happened. Everything was going to be all right, he was free now, and they could be together.

  ‘I’ve done a terrible thing,’ he said, ‘some terrible things, and I want to tell you about them. From now on I’m going to tell you everything.’ At the window he lifted the net curtain, thought he saw a figure slip into the barn. ‘I’ll never keep anything from you or Dylan again, that’s a promise. If you decide it’s all over between us, I will accept it. But—’ He pressed his fingers into his eyes. ‘If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I will do everything in my power to make you both happy. That’s a promise, Rhonda. I’ve never felt as sure about anything in my whole life. I will do anything. I love you both. Please call me back, let me make things better.’

  He cut the call. The phone rang immediately and his heart leapt. But when he looked he saw a string of miscalls from Connor. Not now, he thought, let’s deal with one fucking problem at a time, and threw it on the bed.

  The kitchen door was still closed when he crept downstairs. Elliot crunched down the drive. The trees swayed and creaked above him. His spine chilled where sweat popped on his back and froze.

  ‘Take it.’ He strode into the barn and threw the bag on the dirty floor. ‘The gun is in there, too.’

  No one replied.

  For one brief moment, Elliot thought Owen and Perry had gone. But above the moaning wind he heard a curious gurgling sound. Stepping carefully through the shards of silver light pouring in through loose planks in the roof, his foot hit something.

  Perry was sprawled on the ground, perfectly still. Face pale, almost luminous, a final glimmer of light fading from his swollen eyes. Blood, jet black in the moonlight, ticked gently from his gaping throat, like a water feature in a rockery, pooling around his shoulders. A hiss of escaping air whispered from the exposed piping in his neck.

  ‘Christ almighty.’ Elliot’s legs buckled, and he fell to his hands and knees into the warm, sticky blood. He smothered a cry, smearing his face in Perry’s blood, frantically wiped his hands down his jeans.

  He found Owen a few moments later, behind hardened sacks of clay. The old man’s hands loosely cupped the remains of his throat, the meat of it bulged between his fingers, strings of blood and tissue hanging from the yawning wound. His wellington boot jerked, and went still.

  The barn door banged against the frame, and Elliot turned quickly.

  ‘Hello?’

  A cloud passed in front of the moon and the barn was plunged into darkness. Elliot listened to the wind howl through the rotten planks, then rushed forward.

  Stumbling over Perry’s leg, he fell, throwing his arms forward to protect himself, jarring his elbows on the cold, hard mud. He had no idea if he was alone or – oh God, if Turrell was still in the barn.

  He could be in here, could be standing right over him.

  Elliot swept a hand in front of him, scrabbling for the rucksack, desperate for it. Finding fabric, grabbing it. He unzipped it with shaking hands, shoulders cringing against a sudden blow to the head, or a knife slicing out of the darkness. Elliot tipped out the contents and snatched up the gun, flicked off the safety, and pointed it at the banging door.

  He edged towards it, swinging the gun wildly, not knowing from which direction he would be attacked. Waiting for any movement, any tiny change in the density of the dark. Then he barged through the door to run towards the cottage, trying to keep his balance on the uneven ground.

  ‘Amelia! April! Get out,’ he called, but his shouts were lost in the blast of the wind. ‘Get outside!’

  Elliot ran inside and shouldered open the kitchen door. Cups of tea sat on the table, untouched. He stomped upstairs, shouting hoarsely, ‘Amelia! April!’

  He raced into every room, one after the other, and then into the front bedroom. Empty. He looked out of the window. With that sick maniac Turrell roaming about the place, he hoped desperately that the two women had got away into the woods.

  Owen dead, Perry dead. He struggled to think. Focused on the fact that his family was waiting for him. Everything was going to work out fine, he felt it in his bones. He wasn’t going to die now, not now.

  Emboldened by the heft of the weapon in his fist, he felt a surge of fury and chambered a bullet.

  ‘Elliot?’

  He whirled, his finger squeezing the trigger. Amelia Troy let out a frightened whimper in the doorway, lifted her hands above her head.

  ‘Jesus! You scared the shit out of me!’ Elliot took her wrist and lowered her to the bed. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘We’ve been looking for you,’ she said, gawping at the weapon. ‘You went outside and didn’t come back.’

  ‘He’s here!’ he hissed.

  Amelia stared. ‘Who?’

  ‘Turrell – he’s in the house!’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Her hand flew to her mouth.

  The last thing he needed was for her to start screaming the place down. He had to take the heat out of the situation, asked quietly, ‘Where’s the girl?’

  ‘Downstairs,’ she said. ‘In the living room.’

  ‘She’s not,’ Elliot whispered urgently. ‘I was just there.’

  The idea that April was alone somewhere frightened him. Christ, if Connor’s girl disappeared … he didn’t want to think of the consequences. All he had to do was get through this.

  Rhonda was waiting for him, Dylan was waiting.

  ‘We’ve been everywhere looking for you!’ Tears filled Amelia’s eyes; she was starting to get hysterical.

  He pulled her off the bed, waved the gun in front of her face. ‘We’re going to get out of this. We find April and get in the car and drive away, do you understand?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Do you have your keys?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice trembled.

  ‘All you’ve got to do is stay behind me, okay?’ He squeezed her arm. ‘Good girl, you’re doing great,’ and added: ‘We both are.’

  He led her out of the bedroom and onto the landing, pointing the gun ahead, holding a protective arm in front of Amelia. At the bottom of the stairs, the front door shuddered. He leaned over the banister, but couldn’t see anything.

  Elliot called down: ‘April, you there?’ There was no response. A log shifted in the grate, sending up a billowing cloud of sparks.

  ‘Elliot,’ Amelia spoke low behind him.

  He needed to listen, needed all his wits about him, put a finger to his lips: ‘Quiet!’

  She said it again: ‘Elliot.’

  ‘What?’ He turned to face her, and Amelia pressed a knife into his gut and twisted it, this way and that, her face straining with concentration.

  And when she calmly lifted her gaze to his, all Elliot had time to do was stare in shock, let out a brief gru
nt, and feel his legs give way, sending him toppling backwards down the stairs.

  61

  They drove in silence, threading slowly through the late-night traffic and accelerating at the edge of the city, both lost in their own thoughts. Drake stared ahead, reflected street lights pulling silently down his face, focused on his daughter’s safety. When they left the motorway and drove deeper into the countryside, the tall trees a blank wall on either side, the car scythed a knife of light on the black road. Something with shining eyes skittered across the headlights and plunged into the verge.

  ‘You didn’t have to come,’ he said, as they approached Elliot’s cottage.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Then why did you?’

  Flick watched the canopy of trees fold above them, as if the car was going down a tunnel beneath the earth. When the branches parted, they saw the silhouette of the barn. Elliot’s cottage, its lights off, was barely an outline beneath the cloud. Drake eased the car to a stop and killed the engine, the lamps. They sat in silence.

  ‘Why was Gordon Tallis handcuffed to a radiator?’

  ‘Tallis was unstable, unpredictable. He killed himself in front of us.’

  ‘Hell of a way to do it,’ said Flick.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was trapped by handcuffs you took from my father.’

  Drake grunted in surprise. She saw the harsh plummet of his cheeks in profile and a pinprick of light in one eye, and it reminded her of the image of Connor Laird cringing from the flash of the camera. ‘I’m different now, I’m a different person.’

  ‘Are you?’ she asked. When he didn’t answer, she held his hand. Badly needed the reassurance of his touch. ‘You asked why I’m here. It’s because right now you’re the only person I have left. Because I can’t bear to lose anybody else from my life.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘for—’

  She dropped his hand, snapped off her seat belt. ‘Let’s just do this.’

  ‘No, stay here.’ Drake reached for the door release. ‘Lock the door. I’m going to look around. If I’m not back in ten minutes, call for back-up.’

  And then he climbed out, slamming the door behind him. Flick watched him trot up the drive.

  As soon as he was gone, nausea washed over her in the silent compartment, turning her stomach, slipping along her skin like a clammy chill, as all the terror of the night hit her. She had watched Peter Holloway and Toby Turrell die; had been convinced she was going to be killed. And now, here she was, sitting alone in the middle of nowhere in the dark, every muffled sound making her tense with fear. A minute passed, and then another, and the longer she sat there, the more she realised how wrong it all was. She was scared – and confused. Well, enough was enough.

  Flick scrambled for her phone. Its blue light bathed the interior. Out here, the signal was weak, a single flat bar – if the call even connected it would be a miracle. But the device managed to find a mast somewhere, and the call was blasted to a satellite thousands of miles above the woodland. After a few moments a phone rang somewhere in the city.

  ‘Fli –’ Eddie Upson’s voice dropped out almost immediately.

  ‘Eddie, I’m at Elliot Juniper’s.’

  ‘Wha –’ Upson’s voice kept disappearing. ‘– ick, is tha –’

  She clamped the phone tightly to her ear, said: ‘I need a response unit, Eddie …’

  ‘A what? I can’t – you, Fli – ere are –?’

  ‘A response unit, Eddie! Now! Elliot Juniper!’ she cried.

  ‘Ell –’

  ‘It’s Ray Drake, Eddie.’ She gripped the dash. ‘He’s –’

  ‘Eddie’s voice said: ‘—per,’ and the line went dead.

  Flick threw the phone down in frustration. She cracked the window. Wind howled into the gap. Somewhere, an owl hooted. She’d try Steiner next, was bending over to pick up the mobile when the bushes quivered on the verge ahead, and a figure stepped onto the road.

  Flick held her breath, leaned forward to see who it was – and was relieved to see Drake approach beneath the moonlight, a silver ghost. He came along the passenger side and rapped on the glass.

  ‘It’s difficult to see inside,’ he said. ‘All the lights are off. And in the barn …’

  She stepped unsteadily from the car. ‘In the barn, what?’

  ‘Never mind.’ He hesitated. ‘The cottage looks empty, but—’

  Flick’s hands flew to her face. When she pulled them away, her palms were wet with tears. ‘Jesus Christ, Ray!’ she said bitterly.

  Ray Drake nodded. ‘I understand. You don’t have to come inside.’

  ‘No.’ Her hands clapped her sides. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  If anything happened to April she would never forgive herself. All she hoped was that Upson had heard her, and help was on its way.

  Drake reached into his pocket and took out the pistol. He snapped the magazine from the grip and slapped it in again.

  ‘You can’t use it,’ she told him.

  His eyes flashed. ‘My daughter is in there, Flick.’

  She held out her hand. ‘Leave it here or I call this in right now.’

  Drake handed her the weapon. She opened the door and threw it under the seat.

  ‘When you get April out of there, drive away and keep going.’ He pressed the car key into her palm. ‘If I’m not with you, don’t wait. Just get to safety.’ He touched her arm. ‘Are you ready?’

  Flick nodded, but barely heard him. She strained to hear sirens, the sound of distant engines, but the wind crashing through the trees obliterated every noise.

  Staying close to the verge, they walked along the lane, leaves churning around them. A hundred yards ahead, the drive rose steeply.

  62

  The windows of the cottage reflected the swaying wall of trees. A saucer of moonlight struck the glass and vanished. A wind chime lifted sideways in the wind, clinking like crazy.

  ‘Go round the back and keep your head down. And be careful.’

  Flick nodded, and disappeared around the side. There was little point in creeping around, Drake decided. He stood tall, crunching up the drive, his tie dancing in the wind like an angry viper.

  The front door was unlocked. When he walked into the dark and closed the door, the sound of the chime, the whistling wind, was muffled. The window frames shuddered. Definition bleeding into his vision, the layout of the room slowly emerged. He could make out the fireplace, its final embers fading. LED lights glowed on a television, a Wi-Fi router and stereo. He heard the loud thrum of a boiler, and something else … a rasping breath on the floor.

  ‘April?’ he called. ‘Elliot?’

  A voice rattled wetly in reply. Somebody lay at the bottom of the stairs. Elliot. His shirt – and the carpet around him – was jet black and sticky.

  ‘Lights?’ asked Drake.

  ‘By … the door.’

  Drake pressed the switch. Light illuminated the space. Elliot’s face was drained of colour and soaked in oily sweat. Black rings circled his eyes, which were swollen blood red by broken capillaries. His body was drenched in the blood ticking patiently from the gaping wound in his guts.

  ‘Finally.’ His lips smacked together. ‘The cavalry.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Drake leaned close to Elliot. ‘Where’s April?’

  Elliot’s eyelids fluttered. Two figures appeared at the top of the stairs. Drake’s heart leapt when he saw the gun held at his daughter’s throat. Amelia jammed the muzzle into April’s windpipe as they moved together down the steps.

  ‘It’s a crying shame Toby isn’t here,’ said Amelia brightly. ‘He would have enjoyed seeing this. But the poor man was desperately tired, and so eager to be gone. I assured him that he could leave it all to me, that I would complete his magnificent obsession. I presume he’s …?’

  Drake focused on his daughter, who trembled violently in Amelia’s grip, and her stricken eyes were fastened on his. ‘He’s dead,’ he said.

 
; ‘I’ll miss him, but it’s what he wanted.’ Amelia sighed. ‘There was no talking him out of it. The truth is Toby was too sensitive a soul to survive in this stinking world.’

  Elliot’s throat hacked a wet laugh.

  ‘Why?’ asked Drake. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘I loved him.’ Amelia’s eyes filled with tears. ‘He saved me. He taught me how to live my life without pain, without torment, and you can’t imagine how much of a release that was, how much of a revelation.’

  ‘He killed your husband, and very nearly killed you.’

  ‘He meant to kill us both, of course he did. I was never meant to survive that overdose. We discussed it like grown-ups. When I woke up in hospital my memories of the Longacre were gone and I felt free. For the first time I could begin to enjoy life. They came back eventually, of course they did, in bits and pieces, but they held no power over me. The death of my hateful husband, the abusive man who made my life a perfect misery, gave me hope that I could finally live. And Toby assured me that when it’s all over, when I leave here tonight, I will be reborn. I will live without fear, somewhere far away.’ Tears slid down her cheeks. ‘I’m for ever in his debt for what he’s done for me. In another life I believe he would have achieved many great things, and I’m grateful to have been at his service. To be honest, I believe he was happy for the company on his difficult journey.’ The corners of her mouth lifted in a repugnant smile. ‘Not all of us can do the Lone Wolf thing, Connor.’

  ‘By killing all of those people?’

  ‘Well,’ she said modestly, ‘I helped, just a little bit.’

  ‘Ryan Overton.’ Drake sensed movement in the corner of his eye, Flick edging through the kitchen door.

  ‘Yes, that was me,’ said Amelia. ‘I’ve always been super supple, I used to love climbing the trees in the garden at the home, and Toby had to work that evening. But mostly I financed his work. Provided documentation, identities, forged qualifications, that kind of thing. None of that stuff is cheap, believe me. I like to think of myself as more of a facilitator, a sponsor. It was actually kind of fun.’