by Paul Kane
“I’m not hungry. And I’m not tired,” Rachael countered and immediately stifled a yawn.
“You sound convincing.”
Rachael wandered over to the sideboard where the kettle was, and picked it up. She went back into the bathroom, placing the hair towel on the rail and filling the kettle. Hunter’s eyes trailed her as she returned and plugged it in, before ripping open several sachets of coffee and tipping them into a mug. When she noticed him staring, she explained: “I’m frightened to sleep. Frightened of what might happen.”
It was an odd thing to say and Hunter asked: “Happen?”
“Nightmares,” she answered. “I used to get them as a kid, some of them quite violent so Mum says ... said ... Damn it!”
“You have to sleep sometime,” Hunter told her.
“I will,” said Rachael, pouring the water into the mug and taking a drink that must surely have burnt her lip, “just not right now.”
It was only as she returned to sit on her bed with the steaming liquid, that Hunter noticed the scar on her shoulder. It was faded, perhaps a few days old—another souvenir from last weekend? Which reminded him ...
“Rachael, you never did tell me what happened to you on Greenham Estate. What happened to that old lady.” Without even realising it, Hunter was standing, putting himself between Rachael and the only exit: the door.
She drank more of the coffee, holding it in both hands now as if cold. “I wish I could remember, but ... It’s like I keep telling you, there are only bits and pieces. Flashes of images. Me running ... running away from something.”
“The thing that was in the nightclub last night. The thing that did that to my friends. To your mother.”
Rachael met his gaze again, her eyes moistening. “I ... I think so, Tom, yes.” She removed one hand from the mug and brought it up to her face; it was shaking. Her whole body was shaking, in fact. And every molecule in him was screaming to go over and hold her, to calm her.
To protect her.
Instead he listened as she carried on talking. “I feel like this is all my fault. I feel like I’m to blame,” Rachael continued. “Like it’s something I did, something connected to the past. Do you ... Is any of this making any sense?”
“Strangely, it is,” Hunter said in all honesty.
Rachael drank again, pulling a face at the coffee’s bitterness. “It’s like ... You know when you’re dreaming and something horrible is happening, something is chasing you or whatever, and you just can’t wake up. Even if you do, you feel like what’s in the dream will be there when you open your eyes and ...” That was it, Rachael slid the mug onto the bedside table and buried her head in her hands, sobbing again. “I ... I just keep seeing her face. Mum ... Mum, I’m so sorry.”
No sooner had he thought it this time than he was there, by her side on the bed, sitting next to her with his arm around her shoulders. Then her head was on his shoulder and it slotted in there like it was always meant to; like they were parts of a model kit that were just waiting to be pieced together with a click. Or maybe they were just two lost souls who’d found each other and were clinging on for dear life.
The towel had come untucked under Rachael’s arm and was slipping down. Hunter willed himself not to look, not to stare—but he couldn’t help himself. Then Rachael’s head was tilting upwards, her chin so close to his. Her mouth just centimetres away. “Tom?” she said. “Tom, would you ... would you hold me?”
That was all she wanted. Just to be held. And part of him was glad of that, but disappointed at the same time. He was struggling to control his heart rate, though, as he brought his other arm across, pulling her body into his. Hunter swallowed dryly.
“I’ve got you,” he told her. “I’ve got you.”
Then it was all her. Rachael reaching up to the back of his neck, pulling his head down so that it couldn’t be avoided and their lips touched. It felt very much to Hunter like a static shock, like electricity coursing through him. Rachael’s body was warm and it was making him hot as well. He tried to pull his head away, but couldn’t. Didn’t really want to.
Her hand dropped and was now reaching for his. Clutching it and moving it downwards, dislodging the towel completely. She coaxed his hand towards her breast and his palm opened instinctively: cupping it, feeling its roundness, its weight. He knew exactly what she’d been trying to tell him then, but if this was a dream he never, ever wanted to wake up.
Their mouths parted long enough for Hunter to say: “Rachael ... we shouldn’t.”
“Please Tom,” she replied. “I need this. I need you.”
He looked into her eyes, was lost in them—was burning with the heat coming off her. Hunter wanted Rachael, too. Wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything or anyone in his life. He should have felt guilty about that, but he didn’t.
Because, as they lay back together, sweeping the food and drink off the bed, all he could think about was her.
Rachael, only Rachael.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was almost time ...
“It’s about time!” Kathleen Daniels said as she opened the door. “I was starting to get worr—”
Her words were cut off by the sight in front of her, Kathleen’s mouth falling open in shock and surprise. Then she was being shoved inside roughly, the front door swinging back on its hinges. The old woman wasn’t great on her feet, but wasn’t as bad as she always made out—especially in front of others. Nevertheless, she almost stumbled and fell over backwards, only catching herself at the last minute.
Kathleen turned to ‘run’ away, knowing that there was nowhere really to go—except maybe the bedroom with the fire escape?—but the instinct was strong inside of her. She’d got maybe two or three steps when something sharp raked her back, like several kitchen knives at once. Then the same from the other direction, splattering both walls with redness.
Kathleen staggered forwards, managing to get to the living room before turning around again, looking to see if her attacker was still there. Where else would it be? She toppled sideways onto the sofa as her foe sprang forward, but Kathleen moved quickly enough to dodge it. The settee upturned, taking her adversary with it—and in frustration that was shredded instead.
She was crawling across the living room, desperate to get away if only for a few seconds and gather her wits. But there wasn’t time, and she heard more furniture being wrecked as it came for her, as it bent down and bit into her leg.
Kathleen would have screamed, but the woman was defiant—wouldn’t give this thing the satisfaction of hearing her pain. Instead, she searched around for something she could use as a weapon against it. All she could see was her handbag on the floor, lying where it had been knocked from the coffee table, contents spilling out like her guts would be soon if she didn’t do something about it.
And there were the scissors, shiny and inviting.
It was biting into her left arm now, clawing its way up her body. It spun her around, and she struck back then, stabbing it in the shoulder with the scissors she’d snatched up. There was a certain amount of satisfaction on her face as she saw the pain the monster was in ... Those scissors had really hurt it.
But they had also enraged it. The thing went to town on the old woman now, biting and clawing, savaging her, tearing into her, throwing her around like a doll until the light had quite clearly gone from her eyes.
Her time was up.
It was only then that Kathleen’s attacker stepped back, wound throbbing wildly.
There was just one question: how could she know this? Was she imagining what had happened, based on what she’d seen of the aftermath? But there was so much detail, and the taste of blood and flesh was still in her mouth ...
So, again, how could she know? The answer came from Kathleen herself, from her dead mouth, the words bubbling with redness.
“Because, Rachael sweetheart, you did this to me,” she said. “Because you were the one who killed me.”
* * *
It was almost time ...
He could feel it in his bones. In the very marrow of him. The beast was asleep, but the confrontation he’d been expecting was imminent. When he’d have to tackle the thing head on, free himself forever. Become what he was always destined to be, what he had been before—
Before what? There it was again, that strange anomaly. The feeling that this had all happened before, but still hadn’t yet. It was so strange; dreamlike even. The thought occurred to him, as it had before, that maybe he was the one who was sleeping. That when the beast was asleep, that was when he was allowed to be awake.
A saying popped into his head in a language that hadn’t even been invented yet: ‘Temet Nosce’.
It meant ‘Know Thyself’, though he couldn’t understand how he knew that. He felt, however, if he could just figure out who he really was and what he was meant to do, that would be the key to his release.
But that would have to come later, because the beast was stirring. Finch needed to get ready, because it would be entering the cave—its home—any moment now. Then they would do battle.
And the outcome of that battle would decide the fate of everything.
* * *
It was almost time ...
The final confrontation. She couldn’t run, couldn’t hide forever. Indeed, the story picked up again here where she was in the cabin and the creature was almost inside, clawing its way in through the window—into the place where this whole thing began ... No, that wasn’t strictly true. It had begun on the path to the cottage, she realised that—and her encounter with the strange man there, telling him where she was heading.
He’d raced there ahead of her, to murder Gramma and take her place. Settling in to wait for Red, to kill and eat her as well.
It might not be where the story first began, but here was where it would end. She would have to take a stand against the thing, right here and right now. There was nothing else for it.
She was stumbling backwards, slipping in the blood from the man who’d tried to help her—who’d given her time to escape. The sweet, kind man whose name she’d never know but whose face would forever be etched into her mind.
A face she would, sooner or later, even grow to love ...
Enough of that, the time for emotions was over. It was time to fight, time to survive.
Time to slay the beast once and for all.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The call had come down the wire in the early hours of the morning: there had been a sighting, not only of Rachael Daniels but of the man from the photofit picture. They were apparently travelling together, and were staying in a motel out of town. The owner had seen their pictures on the news reports and phoned the authorities.
Within the hour, Peel and Moss—along with a contingent of Her Majesty’s constabulary, including armed response units—were on their way to that location. It was still dark when they arrived, an unmarked car sent in first to talk to the owner and evaluate the situation. The man had said that he didn’t want any trouble, and the undercover cops who talked to him said they’d do their best, at the same time thinking that it was highly unlikely; anyone who’d seen what had gone down in that nightclub a little over twenty-four hours ago would have to be crazy to think there’d be anything quiet about this operation. But, as they also said to the man, “We live in hope.”
It was deemed too risky to alert the other people staying at the motel, even by phone, but luckily there were only three couples checked in anyway, plus a guy who’d said he was a sales rep on his way to the next city, and they were all quite a way from the targets in question, in different sections. That meant they could probably surround the unit their marks were in and surprise them, without fear of any more innocent bystanders getting hurt. There had been more than enough of that already.
So it was that by 3:55 a.m., Operation Dogcatcher was put into effect and all vehicles required to form a perimeter around the string of chalets at a distance. They waited there for a little while, observing Chalet No. 30, which was in complete darkness.
It was around this time that Sergeant Moss had informed Peel he was popping out to have a quick piss. Him and his weak bladder; if he wasn’t careful he’d miss all the action—but then that was his problem. Peel wasn’t moving from his spot in the passenger seat of the patrol car.
The right place at the right time, definitely.
This was going to be fun.
* * *
Hunter had fallen asleep at about two, he guessed, after what must have been a good couple of hours with Rachael.
By the time they were done, he was sore in places he didn’t even know existed. It had started off slow, tender—then had become more rampant. At times almost animalistic, both of them lost in each other, the need for one another overwhelming. Then he’d held her in his arms, and in spite of the coffee she’d consumed it hadn’t been that long before she’d drifted off.
And hadn’t been long after that Hunter himself had fallen into a contented slumber; the first in a long, long time. He hadn’t intended to, in fact he’d been doing his best to stay awake and watch over Rachael, but exhaustion had claimed him: not only had he not eaten that much since the curry house, but he’d also not grabbed much sleep. Not since last weekend, in fact, when Rachael had been going through her own problems. He’d vowed, as his eyelids grew heavy and finally closed, that he’d ask her about what had happened in the morning—finally get to the bottom of it all.
But then that was the morning, and this was the night. And as he slept Hunter did not dream.
He stirred at some point when he thought he felt Rachael move, she might even have gotten up and gone to the bathroom to pee, because he heard a door. Hunter knew he should wake up, check she was all right, but it was like it was happening somewhere far away. He was sucked back down into the darkness quickly, his body crying out for more rest.
The first he knew of Rachael’s disappearance was when the loud voice shouted out: “You in Chalet 30! This is the police! Come out with your hands raised above your head! You are surrounded!”
He’d virtually fallen off the bed when he heard it. Thought it was a TV or something in another room, because cops didn’t really say things like ‘You are surrounded’, did they? Only in movies ...
But no. Light was flooding the room from outside. It was apparently real, it was apparently happening, and Hunter was apparently alone.
“Rachael!” he shouted, hoping that she was still just in the bathroom—but there was no reply and the door was open. “Rachael!” he tried again.
Nothing.
Where the hell was she?
“Miss Rachael Daniels! We know you’re in there!” It was more than Hunter did. “You and your companion, come out with your hands raised!”
“Crap!” he said to himself, quickly tugging on his trousers. “Rachael...?” Had she just taken off? Left him here to ... what? Keep him safe, lead whatever it was away from him? It was the only explanation that made any sense. She wouldn’t have just cut out on him.
Not after last night.
But he had other things to worry about right now, as the grating electronic voice reminded him: “Come out, right now!”
“Okay, okay,” Hunter muttered under his breath. He thought about snatching up a weapon, but that probably wasn’t a great idea. Maybe he could still talk his way out of this, still claim he was with the authorities—though he doubted any of his fake IDs would get him out of this one. Would probably get him into even more hot water if anything.
“You have five seconds!” said the impatient voice. Wasn’t it usually ten... ? Didn’t matter. Hunter needed to get out there before they stormed the place.
He made his way to the door, opening it slowly and shouting: “I’m coming out, and I’m unarmed.” Lights were in his face almost immediately, practically blinding him.
“Hands in the air!” the voice reminded him and Hunter reluctantly raised them, using one to shield his eyes.
“Where’s the girl?” Hunter knew what they were thinking, that he might have done something to her. That he might even be responsible for the death of Mrs Daniels, and however many more. Yep, he was definitely in the shit this time.
“I don’t know,” he answered, eyes adjusting to the light and seeing the vehicles, the men in uniform out there. The men in helmets holding machine guns.
“Where is the animal?” he was asked next.
“Animal?” he asked, then realised what they were asking. They actually thought the thing was with him—or he was in control of it. How fucking ridiculous was that!
“Where is Rachael Daniels?” the voice demanded again. “Where is the animal?”
Both good questions, but Hunter didn’t have the faintest idea how to respond to either of them, so he shrugged.
Then the growling sound started up.
It was loud, perhaps even louder than the voice, and it echoed—making it hard to pinpoint. Was it behind him? Was it in front of him? Hunter couldn’t tell.
But a few seconds later it didn’t really matter, because everything was in thrown into utter turmoil.
* * *
This so wasn’t fun. Was not fun at all.
Wrong place, wrong bloody time! Peel wasn’t even sure what had just happened. One minute he was sitting there, waiting—watching the scene play out in front of them: Turlough, the SIO, finally stepping up with his megaphone to do his bit, the confused guy who’d claimed he was with Animal Control stepping out of the chalet wearing just his jeans ...