“Bugger it,” she said, tearing open a box to reveal six gleaming bottles. She reached inside and grasped the neck of a bottle, just the feel of the cool glass in her hand soothing. She screwed her eyes tight shut as she recalled James telling her one more drink would kill her and the pain in his eyes that her actions had caused him.
A scurrying sound to her right caused her to jump, eyes scanning the room for the source of the noise. Was it rats? The sound seemed to be all around her, there must be lots of the horrible creatures down here. Something touched her foot and she squealed.
A breathy sigh floated to her on the cool stagnant air and she jumped again, whirling round in the direction of the shape beneath the sheet. It appeared undisturbed but her imagination went into overdrive and she scuttled into a corner clutching the bottle to her, not daring to take her eyes off the body, convinced that if she did it would get up and walk towards her, an arm outstretched in accusation.
Being stuck underground naturally brought back memories of the night her mother died and the black shape furiously digging. The waning light threw strange shadows into the deepest corners of the room, playing tricks on her eyes and making her think she could see something moving there, a black clad figure standing just beyond the corpse, watching her. It moved along the back of the room, trailing one hand over the sheet, proud of its handiwork.
“Logan,” she whispered.
The shadow went still, its hooded head lifting to regard her. Suddenly it flew at her, black robes billowing out around it, just as they had when he’d chased her down the hill fifteen years ago. Letting the bottle drop with a smash of glass, Freya jumped to her feet and ran for the door, pounding on it with renewed vigour, screaming at the top of her lungs, praying Craig heard her. When there was no response she whipped round, certain bony fingers had just touched her hair. Her heart banged against her ribcage, the only sound she could hear the thud of her own heart. The shadow had gone, the body beneath the sheet undisturbed.
She sank back to the ground and started to cry, her mind giving way beneath the pressure of being thrust into her worst nightmare. What if they never let her out? She would die underground, just like her mum. The smell of whisky from the broken bottle filled the air and she scrambled on her hands and knees towards the open box and pulled out a fresh bottle. As she gazed at it, her hands shaking with cold and need, her willpower dissolved. It offered her freedom from this hell.
“I’m sorry James, I can’t do this anymore,” she rasped, removing the cap. To her shame she started to salivate at the aroma. Freya felt this was a huge moment, perhaps the most important of her life, deciding whether or not she was fit to live. Her hands shook, spilling whisky onto the stone floor. The cold was severe now, permeating her bones, intensifying the shaking and half the bottle had gone without her drinking a drop. She clutched the bottle to her chest, as though it was a talisman that could ward off the bad things, but from experience she knew there was nothing on earth with that power. If the bad things wanted to find you, they would.
Just as she raised the bottle to her lips there was a loud clang and the back door swung open.
“Craig,” she yelled joyfully, setting down the bottle and jumping up to greet him.
Her smile fell when a shadow glided into the room clad in black, furious eyes glaring down at her.
Freya wondered if this was this another delusion or if it was real. Deciding to put it to the test she snatched up another bottle and smashed it against the wall, brandishing the jagged end. Of course she was scared but she was angry too, so tired of being a victim and she was more than ready to defend herself.
“Come on then Logan, let’s see if you really are immortal.”
“Steve, wake up, please,” said a frantic Nora, tapping him on the face, attempting to bring him round.
“Aw Jesus, my head,” he groaned.
“Never mind that. Bill and the others took Freya.”
Steve ground the heels of his palms into his eyes, attempting to bring himself round. “Oh no. Where did they take her?”
“To the pub I think. They’ve probably locked her in the cellar, at least I hope they have.”
He hauled himself to his feet and had to put out a hand to steady himself. “I think I’m going to throw up. What’s that guy’s fists made of, iron?”
“You don’t have time to be sick, we need to tell Craig and Gary, you have to get her back before something happens to her.”
“Alright, get your coat on. Oh you’ve already got it on. Let’s go.”
Steve unsteadily led the way, having to pause and support himself against the outer wall of Nora’s cottage, his stomach rolling over. Determinedly he swallowed down the fiery bile clawing its way up his throat, grabbing Nora’s arm when she tried to race on ahead. “Wait for me. Remember what happened to Brenda?”
“Please hurry Steve.”
He lurched on, for once glad of the driving rain, the cold was bringing him round and by the time he reached the pub his stomach had stopped wanted to come out of his mouth.
Nora barged into the pub and regarded them all with fury. “You low, dirty swine, I’m ashamed of every single one of you. Where is she?”
“Safe,” replied Gordon. “I made sure they didn’t hurt her.”
“I don’t know who any of you are anymore except bullies and cowards.”
It was Fred who replied. “We’re doing this to protect ourselves and she’s staying down there until the real police get here.”
“Where’s my son?”
Fred took an aggressive step towards her. “I wouldn’t go calling him, he doesn’t need to know about this and if you try to free Freya, you’ll join her downstairs.”
“Get out of my way you daft old bastard,” she said, slapping him across the face and knocking him sideways. Her way unblocked, she rushed through to the back room. When Adam and Toby tried to stop her Steve extended his baton with a menacing click. He wasn’t afraid anymore, just extremely pissed off. “You got one over me before, I’ll give you that, but try it again and I’ll jam this up your arses,” he yelled, adrenaline surging through him.
“Craig,” said Nora, hammering on the locked door.
It was opened by a surprised Gary, revealing Craig and Howard sat across from each other at a table.
“What are you doing here Mum? You’re soaked.”
“Some of the men took Freya. They think she’s the killer. We tried to stop them but Bill knocked Steve out. I’m sorry.”
Craig’s stomach plummeted. “Where did they take her?”
“They’ve locked her in the cellar.”
“Jesus Christ,” he yelled, leaping to his feet and racing through the bar, Gary and Nora following, leaving a bewildered Howard behind.
Gordon hurried round the bar to greet him. “I’m sorry Craig, I tried to stop them but they wouldn’t listen.”
“Open up your cellar. Now.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a deep voice. Craig spun round to be confronted by all six foot three of glowering Bill. “She’s locked up where she should have been all along if you’d been doing your fucking job properly but you were too busy shagging her to see straight.”
“She is not the killer. Now open the door Gordon.”
“I said no,” retorted Bill. “I don’t give a shit who you are, I’m not going to let you…”
He was silenced by an elbow in the stomach from Craig, who took advantage of the fact he was temporarily winded to twist his arms around his back and cuff him.
“Gordon, open the door,” yelled Craig. He fixed Bill’s cronies with a hard glare. “Don’t even think about it, not unless you all want to be done for assault and kidnap when the storm’s over.”
This made them think twice and they remained where they were while Gordon opened up the cellar. Craig dumped Bill in a chair then pushed past Gordon and ran down the stairs, Gary and Steve following, the stench of alcohol making his heart sink.
“Freya,�
�� he cried, skidding to a halt when he saw the room was empty. “Where is she?” he shouted, turning on Gordon. “What have you done with her?”
“Nothing, she was down here, I swear.” He frowned when he looked to the back door. “It’s open.”
Craig pushed the heavy metal door wide open and stepped outside, calling her name, but he could see nothing in the pouring rain. He stepped back inside, dismayed by the open bottle of whisky, the liquid soaking into the flagstones. “She managed to get out.”
“No, she couldn’t,” said Gordon. “It was padlocked on the outside.”
“What?” said Craig.
“That door’s never locked properly, so it’s only secured with a padlock.”
Gary ducked outside to examine the door. “It’s been broken with bolt cutters.”
“They served her up to him,” whispered Craig.
“What?” said Gordon.
Without replying Craig ran back up the stairs and made straight for Bill, who was sitting in a chair with his hands cuffed behind his back. Gary only just managed to stop him punching the bound man by grabbing him and dragging him backwards.
“She’s gone. Have you any idea what you’ve done, you stupid bastards?” Craig exclaimed, struggling to free himself from Gary, Steve joining in the fight to keep a hold on him.
“What are you talking about? She couldn’t get out of there, we made damn sure of that,” said Bill, looking angry.
“She didn’t escape. Someone removed the padlock on the outside door with bolt cutters. You haven’t saved anyone you pricks, all you’ve done is give him another victim. The killer’s got Freya.”
Bill’s mouth fell open. “No, she’s the killer.”
“No she’s not, she’s a victim. She was at my house for protection and now he’s going to kill her. Are you fucking happy with yourselves?” He managed to shake off Gary and Steve and dragged Bill to his feet by the front of his shirt. “If she dies I’ll put you in hospital and fuck the consequences.”
“I didn’t know, I genuinely thought it was her,” he said, appalled with himself.
Craig toyed with the idea of beating the crap out of him before the professional inside him won and he shoved him away in disgust. “This is what happens when fucking idiots take the law into their hands,” he said, trying to keep calm and think but his thoughts were so scared and disordered he thought he might be sick.
His mum stood before him, determination etched on her face. “The clock’s ticking Craig. Stop laying blame and think. Where would he take her?”
He gave a helpless shrug. “How should I know? It could be anywhere.”
“Think about it. If he wanted to he could have killed her in the cellar and no one would have been any the wiser. He’s taken her somewhere that has special meaning to him or her. Where is it?”
Her words helped his swirling brain to settle and he began to think. “The next element is earth. He’s going to bury her alive.” His eyes slid shut as he fought the rising nausea, images of Freya screaming and crying as the earth was filled in on top of her running before his eyes, forced to endure her worst nightmare. “The graveyard?”
“No, it would be impossible to dig in this weather,” said old Fred, who had dug more than one grave for the residents of Blair Dubh and was suffering an extreme case of guilt. “You could dig and dig for hours and not get anywhere, the earth would just tumble back in on itself, believe me, I know.”
“Why didn’t he just kill her in the cellar?” said Gary. “That’s underground.”
“Maybe it wasn’t intense enough for him down there, especially surrounded by all the alcohol?” offered Steve.
“Perhaps,” replied Craig. “Where else is there underground?”
“None of the houses have cellars because of the risk of flooding,” said a sheepish-looking Jimmy. “There’s nowhere else.”
Craig recalled the talk he had with Freya when she’d first returned to the village, sitting together in the shelter of the castle while the storm gathered around them. Who would have thought back then it would come to this? “The castle,” he exclaimed suddenly, making them all jump. “It has an oubliette that goes ten feet below ground.”
“Oh hell,” said Gordon. “It floods during the storms.”
“Then it’s not right,” said Steve. “It’s earth next, not water.”
“The water loosens the ground and the oubliette fills up with earth and mud,” said Fred. “It was one way they used to get rid of unwanted prisoners when it was occupied. A horrible death.”
Craig looked to Gary and Steve. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” called Bill. “Let me out of the cuffs.”
“Fuck you,” said Craig, striding for the door.
“I can help. I’ve been potholing most of my life, I’ve got the gear to get her out.”
Craig paused, grinding his teeth with rage.
“Please Craig,” said Bill. “I want to help. It’s my fault that lassie’s in danger.”
“Too right it is.” He sighed and nodded. “Alright,” he said before releasing him.
“I’ll come too, I go potholing with Bill,” said Jimmy.
“Whatever,” said Craig, “as long as we leave now.”
CHAPTER 16
Freya’s head pounded but after the horrendous hangovers she’d suffered in the past she could tolerate it. She was lying face down, head tilted to one side and her right cheek felt cold and damp. What happened? Did she drink the whisky? If she had then why couldn’t she taste it? She lay still, willing herself to remember what had happened. She recalled a noise, the cellar door opening, her spirits soaring because she thought it was Craig come to save her. Craig. Her lips twitched up into a smile. He’d come for her and now she was safe. But if that was the case why was she lying somewhere cold and wet and not in a warm bed?
Horror started to creep its way up her spine as more memories returned; a figure appearing in the open doorway, her furious struggle with a man clad in black. She didn’t want to open her eyes but the surge of adrenaline caused them to fly open and a scream flew from her lips when she found herself looking up a ten foot drop. She knew where she was immediately, she’d recognise the arch of stone of the castle roof above her anywhere. She was in the oubliette of the castle, the massive metal grille at the top shut so she was looking up through the wrought-iron slats. It was used to keep the tourists safe while allowing them a glory glimpse into the castle’s history. She was underground again.
The panic hit her fast and hard. She felt herself paralysed by it, childhood fears and memories assailing her, hitting her repeatedly, dragging that eleven year old girl out of herself. She curled up into a ball, covered her head with her arms and started to cry.
It was the cold water that snapped her out of it as it trickled through a gap in the rock and lapped at her face. She sat upright with a gasp, galvanised into action.
Her instinct was to scrabble along the rough ground to her right where there was a passage leading out. She should know, she and Craig had played here often enough when they were kids. She had to crawl on her hands and knees, the rock-cut passage not high enough to allow her to stand, careful to keep her head down, trying not to think about the rock all around her.
“No,” she cried when she saw the only escape route was blocked by an enormous boulder. She put her shoulder to it and attempted to push it back but it was far too heavy and refused to budge. She watched, horrified as water started to seep in through the gaps in the rocks, soaking her hands and feet. It must be high tide, the sea water would flood the cavern, filling the oubliette to the brim before receding, leaving her drowned body behind because the water would rush in so quickly it would push her up to the metal grille at the top, but not before slamming her against the stone walls of the oubliette first. She knew all too well because she’d watched it happen to a rat who’d crawled in and got trapped, Craig cuddling her as she’d sobbed her heart out, the poor creature caught in a swirling whirlpool, its tin
y body little more than mush by the time it hit the metal at the top. She’d had nightmares about it for weeks and now it was going to happen to her, drowned like a rat.
“Help,” she screamed, despair taking over when she could hardly hear herself over the roar of the storm and the approaching tidal water pounding against the rocks at the base of the castle, seeking out every little gap and finding it, the water level already up to her ankles.
“Help,” she screamed again.
A figure peered down at her from above clad in back, the breeze blustering through the castle blowing his black robes about him, making him look like a giant bat.
“Logan,” she croaked, not sure which was more frightening, her imminent death or him.
He didn’t reply, contenting himself with staring down at her like she was an interesting specimen in a jar.
“You’ve got it wrong Logan, it’s not water. The next element is earth. Looks like you fucked up,” she yelled, following this statement up with a maniacal cackle as she was pushed to the very verge of sanity.
The figure just shook its head slowly three times. Then it hit her. She had watched the rat die in August when they’d been hit by a terrible rainstorm. However now it was January, the shrubbery had all grown back and died beneath the ferocity of the winter. Landslides frequently occurred at high tide this time of year, the fast flowing water flooding through the loosened earth, dragging tons of it with it into the oubliette, then dragging it out again when it receded. That’s why the dungeon floor was covered with mud. She wasn’t going to drown, she was going to be buried alive, just like her mum.
“No,” she screamed, clawing at the walls, ignoring the pain as her nails were torn, attempting to gain purchase and climb her way out. But it was futile, not only because the smooth walls had been designed against escape, but because of the heavy metal grille at the top. Looking back at the tunnel blocked by the boulder she saw the water pouring inside stained brown with earth, thick silt oozing around the stone, creeping towards her. The force of the water shook the boulder, pushing it forwards. Freya put her weight against it, attempting to keep it in place before being forced to retreat, scrabbling backwards to avoid being crushed as it was shoved out of its resting place and gallons of water and earth rushed in, hitting her and pushing her back against the wall, mud splattering her face and body. When she opened her mouth to scream she almost choked on it, the figure above calmly watching. The figure’s head suddenly snapped to the right, as though startled by a noise, then disappeared.
The Elemental (Blair Dubh Trilogy #1) Page 20