Desperation Point

by Malcolm Richards

  “Please, Carrie,” the man called. “Please, open the door. It’s about your son.”

  The breath caught in her throat. Carrie leaned forward and peered into the hall. She saw the flap of the letterbox propped open and the man’s round eyes peering in. They shifted, meeting her gaze.

  “Please,” he said again.

  Carrie stepped into the hall, her arms wrapped around her ribcage. “What about my son?” Perhaps he was a journalist after all, and this was nothing more than a ruse to get her to talk.

  The man’s eyes blinked. “I’ve seen him.”

  A flash of hope lit up Carrie’s insides, but was quickly snuffed out by anger. So, it was a journalist after all. They’d tried all sorts of tricks to get her to open the door, but none had stooped this low.

  Carrie clenched her jaw as she spoke. “You need to leave. Now. Before I call the police.”

  The man’s eyes disappeared and were replaced by his mouth.

  “This isn’t a joke,” he said. “I’m telling the truth, I promise. I saw him last night. Up at Desperation Point.”

  The world fell away. Carrie shot out a hand and grasped the wall. She struggled for breath.

  “I don’t believe you,” she gasped. “You’re lying.”

  “I swear to you, I was there. I saw Cal. He was watching you.”

  Before she could stop herself, Carrie threw open the door with such force it bounced off the wall.

  AARON STARED AT CARRIE with something approaching awe. Standing this close, he could see the dark shadows of sleepless nights lurking beneath her eyes and the fresh new lines that had appeared at their corners, carved in her skin by untold horrors. This was the face of a woman who had experienced terrible things, who had stared into the abyss and seen her own reflection staring back.

  And last night she had tried to end her anguish. But something had stopped her. A remaining glimmer of hope, perhaps. Or the pull of the cord that connected her to her children, one innocent, the other snatched away and corrupted by evil.

  Staring into Carrie’s haunted eyes, Aaron saw terror and loss, anger and guilt. But he also saw underlying strength. Carrie was a survivor. She had survived seven years of believing her son was dead. She had survived the shock of his return and the knowledge of what he had become. Now she was facing the loss of her son for a second time, and she was standing on a precipice, wavering. He wondered if he was about to push her over the edge.

  “Who are you?” Carrie growled.

  Aaron cleared his throat, wiped the rain from his face, and introduced himself. He told her who he was and why he was here, and what he had seen up at Desperation Point, and as he spoke, his words spilling over each other in excitement, he realised that his book was not to be an account of the heinous crimes of a psychotic serial killer, but the heroic struggles of a desperate mother, fighting to survive the type of unimaginable nightmare that most parents only dream about.

  This was how he pitched it to her, and when he’d finished, he stood back, oblivious of the rain, and triumphantly waited for Carrie to say yes. But Carrie didn’t say anything. Instead, darkness swept across her eyes.

  “You followed me,” she said, her voice deadly quiet. “It was you I heard running away.”

  Aaron shook his head. This was not how it was supposed to go. “It was your son, I swear.”

  “It was you.”

  “Okay, yes, I did follow you, but only to introduce myself. Your mother wouldn’t let me see you, I didn’t know what else to do. I followed you and I was going to speak to you, but then you walked up to that cliff and I realised what you were going to do.”

  Carrie’s eyes were ablaze. Her body trembled as she spat out words. “So you thought you’d just watch, did you? Sit back and take notes—an eyewitness account for your book?”

  “No, I—”

  “You followed me up there and when you realised you weren’t getting the show you wanted, you took off!”

  Aaron held up his hands. “Carrie, please, that’s not how—”

  “How dare you come here, talking to me about my son! You didn’t see him—you’re lying to make me help you with your damn book!”

  Aaron was losing her. This was all going wrong. He stared at her, pleading with his eyes. “Cal was watching you. I startled him and he came after me. I got to the road, but he didn’t follow. I’m telling you the truth, Carrie! Your son is still here. You could have a life with him again!”

  Carrie’s complexion was sickly pale. Her teeth mashed together. Her face contorted into an expression of pure rage.

  “Get out!” she screamed. “Get out or I’ll call the police!”

  “Please, Carrie. I’m telling you that your son is—”

  “Leave! Or so help me God I’ll tear your throat out!” She lunged forward, slamming her hands against his chest. “Get out!”

  Aaron stumbled back, almost slipping on the wet path. He watched as Carrie’s body heaved and trembled, as her tears bled into the rain.

  “Please,” she begged. “Please, just leave me alone.”

  Nodding, Aaron pulled open the gate and staggered into the street. Neighbours had heard the shrieking. Doors were opening. Curious, alarmed faces were peering out.

  Aaron stumbled to his car. He turned back to see Carrie standing in the rain, her face twisted with grief and fury. Then he climbed in and drove away. This was not the plan. This was not how his meeting with Carrie was supposed to end.

  As he sped away from the cove, he couldn’t tear the sight of Carrie screaming in the rain from his mind. Neither could he shake off the realisation that any chance of saving his career from leaping off Desperation Point and crashing onto the rocks below had just been lost.

  11

  BACK IN HIS HOTEL ROOM, Aaron stood at the window watching the rain lash down and feeling despair wash over him. There was no way Carrie was going to help him now. Without her, the book he wanted to write—that he needed to write—was nothing more than a fruitless dream.

  Which meant he was screwed.

  He briefly wondered if he should call his publisher—ex-publisher, he reminded himself—and beg them to sign him for another Silky Winters novel. He recalled his final meeting in their plush offices and the expletive-filled tantrum he’d thrown when they’d not only turned down his book proposal but announced they were terminating his contract. So long, thank you for your time, please shut the door on your way out.

  Anger seethed beneath Aaron’s skin. Six years he’d given them! Six years and hundreds of thousands of sales. Didn’t that count for anything? So, the last Silky Winters hadn’t sold anything like the others, but was it his fault they hadn’t promoted it? And was it his fault that his newly ruined career had forced him to start drinking again after months of sobriety? If only Taylor had understood that, maybe Aaron wouldn’t have found himself homeless and sleeping in his car. Maybe he wouldn’t have been forced to empty their joint savings account and head down to this godforsaken place in a final desperate bid to make something out of his abysmal, fucking life!

  Aaron slumped on the bed and eyed the mini bar. At least he’d capped the drinking again before it had spiralled out of control.

  “Doesn’t that earn me a second chance?” he muttered, his shoulders sagging. Except that he’d lost count of the second chances Taylor had given him, and he had a feeling that clearing their bank account and promptly vanishing had pretty much slammed the coffin lid on their relationship.

  His eyes returned to the mini bar. His tongue ran over his lower lip. This book was supposed to be his salvation, not his downfall. He’d pinned his last shred of hope to it. Now he’d have to go grovelling on his knees back to his publisher, back to Taylor, begging to be forgiven and granted one last chance. Again.

  Because what was the alternative?

  The alternative, he knew, was rotting in this hotel until the money ran out, then sleeping in his car until he either drove it straight into the sea, or froze to death in the back seat, star
ved and penniless. Because there was no way in hell he could ever return to the nine-to-five grind. Never on this green earth!

  The room pressed down on him, sucking out the air. He had to get out of here. Clear his head of all the noise, so he could think of a way out. Besides, he was hungry. How was he supposed to think when he was hungry?

  And there was always a solution. There had to be. Otherwise, he might as well get in his car and drive into the ocean right now.

  Riding the lift down to the lobby, Aaron breezed past the front desk and smiled at the bored-looking receptionist. The restaurant was off to the side, shrouded in darkness. He stooped and peeked through the glass door.

  “We’ve had to close it,” the receptionist called. “Chef’s sick.”

  Aaron returned to the desk. “What’s a guest supposed to do for dinner, then?”

  The young man looked him up and down. “The bar’s open. They have snacks. Or, if you like, I can make you a sandwich. Alternatively, there’s a selection of restaurants nearby if you don’t mind braving the weather.”

  Aaron glanced across the foyer at the soft light filtering through the bar’s smoked-glass front. Piano music floated on the air. It was a recording, something old and bluesy. He listened to a few bars while he debated whether he should go in.

  Perhaps there would be people inside. He wasn’t sure he wanted to engage in conversation, but there was still company to be had in the presence of strangers. And just because you happened to enter a licensed establishment didn’t mean you were contractually obliged to drink alcohol, even if you had hit rock bottom. Besides, they had snacks.

  Aaron wavered. Then he nodded to the receptionist, sucked in a breath, and stepped through the doors.

  Considering the ailing state of the rest of the hotel, the bar was surprisingly slick. Red velvet booths lined the sides of the room, while tables and chairs filled the centre. The bar itself was lit with strings of colourful lights.

  The only occupant was the barman, who stood behind the bar, absentmindedly polishing glasses. As Aaron approached, he looked up and flashed him a smile. Probably pleased to have something to do, Aaron thought, before nervously glancing at the illuminated bottles behind.

  “Good evening, sir,” the barman said. “What can I get you?”

  He was younger than Aaron, in his early twenties, with dark hair slicked into a side parting and a clean-shaven face free of lines and wrinkles.

  Aaron sat on a bar stool and rested his hands on the counter. His eyes scanned the rows of bottles before him. Hypnotised, he ran his tongue over his lower lip. Perhaps it was a mistake to come in here. Too soon.

  The barman was waiting, his smile warm and pleasant.

  “Peanuts, please.”

  “Nothing to drink?”

  “Lime and soda.” The words felt alien on his tongue. “No ice.”

  The barman raised an eyebrow.

  “Lime and soda, it is.” He reached beneath the counter for a glass. “Freshly squeezed or cordial?”

  “Cordial will do just fine.”

  Aaron could feel his face heating up. It hadn’t been so long ago that he would have laughed at the idea of ordering lime and soda, unless the glass was already half filled with gin. But those days were behind him now. Yes, he’d slipped after his meeting with the publisher. Yes, he’d suffered the consequences. But when it came to booze, he was a changed man now. And he’d made that change without help from anyone.

  “So, you’re here on business?” the barman asked as he reached for the soda. “I can’t imagine anyone being here on holiday at this time of year.”

  Aaron nodded, not wanting to make conversation. But the barman was clearly bored of his own company.

  “What kind of business?”

  “Research.”

  “Oh? For what?”

  “A book.”

  The glass was set before him, along with a bowl of peanuts. Aaron stared at them. Perhaps instead of drinking himself to death, he could eat his way to a massive coronary. Or perhaps he’d take up smoking again. He briefly recalled the headiness of the cigarette Nat had given him a few days ago.

  “You’re a writer?” the barman asked, suitably impressed.

  Aaron nodded, momentarily buffered by the young man’s awe. He could at least pretend for a moment that life was wonderful.

  “What’s your book about?”

  “The life and crimes of Grady Spencer.”

  The barman’s expression soured. “That old psychopath?”

  “The one and only. You know much about him?”

  “Only what I heard on the news. Really nasty business. Didn’t do much for the tourist trade either, apart from bringing all the weirdos and freaks out from under their rocks.” He looked up suddenly. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  Aaron smiled. He shovelled peanuts into his mouth, then glanced up at the barman. “What do you know about Devil’s Cove?”

  “I know the locals don’t like it being called that for a start. Especially now.” The barman began picking up polished glasses from the counter and returning them to a shelf below. “You interviewing the locals?”

  “Trying to. You know anyone from Dev- from Porth an Jowl?”

  “Nope. Never been there.”

  “How about Grady Spencer’s victims?”

  “Sorry. Can’t help you.”

  Sipping his drink, Aaron turned and glanced around the empty bar. His thoughts returned to Cal Anderson.

  Finished with the glasses, the barman leaned his elbow on the counter. “What kind of sick-minded individual murders little kids?”

  “A sick-minded one,” Aaron said, with a wry smile.

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—it’s a nasty business.” The barman shook his head. “There’s been too much of that going around lately.”

  Aaron studied the young man’s face. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean all the satanic stuff that’s been happening.”

  “Satanic stuff?” He set down his glass with a smile and stared at the young man. Clearly, superstitious hysteria wasn’t relegated to Porth an Jowl alone.

  The barman grimly nodded. “A couple weeks back, a farmer found his entire flock of sheep butchered. Bits of them hacked off and taken. Ritual sacrifice, the papers said. There’s been a whole spate of it. A horse mutilated, its hooves cut off. A goat decapitated, its guts ripped out. . .”

  Something was signalling to Aaron from deep inside his brain, like a flare shooting through the dark.

  “Satanists?” he said. “Are you sure?”

  “Said so in the papers.” The barman shook his head. “Who would have thought of such a thing in this day and age?”

  It sounded preposterous to Aaron. Were there really clusters of Devil worshippers roaming rural Cornwall, sacrificing livestock under a full moon? Or was it something else?

  Despite the warmth of the bar, Aaron’s skin prickled.

  Cal Anderson had been accused of mutilating animals, hadn’t he? Including Margaret Telford’s dog, who’d been hacked to pieces and left in a sack for her to find.

  The barman nodded at Aaron’s empty glass. “Something else?”

  But Aaron didn’t hear him.

  You could find him.

  He laughed. What an idea! He closed his eyes for a second, imagining himself emerging from the wilderness with Cal in tow. He imagined jostling news crews, cameras rolling as the world wondered how he’d achieved something the police could not: the capture of Cal Anderson. But he would not tell them. Not yet. Only within the pages of his book would he detail exactly how he’d done it. And then would come the seven-figure publishing deal, the celebrity TV guest spots, the awards, a Hollywood movie. . .

  Aaron snapped out of his fantasy. He stared at the barman, at the rows of glinting bottles that all seemed to be singing his name.

  This was real life. A life in which he was doomed to fail, over and over. Unless he did something rash to change his fortune no
w.

  Something like finding Cal Anderson.

  Aaron sat up, eyes glittering as he stared at the barman.

  “The stories were in the paper, you say?”

  12

  BRIAR WOOD WAS STILL and quiet. The rain had stopped an hour ago and now, as the temperature plummeted, tiny ice particles formed on branches and the ground began to freeze.

  He stood at the treeline, shivering as he watched the road, waiting for her to come. He’d been waiting for an hour now.

  Something was wrong. Something to do with that man, perhaps. Who was he? Why had he been watching her? What did he want?

  Somewhere deep inside Cal’s chest, an anxious feeling unfurled its wings. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the man had appeared and now his mother hadn’t shown up on her nightly walk to Desperation Point. He didn’t trust that man. He had hidden in the trees like a hunter stalking its prey, and he had watched Cal’s mother step up to the cliff edge without doing anything to stop her.

  But hadn’t Cal done the same? Rubbing his hands together, he edged closer to the road.

  Where was she? Her absence felt like a hole inside him that was growing wider. It scared him. It made him angry.

  I told you, boy, a voice whispered inside his head. That stinking bitch never cared about you.

  Cal replayed last night’s events in his mind. His mother had almost thrown herself into the ocean. Why had she done that? On all the other nights, she’d walked up to the cliff but she’d stayed back from the edge, as if she had been afraid to get any closer.

  Cal had watched every night. When he’d first found the courage to return to the cove, he’d waited until the early hours and stolen through the streets, until he’d found himself standing outside his childhood home. The curtains had all been closed, the lights turned out, but he could feel her inside. He could sense her pain as acutely as he experienced his own.

  That was back when Dylan had still been at the house. Now, Dylan was gone and he’d taken Melissa with him. Cal thought that was a good thing. Their absence gave him hope.