Tales of Crow- The Complete series Box Set

by Chris Ward

  Kelly was sitting up when they arrived. The girl was alarmed to see Frank, but calmed down when Suzanne explained that he was a doctor and wanted to help. He had brought a doctor’s bag with him and spent some minutes examining Kelly’s wound.

  After dressing the wound again, he instructed Kelly to wrap up warm and stay in the car, then took Suzanne aside.

  ‘She needs proper hospital care,’ he said. ‘I’ve cleaned and dressed her wound, and I have some more antibiotics I can give you, but I can’t promise the infection will stay away. She’s been a lucky girl. First, because the wound wasn’t deeper, and second, because she has a sister like you to help her out. But the only real cure for any sickness is to get out.’

  ‘Get out?’

  ‘Of Britain.’ Frank took Suzanne’s arm. ‘I come across runaways like you from time to time. Most of them have no money and have no choice: they go inward instead of out, into the cities, where they can hide like rats in the sewers. But you, you have something you can sell.’

  Suzanne instinctively took a step back. She stared at Frank in the gloom, no longer seeing him but seeing the man in the cabin, his grinning face above hers as he rutted between her legs; before him the laughing faces of the DCA agents, one as he held her arms, the other as he violated her body.

  In Frank’s face, though, she saw only regret, as though he had seen girls such as Suzanne a thousand times before.

  ‘I was referring to the vehicle,’ he said, offering her a kind smile. ‘You couldn’t sell it as it is, because it’d be found. But parts … they’re in great demand.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to start,’ Suzanne said.

  ‘That’s where I can help you. I’ve done favours for a lot of people, made a lot of contacts. I know people who run boats over to Ireland, getting people out whom the DCA are after. They don’t care what you might have done, you just have to pay what they ask to get onboard.’

  ‘How much?’

  Frank sighed. ‘More than I could ever afford. But let me see if I can pull some strings. Come down to my surgery tomorrow night, after dark. Bring Kelly if you can.’

  Suzanne took his hand. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said.

  Frank shook his head. ‘I’ve done little for you yet.’

  ‘You’ve taken a great risk in helping us. I wish there was something I could do in return.’

  Frank laughed. ‘All I want in return is to see you smile. Preferably from the deck of a boat heading for Ireland.’

  34

  Patrick

  The Huntsman would rarely stay still long enough for Patrick to get a good look under its hood. In order to pick up Suzanne’s trail, Patrick had tried to tell it to follow him back to the cabin, but after a few random diversions it had suddenly stopped in the middle of a road, dropped to its knees and sniffed the tarmac, before climbing back to its feet and racing off in a rough westward direction.

  Patrick had to run to catch up. By the time the Huntsman paused again, he was gasping for breath. It seemed to have realised it needed to wait for him, because as he approached it pointed down a lane heading off to the left and growled, ‘This … way,’ in a gravelly voice which made Patrick’s skin crawl.

  ‘How do you know?’ he gasped. ‘How can you track Suzanne in a car?’

  ‘Track … Suzanne,’ was the only answer, followed by a creepy rustle that might have been a laugh. Patrick remembered how his older brother had lusted after Suzanne, and wondered if that part of his brother’s personality had remained.

  ‘Race, if that’s really you, remember, she’s my girlfriend.’

  The only answer this time was another creepy laughter-rustle.

  Having waited for Patrick to sufficiently recover his breath, the Huntsman rushed off again, leaving Patrick in its wake. He jogged after it, wondering how it could move so quickly. Whenever they reached a bend, he feared losing it, but each time it would pause just long enough for him to catch up, before rushing on again.

  And so the day continued. Patrick had no idea how far he had run, but it felt like he had crossed half the country. When the Huntsman finally paused at the brow of a hill where a gateway looked down at the flat Somerset Levels, he was dismayed to find they were only a few miles out of town. Suzanne could be hundreds of miles away by now.

  ‘Rest,’ the Huntsman said, bounding over the broken gate. Patrick followed, and found the Huntsman racing away across the field, far faster than he had ever seen it move, its cloaked body a blur until it went out of sight over the brow of the hill. Patrick knew he could never keep up, and wondered if it had finally tired of waiting for him, when he saw it appear, walking slowly this time, something held in one of its hands.

  As it reached him, it threw the object down.

  A dead wild rabbit.

  ‘Eat,’ came the raspy voice again, although this time it was muffled. When the Huntsman lifted its head, Patrick saw another dead rabbit, this one held in the Huntsman’s doglike jaws.

  He felt faint, so he sat down.

  ‘I can’t eat it like that,’ he muttered, when he felt well enough to speak. ‘It’s … not cooked.’

  ‘Fresh,’ the Huntsman said.

  Patrick looked around. There were a few old twigs lying by the hedgerow, so he got up and gathered them together into a pile.

  ‘Do you have anything that makes fire?’ he asked, hoping the Huntsman might have a packet of matches hidden in its robes somewhere.

  A ripping sound came from under the hood, and the head of the rabbit flew away into the grass nearby. The Huntsman lifted a flap of its cloak, and for a moment Patrick caught a glimpse of an array of weapons and tools attached to its body.

  It held up what looked like a blowtorch.

  ‘Fire,’ it said.

  Patrick let the Huntsman do the honours, igniting the fire and skinning the rabbit with one swift jerk of its claws. Twilight had fallen, and as Patrick held the rabbit’s corpse on a stick over the fire—still wondering whether he was starving enough to eat it—the creature sat across from him, just a stooped bundle of shadows.

  ‘Are you really my brother?’ Patrick asked, more to break the uneasy silence than for any other reason.

  ‘Divan,’ the Huntsman said. At first Patrick didn’t understand, but it said again, ‘My name … Divan.’

  ‘Divan … that comes from Devan. That’s our family’s name. I know you’re my brother Race. Roger. Do you remember?’

  A low growl came from under the hood. ‘Divan,’ it said again.

  ‘That’s the name he gave you,’ Patrick said. ‘But that’s not your real name, is it? You’re Race. Race Devan.’

  The huddle of blankets shifted violently, the creature springing forward as the robes fell away.

  ‘Divan!’ it hissed, the firelight illuminating the full horror of its misshapen, surgically altered body as it loomed over the fire, before withdrawing again, pulling the cloak tight and reducing itself into a black shadow huddled on the other side of the fire.

  Patrick said nothing. His heart was beating too hard to do anything other than stare at the shadow and recall his brother’s eyes staring over the doglike snout.

  The Huntsman didn’t move as Patrick finished picking at the half-charred, half-raw remains of the rabbit it had caught. He realised he was hungry enough to eat even something that repulsed him, and wondered if he was exhausted enough to sleep.

  He found it unlikely.

  He awoke to find Divan crouching beside him. The fire had gone out in the night, and every muscle in Patrick’s body ached, as though a tank had driven over him while he slept.

  ‘Up,’ the Huntsman said. ‘Go now.’

  ‘All right, I’m coming.’

  Patrick climbed to his feet. His thighs burned, and he wondered how he could walk, let alone maintain the Huntsman’s relentless pace.

  Divan climbed over the gate and had vanished from sight while Patrick was still kicking away the embers of the fire. Groaning, he hurried in pursuit, wi
shing that at the very least he had brought the stolen bike.

  Half an hour later, with Patrick struggling to keep up, the Huntsman paused at a crossroads. He pointed straight ahead, then lifted another arm and pointed down the branch to the left.

  ‘Trails,’ he said.

  ‘She must have doubled back,’ Patrick gasped as he leant over, breathing hard. ‘Which is freshest?’

  ‘This.’ Divan turned left. ‘Go.’

  The creature stood up and started to move forward, but after a few steps he stopped and turned back.

  ‘Carry.’

  ‘What? No, I’m fine—’

  Divan reached him in a blur of motion, dropping low, pummeling Patrick in the midriff and flinging him up into the air. For a couple of seconds he was airborne. Then he was landing across the Huntsman’s shoulders.

  ‘Carry,’ Divan said again, breaking into a run, moving no slower than he had been before, one arm hooked around Patrick’s waist as he was carried like a bag of potatoes across the creature’s shoulders.

  As they moved—perhaps the most uncomfortable form of transport Patrick had ever experienced—he could feel the creature’s strength in its shoulders and arms, and at times hard nodes and angles would poke into him which couldn’t be human flesh or bone, but had to be metal or carbon fibre inserted into the creature’s body.

  Patrick had to keep reminding himself that at least part of what carried him was his brother, Race.

  They were running along an old canal path below a raised motorway overpass when Patrick heard sirens. He had been thinking about his childhood and playing with his older brother, so he blurted out, ‘Race, stop!’ before he could check his words.

  Instantly the Huntsman paused, reached up, and flung Patrick into the grass beside the path. Patrick landed hard, winding himself, and rolled over, gasping for breath to find the Huntsman’s snarling face looming over him.

  ‘Divan!’ it snarled. ‘Not Race. Divan!’

  Patrick’s heart was pounding. How much control the creature might have, or how much influence over its actions Doctor Crow had, Patrick didn’t know. In its eyes shone death and murder, the ability to rip him to pieces in seconds.

  ‘I’m sorry, I forgot,’ he said, heart pounding.

  The sirens passed by overhead, fading again into the distance. Divan growled at him, Race’s bloodshot eyes blazing over its drooling snout. Up so close, Patrick could see how the dog’s snout wasn’t just sewn on, but its flesh literally fused into his brother’s face, its tendons and bones likely connected too.

  It was dark surgical mastery, something Patrick couldn’t imagine even the government was capable of, something only seen in the horrific movies Race had once delighted in making his younger brother watch.

  ‘You were a fucking asshole,’ Patrick said before he could stop himself. ‘Like, you were my brother, but you were an utter cunt to me at times. And I know you used to spy on Suzanne, because she saw you. Man, you were a pervert.’ He started laughing, the feeling at first strange, then becoming a delirious deluge as tears streamed down his cheeks. ‘You know she hated you, don’t you? Isn’t it such an irony that you’re now helping me find her, you peeping Tom prick.’

  Divan growled. It turned away, claws scraping at the ground, before swinging back, teeth bared.

  ‘Suzanne,’ it growled, drawing the word out as though it triggered a long-suppressed memory.

  ‘She was all mine, Race,’ Patrick said. Then, winking at the monster Race had become, he said, ‘And she was the best fuck in the world.’

  Divan snarled. He started forward, then thought better of it and circled back around into the grass.

  ‘Come on, I know you’re in there, Race,’ Patrick said. ‘I don’t know what the hell got done to you, but you’re still my brother. After we find Suzanne, I’ll find someone to fix you, I promise.’

  The Huntsman looked as though it were calming down. It lowered itself to the ground, snout almost touching the dirt path. Then, with a sudden roar, it flung its head upward and howled, the sound so loud Patrick gasped and clapped his hands over his ears.

  ‘You’ll attract attention,’ he said, when the Huntsman looked back at him.

  ‘Divan,’ the Huntsman answered, as though that answered everything. Then, with a sudden flurry of movement, it rushed forward, scooped Patrick up, and threw him over its shoulder.

  In moments they were running along the path, Divan’s bare feet pattering over the ground. For all the discomfort of the ride, Patrick was at least glad he no longer had to give chase.

  At one point Patrick even fell into a partial doze. When he came to, there was a taste of salt in the air, and he caught glimpses of the sea through cuts in the hills.

  Divan, still running hard as though he hadn’t paused in hours, dashed past a sign announcing PORLOCK. Patrick had heard of it, remembering it as a sleepy coastal village famous for its unnaturally large population of elderly residents.

  At another junction the Huntsman paused, squatted low to the ground, and sniffed at the road. Patrick saw a chance to climb off, and massaged his stiff body as Divan examined the scents it had found.

  Twilight had fallen, and through gaps in the trees Patrick could just make out the orange glow of a sunset glittering on water and the lights of a village along the shore.

  ‘Are they close?’ he asked. ‘Race, can you smell her?’

  The Huntsman looked back, and for a moment Patrick thought he’d pushed it too far on its identity. But instead of attacking him, its lips drew back in a hideous attempt at a grin.

  ‘Close,’ it said.

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Both. On foot.’

  ‘She’s walking? Alone?’

  ‘Both.’

  Patrick frowned. Did that mean she had sometimes walked alone, or had Kelly been with her? Or someone else?

  He walked to the roadside and peered down through the trees. The thought of taking Divan into a village filled him with dread. He didn’t know how much control he had over it, but he said, ‘Let’s check uphill first. Maybe they made a camp.’

  A few minutes later Divan turned off the road, taking a barely noticeable lane heading into the trees. The sun had gone down and Patrick could hardly see where he was walking, but he sensed urgency in the Huntsman, as though they were nearly at their journey’s end.

  And then, through the trees, he saw it.

  A land cruiser, parked up beneath the rusting struts of a towering electricity pylon.

  ‘We’ve found them,’ he muttered.

  Beside him, the Huntsman that used to be his brother made a strange grunting sound, like a nervous laugh.

  35

  Urla

  Urla lifted a hand and patted Tommy Crown on the side of his face, on the worst of his bruises, delighting in the hissed intake of breath.

  ‘You did well,’ she said. ‘The game, however, is not over. Now we have to flush out this friend of yours.’

  ‘Those creatures are deadly,’ Tommy said. ‘Your only chance is surprise. If he knows you’re coming, he’ll either run or he’ll send them out to create carnage like you couldn’t imagine.’

  ‘Oh, Mr. Crown,’ Urla said, shaking her head and wishing she felt as much conviction as she was trying to show. ‘You underestimate the Department of Civil Affairs. The only reason you stayed at large so long was because everything you do is part of an intricate web. We know everything. We have informers everywhere.’

  It was a steaming heap of bullshit, and he didn’t look convinced.

  ‘It’s on your head,’ he said. ‘I told you what you asked, but to make sure, I’d nuke the place. I’ve seen the shit he’s doing in there up close. He’s not a man you want to cross.’

  ‘In the way you have done,’ Urla said. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘You didn’t give me much choice, you worthless bitch.’

  Urla whistled through her teeth. ‘I have plenty more men who would like some time alone with you,’ she sai
d.

  Tommy rolled his eyes. ‘Oh come on, my dick’s getting sore. Can’t they suck each other?’

  Behind him, Urla noticed Justin snigger, before he made an obvious play of coughing into his hand.

  ‘You’re going with them,’ Urla said, and this time the defiance in Tommy’s eyes faded a little. ‘You’ll be there on our front line, so if anything goes wrong … you’ll be the first to face it. Let’s just hope you told us the whole truth.’ She turned to the agents either side of him. ‘Take him away and prepare the task force.’

  As soon as he was gone, Urla approached Justin. He gave her a playful smile, but she reached down and grabbed his crotch through his trousers, squeezing until he winced.

  ‘Take that damn smirk off your face. You think he’s funny, do you?’

  ‘Come on, it was just a joke—’

  Urla let go, but before Justin could relax, she slapped him hard across the face. ‘Maxim Cale will be here within hours. Do you think that’s a joke? I’ve had to send half my agents to take out this Doctor Crow because Bristol has ignored my request for backup. Before you say it, no, I don’t think we have enough firepower, but what am I supposed to do? We can’t cancel tomorrow’s parade. This is my—our—only chance to gain favour with our future prime minister.’

  She had corrected the slip as soon as she said it, but Justin’s eyes told her everything. He might have enjoyed being her bedfellow, but she had made her position clear. That was all he was, and all he would ever be.

  ‘I’m sure it will go ahead without a problem,’ he said, unable to meet her eyes.

  ‘Justin, I—’

  Before she could fumble her way through some stupid excuse, that he actually meant more to her than a decent lay a couple of times a week, and that she wouldn’t throw him out with the trash at the first opportunity to lift herself higher in the DCA’s ranks, that she wasn’t a self-serving bitch who would bend over to take the flagpole on Maxim Cale’s processional limousine if it was to her own benefit … Justin’s mobile phone rang.