He did indeed ask the same questions. How long was Robin at the supermarket? What attracted his attention to the crash site? Was there any indication that anyone else was watching? Had any other cars stopped to help? What happened when Robin got to the scene of the crash? What was Loamfield’s condition—was there any evidence of a struggle? How long did it take to rescue Loamfield? And how far did he pursue the figure into the woods?
Loamfield was in the hospital; he’d sustained a severe injury to the head. He hadn’t woken up yet.
Robin answered all the questions flatly, reciting them as if they were lines in a script. They might as well have been. They didn’t feel real.
This wasn’t happening. This kind of thing didn’t happen to him.
Fields stopped the recorder and left, but Claypath didn’t. Robin couldn’t meet his eyes, and only heard the scrape of the chair as Claypath sat down. They sat in silence for a while, Robin wilting under the gaze of the Chief.
“It’s a pity you didn’t take me up on that offer of a chat,” Claypath said, and Robin looked up for the first time. Claypath didn’t look angry, or sad, or disappointed—he was a blank slate. And why was that even scarier? “Things could have been different.” Claypath interlocked his fingers. “Shame.”
“Am I free to go?” Robin said.
“Of course,” Claypath said. “Unless you’ve done something unlawful?”
“Unlawful?” Robin said, “No. I helped you. I saved a man’s life.”
Claypath nodded. “Yes, you’re a regular superhero.”
“Do you have people looking for him?”
Claypath chuckled. “Of course we bloody do. I have the whole force combing the entire county looking for him. And what you’ve done, what has happened, has made national news. I can’t keep the Standedge Incident contained anymore. We have to find him.” But he didn’t look confident. In fact, in that moment, Robin saw a chink in Claypath’s armor. The part where the sternness subsided into uncertainty. Claypath liked everything to go his way, and as Chief of Police it almost always did. But this—this situation—worried him. No—more than that—he was afraid.
“Do you have people looking for the Monster?”
Claypath didn’t say anything. His eyes were a fire that had just been lit.
“Do you...?” Robin started again.
But Claypath interrupted. “This is a police matter.”
“But I deserve to...”
“This. Is. A. Police. Matter.” Louder.
“But I might...”
“Mr. Ferringham...” Louder.
“But...”
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” he bellowed at Robin, making him shrink away. His face had gone red, a vein pulsing in his forehead. If looks could kill, Robin wouldn’t just be dead—his headstone would be cracked down the middle.
“I’m sorry,” Robin said in a small voice.
“So you should be,” Claypath said. Having reached the summit of his anger, he was making his way down the other side. “We have two suspects in this case, and you have managed to chase them both away. You’re lucky I haven’t arrested you for obstructing police business.”
“With all due respect, you wouldn’t have a second suspect if it wasn’t for me.”
Claypath did the unthinkable—he laughed and turned his nose up. “McConnell ran that car off the road—if that isn’t an admission of guilt then what is? And the Monster?—you didn’t exactly serve him up to us on a platter, did you? You’ve done far more harm than good. And if McConnell really killed my children like I think he did, like he seems to be confirming through his actions, then your direct involvement has let a killer go free.”
“You are the ones who let him go,” Robin said.
“YOU GAVE US NO CHOICE!” Claypath shouted, a vein popping in his forehead. “I tried to warn you but you didn’t listen. And your bullheadedness has now cost my children justice. Their killer is out there, running, and now we have to try to catch him. And that will always be on you. That will always be on the shoulders of Robin Ferringham, and I swear to God, I will have everyone know that fact.”
“I wanted to find out what happened. To your children. And the others.”
“Did we ask for your help? I don’t recall calling you to inquire about your opinion. You are nothing, Ferringham. And you never will be again. I have had enough of you. Marsden has had enough of you. Huddersfield has had enough of you. Get the hell out of my county. Go home. And never come back. And if you don’t, you may start to find Marsden can be a very dangerous place to be.” Claypath got up, his anger presented to Robin in a clearly laid out threat. “I don’t suppose we’ll be meeting again,” he said.
Robin opened his mouth to say something—an apology, a plea, just something—but the door shut.
Claypath was gone.
Chapter Forty
A uniformed officer dropped Robin back at his car. She didn’t offer her name, and Robin didn’t ask. When they got to the scene, Robin saw that there had been police tape placed around the edge of the highway. Police cars were lining the hard shoulder and the officer dropped Robin off, then added her car to the line.
Robin paused at his vehicle. Traffic had slowed down on the road—everyone slowing down to see what was going on. As he looked across the barrier, he saw a van parked—a man with a beefy-looking camera pointed at the scene.
Robin started toward the scene himself and then thought better of it. What else could he possibly do here?
He got in the car and, with one look in the side mirror, took off to Marsden. He didn’t look when he returned down the other side of the road.
Roger Claypath was right.
He had done enough.
He went back to Marsden. He parked at the station and walked through the town. Every step he took, he thought he felt a new pair of eyes on him—watching his every move. The man who let the bogeyman get away—that’s what they’d think of him as, and they were right, weren’t they?
He’d been there. In the forest. He’d been right there.
Sam’s voice plucked up in his mind. But then, a man would be dead. You saved the lawyer’s life. You did the right thing.
His phone rang. It was Emma. He didn’t want to think of all the people watching him anymore, so he picked up.
“Robin. What’s happening?” She sounded more worried than he’d ever heard her before. “Is the news true? This McConnell guy, and something about a monster, and there was a car crash? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he said, in a tone that didn’t even convince himself, so had no chance of convincing his sister. “I just... I messed up, Em.” And it all came out—everything. Everything that had happened ever since he came to Marsden, a story full of sheep, canals, underground websites and too many pubs. And when he was at the end of it, she was silent, so he just said again, “I messed up. You were right. I should never have come here. I have no business being in Marsden. Matthew McConnell played me. He used Sam against me, and now he’s got what he wanted.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone for so long that Robin thought the connection may have cut off. But finally Emma said, “Robin, why don’t I come and get you and you can come back to London.”
Robin opened his mouth, all ready to say yes, to beg yes, but he couldn’t. This was his mess—he had made it and he had to get himself out. He owed something to this town, and he didn’t know how yet but he was going to at least take a step toward making amends.
“I’ll be home soon,” he said, and hung up before Emma could say anything else.
Chapter Forty-One
He quickened his step as he got to the duo of pubs marking the start of the town. As he started up the street, he saw a group of people crowding around a uniformed police officer, asking questions in hushed tones. The group was between him and The Hamlet,
so he took a left at the clock tower and found himself on the street that Sally had led him through the day he met her.
He found himself gravitating to a bench next to the quaint little church. His feelings were conflicted—he didn’t exactly want to be out in the open for people to gawk at him, but he didn’t want to be in his room alone either. It was funny how the mind worked sometimes.
Seeing no one around, he sat down on the hard bench. The light breeze felt nice against his face, and even seemed to soothe his cut forehead. He had been running around so much chasing phantoms and crawling into tunnels and rescuing people from car wrecks, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d just sat still.
He wondered what Sam would say if she could see him now.
“This seat taken?”
He jumped and looked up to see Sally standing there. She was trailed by the two sheep, who were obviously hoping for some kind of food offering. Sally looked deflated—her hands tucked inside her hoodie pockets, her hood up. She looked like she was in mourning.
Robin shifted to the side of the bench so Sally could sit.
“Heard what you did,” Sally said. “So are you like Superman now?”
Robin started to respond and then realized she was joking. He looked at her. She didn’t really seem to be enjoying it either. “I’m not really in the mood, Sally.”
“You mad at me because I put your name in the article?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m not mad at you. You did good work. Thank you for getting me back to The Hamlet.”
She smiled. “Believe me, I’d love to take all the credit, but your little friend helped me.”
“What friend?”
“Polly Pocket. From The Hamlet.”
“Do you mean Amber?”
“Yeah, that’s her name. I got you to the Marsden side of Standedge and she was there walking, so she helped me carry you back.”
Amber? “What was she doing around Standedge?”
“I don’t know, walking. You better be thankful she was there or you’d have woken up in a bush. You should really do some cardio,” Sally said, eyeing his stomach. He had a feeling she was attempting humor again.
Robin opened his mouth to say something and realized he had no idea what, so closed it again. They sat in silence for a moment.
“Is there any news?” he said finally. “Anything at all?”
“What do you mean?”
“You run a news website—you must have sources. Is there any news on Matthew McConnell?”
“I run an underground website that no one had ever heard of before today,” Sally corrected him. “I don’t have any sources. I don’t know any more than you do. Unfortunately. We’re both civvies.”
Robin looked around the street. It was empty, apart from an old couple walking down the other side. The woman was glancing at them, and the man was mumbling something at her, no doubt telling her to stop staring. “We are not civilians, though, are we? We did it. We went into that tunnel. We chased the Monster away. We got McConnell out of that place. It’s our fault... It’s...my...fault.”
Sally put a hand on Robin’s shoulder, a gesture that seemed alien to her, judging by her expression. “What we did...was nothing more than the police should have done in their initial investigation. Claypath got so blindsided by wanting Matthew to be guilty that he rushed the search of the tunnels, even though he didn’t—and still doesn’t—have a clear timeline of what happened. We just did his job for him. We have nothing to feel guilty about.”
Robin looked at her, and knew she really believed that. And maybe she was right. But it wouldn’t stop him feeling guilty. And it wouldn’t stop the rest of Marsden blaming him. He wasn’t going to hold that against anyone.
“Look, Robin,” Sally said, “you just saved someone’s life. You ran after two suspects, one when you were incredibly spaced out. You deserve to feel better about yourself right now.”
“And yet I don’t,” Robin said.
“I know,” Sally said, standing up, “and that’s because you’re a good guy. Samantha was a lucky woman.” She smiled sadly.
“What do I do now?”
She shrugged. “The same thing everyone does. You wing it.” And with a nod, she turned and started to walk away.
Robin watched her go for a few steps and then said, “Your name’s not Sally, is it?”
She turned. “No. It’s not.” And that was that. She left, and Robin just watched as she disappeared down the road. Robin smiled—he guessed she was “winging it.”
Where had winging it got him? It got his forehead cut open, running hot with a probable fever, and got him questioned for five hours by the police. Maybe he was the planning type.
When Sally disappeared down the road, he looked around. The old couple across the street had gone as well. The town seemed oddly silent, but then, he guessed he would prefer that than it being crowded. Maybe they were all just avoiding him.
He was startled then when he looked to the church and saw a woman standing there, appearing seemingly from nowhere. She was walking down the side of the church. She looked like she was crying. She paused and reached up to the noticeboard on the side of the church. Robin watched as she painstakingly took the pins from one of the posters. It was a MISSING poster with a picture of a cat. Mittons.
She took it down and turned around, finally seeing Robin. She avoided his gaze, looking down at the picture of the cat with a longing that would never be satisfied again. She balled up the poster and threw it in the bin beside Robin.
Robin watched her sadly. She glanced momentarily at him, with nothing in her face but sorrow, and walked away. He looked at the noticeboard, now with an open spot. Maybe he should make a MISSING poster for Matthew M—
Wait.
Robin stood up. The Mittons poster had been half covering up another one. It was a poster of a blue sky with clouds. He stepped forward to the noticeboard, reached out for the poster, reading the small print.
It was a poster for a gathering at the church dated three months before. A Church Counseling Group. The name was at the top in big gold lettering.
ASCEND.
He ripped the poster off the board and stared at it.
Maybe it was time to wing it some more?
It was time to go to church.
Chapter Forty-Two
The church of Marsden was much as it was at the vigil—modern, all pine and light. But now it was empty, and when Robin entered into the small hall area, then through a set of double doors to the church proper, with pews running up to the altar, he could look around a bit more. There was no one around, and the place was so silent, he would guess that there was no one else in the building.
He looked around the entrance area, which didn’t look unlike a doctor’s waiting room. There were two stands full of pamphlets, all about a various aspect of religious life. Robin stepped forward and picked one up absentmindedly. “Grief and God.” He slotted it back into the stand. Even the big man upstairs couldn’t help him there.
There were posters on the wall, but from a quick scan, Robin couldn’t see any others for the Ascend group. He wasn’t surprised, seeing as the group had passed and the posters inside were probably changed quicker than the ones outside.
He reached into his pocket and pulled the poster out again.
Ascend. A journey of Acceptance—learning to live with the path God has set you on. Location just said “the church.” He looked around again—didn’t even know what he was looking for.
“A lost soul,” a kindly voice said, and Robin wheeled around.
A man, tall but not imposing, was standing in the double doorway into the church. He was watching Robin with kind eyes. For some reason, Robin suddenly realized what a state he must be in. He hadn’t showered, or cleaned at all, since pulling Loamfield out of his car, since being just outside of t
he blast radius of an explosion. He still felt singed, and his clothes were covered in dirt. He must’ve been sweating profusely, as he felt constantly damp.
The man’s eyes moved from Robin’s face to the poster in his hands and back. “I have never seen a man so in need of a cup of tea.” He smiled.
And Robin did too.
Chapter Forty-Three
Robin sat in the front row of the pews, staring at the altar and, behind it, a stained glass window depicting Jesus feeding the five thousand, while the Father, who’d introduced himself as Michaels, went to make a cup of tea. Robin looked at the image in the glass for a long time, thinking the congregation of the church must stare at this window for hours on end. He wondered what they saw, what they felt when they looked at it. Did they feel some kind of overwhelming salvation? Because all he saw was a nice piece of art.
Sometimes he wished he saw more.
The Father came out of a side room, carrying two novelty mugs full of piping-hot tea. He sat down next to Robin and handed him one—a white mug with “You don’t have to be religious to work here, but it helps!” on it. Robin gave his thanks.
He sipped at the tea, finding it way too hot, and lowered the mug. The Father, on the other hand, took a deep sip and smiled. “What brings you here, my friend?”
Robin felt the poster that he had replaced in his pocket, and decided that if there was ever a time to be truthful, it was now, under the watchful eye of the savior of the world. “I came here following a lead.”
The Father regarded him. “A lead? A lead for what?”
“I’m sorry, but don’t you know who I am? I’m pretty much the talk of the town and I must have been on the news, and...”
“I know who you are, Mr. Ferringham. I want to know what brought you here.”
“I just said...it was...”
“What really brought you here?” the Father insisted.
Now You See Me Page 17
