The Dark Expanse - Astral Clash Series - Book 1

by Jack Hammond

  The added addition of a phone number was a first for him, but whose number was it? He doubted it was a direct line to the Associates. No, that was silly, more than likely it was Edward’s. It could belong to another underling like himself, but with his dealings primarily done through Edward it was most certainly his. The question was what incident would warrant its use? Martin really wished sometimes that there was a set of guidelines, but that would require a paper trail and as he knew the Associates did not leave trails.

  The early morning was quieter than usual. The street would usually be filled with school kids heading to the secondary school at the top of the road, but it was the weekend. Poor children Martin thought sarcastically, having to stay home in the warm, playing on the computer or enjoying Jeremy Kyle in bed. The long road had seen very few cars and even less people, which suited Martin. The sudden sound of the roller doors opening made Martin jump. He moved closer to the window and watched the old man open the front of the cafe.

  The wooden frames around the window were fairly new, another lick of paint wouldn’t hurt Martin mused. His keys rattled a few times in the door, the elderly man struggled, maybe due to the cold or perhaps his age, but finally he forced the door open and entered. Was this the man? Is this the person he was required to observe, a doddering old codger? Call Edward, a voice told him, call him and ask him. He knows who you’re supposed to follow; he just likes you jumping through hoops, questioning yourself.

  No, it couldn’t be him. He was waiting for either a worker or a customer, Martin was sure of it. But how would he know which one? He had no description. He cursed them, it was a good thing they hadn’t heard him last night, Max wasn’t the only one he’d insulted. The sound of a loud diesel chugging up the road, echoed into the empty house. Martin peered down and watched a Ford Transit works van pull up outside the cafe.

  Three men got out, all in dirty clothes, high visibility jackets and eager to get inside. They all seemed unimportant, Martin thought. How long would he have to wait? He asked himself yet again. The question annoying him more each time he asked it. Within ten minutes another two work vans pulled up, these had the same logo on the side. All three vehicles were white but the last two belonged to a well-known Nottingham construction company. Through the window of the cafe, Martin could see them enjoying the traditional full cooked English breakfast. The hunger groans getting louder in his stomach. He should go down, have some food he considered. The idea was bad, but the desire was strong. Warm buttered toast he thought longingly, a cup of hot coffee.

  Stop it! He snapped angrily at himself. If he messed up this assignment the Associates would surely dismiss him, which didn’t mean he would be queuing at the job centre the next day. He would be dead. The next few hours, Martin attempted to stop thinking about food, unsuccessfully. The morning rush of work men had given way, and the cafe had become less crowded. Martin considered if he had missed who he was supposed to observe and how he would explain it wasn’t his fault. Then something perked his interest, a green Volkswagen Polo pulled up at the road side. Stood right at the window, Martin felt something telling him this was who he was here for.

  Only inches from the pane of glass, his warm breath misted it ever so slightly. Martin recoiled with urgency as he saw him. My God! He shouted silently. Without hesitation or question, Martin rang the mobile number, his hands shook, and he wasn’t a hundred percent sure if it was anger or fear. The ringing tone went on for some time before Edward’s calm voice answered.

  “Hello, Martin.”

  “It’s Max!” he snarled. “You knew it would be him, right?”

  “Calm yourself, Martin.” Edward began. “You needed to find Max, now you have. You need to find the boy now.”

  “You’re telling me they don’t know where the boy is?” he questioned. “I don’t believe they don’t know where he is! They knew where Max would be, but can’t find the boy?”

  “The Associates know where the pieces are. They want to know the players.” Edward replied.

  “I don’t believe you, I think this is a setup. Just like Max!”

  “Martin, you have an opportunity, a valuable opportunity,” Edward insisted. “This goes two ways, good or bad. It’s up to you which way it goes.”

  “You mean if I choose to follow him, or…” he was cut short.

  “Don’t finish that sentence!” Edward interjected, sharply but with composure. “There is nothing to choose, Martin. Follow him, don’t confront him and don’t seek retribution for your previous encounter. Find the boy.”

  “Why don’t the Associates just tell me where the boy is?” Martin whined, the irritation becoming more of an annoyance.

  “It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey,” Edward answered.

  “Shove that fortune cookie stuff, Edward!” Martin rasped. “Shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.” He hung up the phone, his temper fuelling him, as he felt warmer, “Stupid, idiot!” he snapped under his breath. “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey…” he mockingly mimicked. Martin hunkered himself down by the side of the window. What exactly was he going to do? Even now he had no idea what it would be, for some reason Edward’s replies had only pushed him further toward revenge. Was that the plan, infuriate him into a reaction?

  Edward placed his mobile phone down on the kitchen counter, next to his half eaten bowl of cereal and a newspaper. He knew Martin was the wrong man for the job. If he had a way to contact the Associates personally, he would tell them. He was that convinced of Martin’s failings. He continued to eat his food, a mix of fruit and nuts with cold milk. The headlines were all still about Max, the missing boy and the mother as Edward perused the paper. The news articles had changed in the press quickly, taking only a day before turning on the mother. All her faults and mistakes were being splashed across the pages and television specials for everyone to see, in an attempt to lay blame.

  The kitchen was spacious, all the cupboards and fittings matched perfectly. Thanks partly to the man who designed it and partly to the large amount of money Edward had paid. Silver and white, everything had a clean almost sanitised feel to it. The rest of the house was the same, very clean, grand but also formal. There were few personal touches. Everything was designed or bought for a purpose, expense not being an issue. To complement or be utilised, yet there was no pictures, knickknacks, nothing.

  The house was perfect for Edward though, it fitted all his requirements in luxury and functionality. It may have looked like a show home, it may have no personal feel, but to him it was home. He washed the dish, dried it and put it neatly away in the bottom cupboard. Edward folded up his paper and headed through into the front room. The big patio window opened out onto a large garden, covered completely in snow. The rockery, pond, edged paving, manicured lawn and sundial cloaked in white. Edward stared out of the window, he liked the white. He liked how it was pure, untouched and the dark couldn’t hide within it. The way he dealt with the darkness, the snow almost felt as if it had cleansing properties.

  He continued to enjoy the scene before him as he took a seat. His mind wandering as it did, to subjects and things he knew he shouldn’t dwell on. Sadly human nature was like that, we were nosy, needing to pick, poke and prod. It was in our DNA, our souls. Edward opened up a fresh page in his mind and wrote the names down of the players currently on the board. There was obviously him, then Martin, the man behind the oak door. Edward smiled; he’d call him pawn he thought. The young child Thomas and mother Sandra, the matured boy and of course Edward’s previous colleague Max.

  They all had a role to play; each piece had a reason for being there, the problem was, could Edward fathom what the game was from his small section of the board? No, he couldn’t, but he tried anyway. He started with the one he had the best knowledge of and listed Max’s points. The Associates found him at a young age, eleven he believed. After being recruited from the colosseum, he had been trained to extract and observe, amongst other things. Max showed great p
romise at the start, in his later years he’d got emotional, questioning his assignments openly. That’s when Edward had become his… He paused, what was he, his handler, friend or boss? None of them seemed to fit. He continued, pushing that particular thought aside. Max, in the eyes of the Associates became weak, making too many errors. That’s when they'd remove him, but they didn’t. Why hadn’t they?

  Edward shifted in his chair, crossing his legs and then uncrossing them as if the subject matter was making him uncomfortable. When the Associates have finished with someone, someone who knows what Max does, he’s killed. The world would report it as an unusual or freak occurrence, a heart attack in someone with no history and in perfect health, a sudden brain tumour that showed no signs until the person’s demise. The Associates caused some of these, the price of being exposed to the darkness.

  The question still remained, why? Why subject Max to a cat and mouse game with the authorities? The kid’s extraction was understandable, but Edward had never seen or heard of using a representative like Max as a scapegoat. What purpose would it serve? Unless the Associates were using him, but as what though? Edward shook his head, where did the mature boy come into this? Max was playing as his guardian, how did that serve the Associates purposes?

  Edward felt a headache forming, trying to work it all out in his head would surely give him an aneurism, but he couldn’t put pen to paper. That was a serious mistake, never leave a trail he told himself. Edward returned to the kitchen, where he opened one of the cabinets, took out some painkillers and washed them down with a glass of water. He read the paper and allowed his mind a break.

  Newspapers were scattered across the tables in the cafe, the workmen pawing through them a few hours before he had arrived. Pictures of the old Max were all over them, CCTV images that could be anyone, the resolution so poor, Max didn’t worry about being spotted. Only a selected few could identify him, the Associates had seen to that. Max wondered if they would regret having done such a good job concealing him now after failing to catch him. If it hadn’t been for the waitress mentioning Thomas, then Edward’s help with the newspaper he would be locked away now. Was Edward a double agent or was he compromised some other way?

  Max turned his mind away from his plan and mulled over what the expanse had on Edward. In all their dealings Edward appeared resolute, firmly believing in the Associates aims and goals, so what would cause him to turn, perhaps a loved one? A wife or child was at risk? Max couldn’t feel sympathy, the amount of lives the two of them had ruined over the years. What made Edward’s family any different from the others? If in fact that was it. Max couldn’t see money as a persuasion. Many other people would succumb to a monetary arrangement. Governments and countries fell because of the allure of wealth, but not Edward. He was a believer; it needed to something more important.

  Max had considered all the options and decided on one. Max would set fire to the brown Ford Voyager because it was out of the way of the house. The fire and police services would be called and statements would need to be given. Max needed to get his attention first and as a user of the colosseum, Max chose to use the darkness to call him. It wasn’t an overpowering call, he couldn’t control him, but he wouldn't clash tonight. Feeling the satisfaction from being able to perform a task, that didn’t have restrictions, was something he could get used to.

  Max finished his coffee and ventured out into the cold. The street was empty, the heavy snowfall no doubt putting people off traveling. A light blue Mazda MX-5 was parked on the corner, Max had not noticed it before, so at least one member of the public had something pressing he or she could not put off. Two snow covered vehicles were on the same side as Max’s car, each undistinguishable, the blanket of white making it impossible. He squeezed himself into the Polo, quickly starting the engine, he was grateful for his thermal wear.

  Inside he waited for the car to warm up and the windows to defrost. The sound of crunching footsteps passed by his passenger window, aware of the moment, Max was playing through what he would need to set the Voyager alight. Max didn’t want a blazing inferno, just something to keep him out of the arena tonight. A little blaze he smiled to himself, most likely it would be blamed on some disenfranchised youths ‘trying to get attention’ he thought. If only he had bought the groceries he had while following the family. Max had picked up a bottle of vodka that would have been perfect for the job, perhaps he had subconsciously known exactly what he would attempt all those hours ago. The subsequent coffees and bacon sandwich were unnecessary, but enjoyed.

  Max pulled away and drove towards the superstore he had been in earlier. The car felt unsteady on the winter roads, now and again sliding as it cornered. Max was in complete control but liked no added variants.

  Martin kicked the door of the bedroom, the noise echoing throughout the house. His temper flaring, the image of him staying calm, playing it smart, not getting angry was gone. He thrashed out again, kicking the door against the wall a second time. How was he going to do this? Just go in and drag him out? Do it in the cafe? No, that was stupid, his anger turning inwards. Stop, just stop, he told himself. You have to relax, take a minute, he continued his internal monologue. If you screw this up you’re dead. Martin was astounded he actually needed to remind himself his life was hanging in the balance.

  He took a few deep breathes, trying to calm himself, time was of the essence. Max would not remain in the cafe forever and he needed a car to follow him. The weather might slow the traffic down, but not to a walking pace. He left the house, using the front door. The street was completely empty except for Max’s car and some snow covered ones further away. Halfway up from Lincoln Street, he headed through a walkway which brought him out into a housing estate.

  The houses were all modern two bedroom terraced, like many of the estates in Nottingham. Dark brown wooden fences, obscured through the heavy snow, it really was a white wash. Martin waded his way down two streets before he came across the blue Mazda MX-5, purring away in the drive. The owner had left the car running, to warm the inside or clear the frosted windows. Martin didn’t care which, graciously accepting the gift in his time of need.

  Cautiously he made his way over to the car, not because he feared being seen by the owner, but because the pathway was treacherous. He wondered if he fell causing himself serious harm, could he sue the occupants? The thought was still bouncing around his head as he set the car into gear and skilfully slid it off the drive and up the road. Martin wasn’t worried about the police. The adverse weather conditions would keep them busy. He drove out of the estate and crawled along the road at a paltry speed. The sporty car wanted to move faster, but Martin was unwilling to risk a few more mph for the car’s benefit.

  Martin pulled up on the corner and waited. He saw the green Polo still parked, a light covering of snow settled on the body work. Martin saw a yellow steering lock in the foot-well. He picked it up and looked at it in puzzlement. Why didn’t the owner attach this to the steering wheel? Idleness was a funny thing, people would leave doing something so simple yet important, to save a mere two minutes. Ducking down, he saw Max exit the cafe. He gritted his teeth, his hands gripping the lock tightly. Slowly sitting up, he caught the Polo’s exhaust rattle.

  His calmness was slowly seeping away, the anger and rage beginning to mount and take control of Martin again. He tilted his head as he checked his scars, the mirror revealed the full extent of his previous encounter with Max.

  “I am not waiting, he’s dead!” Martin rasped viciously, getting out of the car. His feet crunched in the snow, the wheel lock swinging by his side. I’ll make him tell me where the boy is, Martin said to himself. I’ll drag him into that empty house and beat it out of him. Slowly drawing up beside the car, Martin reached the passenger door. Still moving he raised the weapon above his head, preparing to smash the window.

  Wait! A voice suddenly shouted in his head. Is it a trap? His whole body shook. What if he knows you’re coming? He did last time. The voice halted the rage,
and he continued past the car, lowering his hand. He had to follow him, to play it safe. This was agonising, he just wanted payback. Martin reluctantly returned to the Mazda. Luckily it wasn't long before the Polo pulled away. He was relieved he had listened to his internal warning as he kept at a safe distance.

  The Mazda was soon idling in the car park of the superstore. Max had left his green Volkswagen and headed inside. Martin remained behind and waited. A few minutes later Max returned with a carrier bag and a look of satisfaction. Then they both waited. The radio was Martin’s only company for the next four hours, apart from the warring voices that filled his head. One told him to seek vengeance, the other warning him of the consequences. Not even the eighties hits seemed to ease his aggression, the classic Huey Lewis and The News song, Power of Love pumped through the speakers. He tapped his foot, but didn’t sing along. He knew the words, he loved the song, but he had his eyes focused on Max.

  Comfortably sitting in the Polo, Max had adjusted the driver’s seat back a little so he could read his book. The last few hours had flown by, the stylish spy novel suiting him much better than the horror he had been reading through the night. The story and writing seemed to get him in the mood; he imagined his assignment tonight as a secret agent. He placed the book down and thought how tonight would play out.

  The time would be around six in the evening, parking his car at the bottom of the street, he’d head up on foot. The bottle of Smirnoff vodka would be concealed inside his jacket. Out of sight he’d position himself behind the voyager. The Molotov cocktail would be prepared; he would use the necklace to draw the boy into view, before igniting the rag. Max would smash it against the vehicle and use the flames to hide his escape. He returned to his book, continuing where he had left off. Only a few hours now, maybe he would get through the next few chapters before he had to leave.