Beyond the Dark Waters Trilogy

by Graham West

  “Sore. But I’ll be okay. Just want to get myself home.”

  “You need to get yourself right, first,” Rob chided. “And we need to find out who did this.”

  Sebastian looked away. “I just heard footsteps. He took me from behind—didn’t get to see his face.”

  “What about the voice? Did he say anything?”

  Sebastian shook his head.

  “So why did you tell the police you went back to the cemetery to get your keys?”

  “I don’t know, maybe I was confused.”

  Rob caught his eye. “Or maybe you don’t want anyone to know.”

  Sebastian shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “If you were just going back to visit the grave again before you went home—if that was the only reason—then surely you’d have said that. That’s what I don’t understand. Why did you make up a story about keys? It’s not like you. You’re the most honest person I know.”

  The words cut the old man. “I am honest!” he blurted out. “I can’t tell you why I went back. I can’t. You have to trust me on that. I just can’t.”

  Rob stared at him. He’d never seen Sebastian so uncomfortable, so flustered. “Look, I know you’re not up to anything shady, but maybe… Well, maybe you’ve gotten yourself involved with someone you’ve been trying to help. Remember how you first met me? You told me you felt drawn to Elizabeth’s grave?”

  Sebastian said nothing.

  “But what if I’d been a bad ass? What if I’d murdered my wife or something like that. Maybe I’d have been scared that you’d go poking your nose in and dig up the truth, like some kind of paranormal detective.”

  It sounded feasible to Rob. Sebastian was no fool, but he trusted people, and that could get someone into all kinds of trouble. “If that’s the case, you need to tell me.”

  The old man shook his head. “That’s a good story, Rob. You have a good brain. Maybe you should write a novel or something. But I haven’t met anyone, and I’m not involved in anything. I simply don’t know who did this to me.”

  Rob shook his head. Maybe Sebastian didn’t know who had attacked him, but he was damned sure that the old guy knew why it had happened.

  Chapter Eleven

  Blakely hated Mondays too. Maybe it was something to do with his childhood. The school gates still haunted his memories, standing like the entrance to hell itself. His heart raced at the sight of sandstone pillars, the kids congregating around, laughing and jostling, chatting about the weekend’s TV programmes. The Sheldon twins were always waiting for him. It was just lunch money they wanted, but if he didn’t hand it over, there was trouble. A couple of digs in the groin. One time they had urinated on him and he had to tell his teacher he’d wet himself. But Little Dennis Blakely told no one about them—not even his father.

  That was a long time ago. He had left school with low grades—the Sheldon kids had seen to that—but his father had plans for his only son, and the grades didn’t matter too much.

  “You need to take a look at this, Dennis.”

  Blakely jumped at Larry Thomas’s voice and turned to see the man approaching, his face red with rage. “Told you we should have CCTV, didn’t I?” His site foreman never minced words and feared no one. “Saw it this morning. Some fucking kids, probably.”

  “What the hell is it, Larry?”

  Thomas beckoned for him to follow. “I’ll show you.”

  Blakeley followed the stocky foreman across the grounds in the direction of the woods, thinking that if Thomas were an animal then he’d definitely be a bulldog. Short legs, heavy jowls, and eyes that wore a permanent look of surprise.

  “Kids can still get in from the footpath,” he muttered loudly. “We need to make that boundary fence secure. I’ve been saying that for months.”

  Thomas could sure put in a stride, Blakely thought, breathing hard and wondering how he managed to move so fast with those stubby legs. “We had stuff stolen?” he queried. “There’s only timber there at the moment. We don’t keep anything else in the woods.”

  Thomas didn’t answer but stopped suddenly in front of Amelia’s grave. “It’s nothing to do with the woods,” he muttered. “Look. Some little joker… Do you know what this could be about, because I’m damned if I do.”

  Blakely stared. Across the granite stone, scrawled in red, were the words: C’EST PAS FINI.

  Thomas looked quizzically at his boss. “Any idea what the fuck that means?”

  Blakely nodded slowly. “It’s French, I think.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Fini means end, if I remember rightly.”

  “End? End of what?”

  Blakely pulled out his phone and keyed in the phrase. It took seconds. “According to this site, it means ‘it is not over’.”

  Larry shook his head. “Well, it was certainly over for something. That’s blood!”

  ****

  Jenny took the call from the student’s lounge. “How’s Seb?” she asked before her father had time to say hello.

  “As good as can be expected,” he replied. “I’m pretty sure the old bugger’s got himself involved in something, though I’m not sure what, and he’s not telling.”

  “That’s not like him,” Jenny said, doodling absentmindedly on a fresh sketch pad. “He’s normally so…well, straight!”

  “I’m scared, Jen. I’m scared he’s poked his nose in somewhere it’s not wanted. You know how he gets these feelings. Like a sixth sense?”

  “Maybe,” Jenny said, nodding to herself. “You’ll just have to keep a close watch on him. How about we invite him over to the cottage for some lunch?”

  “That would be great. He’d love that!”

  “No problem. As soon as he’s back on his feet.”

  She tapped the screen and returned the phone to her pocket, glancing down at her pencil sketch. Her blood ran cold. She often doodled; usually it was just patterns, a series of intricate but random shapes, the workings of an occupied mind. But this was a face—the face she had seen in the bathroom mirror nearly two months ago. She had put that down to a hallucination, probably caused by the pills and tiredness. But now, Amelia was staring back at her, roughly drawn but unmistakable: the matted hair, the solemn smile, and tears. Red tears she could not possibly have drawn. Tears of blood.

  ***

  Rob thought about it. The malt whisky—nearly a full bottle—stood proudly in front of the drinks’ cabinet like a trophy to his abstinence. It had been the first thing he turned to when the going got tough. Then, when it was all over, when they had buried Amelia and Jenny’s dreams had stopped, well, that was as good a reason as any to celebrate, surely?

  But after they had returned from Dennis Blakely’s villa in Spain, Rob had continued to drink. He still missed Elizabeth and Hanna, and he still struggled with the knowledge that Jenny was the result of his wife’s affair with Benjamin Pascoe. When Josie had pulled him up over the crate of empty bottles in the garage, he’d dug in his heels and drank even more.

  Then he’d woken up one morning on the kitchen floor, lying in his own vomit. Jenny was crying, screaming something into her phone, convinced he was dead. Luckily, it had been Josie she had turned to before calling an ambulance. That was it. He promised his daughter no more alcohol. Not until he got the habit under some kind of control.

  Josie had moved in the following week, and for a time, they had lived happily as a family unit. If his daughter had any misgivings about her mother’s replacement, she had kept pretty quiet about it. Besides, Jo kept him occupied—away from the bottle—and that was good enough reason alone. But Jenny knew in her heart that they functioned well as a family. Josie was safe, and given the hordes of gold diggers looking for widowers with their own homes, this woman was a godsend.

  Rob poured himself a fresh orange and topped it up with soda water. He had learned to look at the bottle of malt Sebastian had bought him and pause, going back in his mind to that moment when Jenny had found him. Di
d he really want to risk it? Suddenly, the amber nectar took on a different hue. A liver-rotting, life-destroying poison. A drug. A drug he no longer needed. The soda and orange tasted all the sweeter.

  Okay, he’d gained a couple of pounds, and maybe he’d replaced the whisky with an extra slice of blackcurrant cheesecake now and again, but he was hardly obese or anywhere near it. And if he started walking a bit more…

  His thoughts were interrupted by the phone, but the answer service kicked in before he picked up. “Rob, it’s Jo. How’s Seb? Could you call me when you get this? Your mobile’s off!”

  “Shit!” He’d forgotten to call her. How? He looked at his mobile. Sure enough, it was lifeless. Rob plugged it in and called Josie on the landline. She picked up immediately.

  “Hi, hun. How’s the patient?”

  Rob went through the details. The attack, the police questions, and the old guy’s reluctance to come clean about the reason he was at the cemetery so late.

  Jo sounded stunned. “Oh my god!” she hissed, her voice barely audible. “I can’t believe it! I just can’t!”

  Rob thought she was on the verge of tears. These things just didn’t happen so close to home. It was always somewhere else, on the other side of a forty-two-inch plasma screen.

  “Sebastian’s a tough old nut,” he assured her. “It would take more than this to knock him out!”

  “I hope so. But it’s the mental scars. The ones you can’t see.”

  Rob was on the verge of choking up and cut the conversation short, taking a shower and grabbing himself a microwave meal from the freezer. The phone rang again. It was one of Sebastian’s neighbours.

  “I’m so worried about him.” The woman sobbed. “I’ve been given your number. How is he?”

  Rob wasn’t up to repeating the whole story. “He’s stable and should be home in a few days,” he said.

  “Oh, that’s a relief. Anyway, I have Mr. Tint’s keys and he’d asked me to look after the dog. Just thought I’d let you know.”

  Rob thanked her, replacing the receiver. Then he caught up with Jenny, who wanted to come to the hospital with him for the evening visit but sounded pretty downbeat. She hadn’t seen much of Sebastian since moving in with Jake. Maybe it would be good for her to spend some time with him, away from the dream home and celebrity wedding.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dennis Blakely sat by Amelia’s lake, looking out across the water. The fountains, the filters and the waterfalls were all up and running under the watchful eyes of the aquatic experts he’d employed to oversee the project. Apparently, it kept the fish stock and plant life healthy, and that suited Blakely just fine. It was where he came to think, and right now he needed to get his head around that graffiti. What did it mean? C’est pas fini. It is not over? Maybe it was the Tabwell Mafia or someone who objected to the park. God knew there had been a few of them.

  He couldn’t imagine a couple of kids bothering to target the grave, and if they did, would they use real blood? Well, he might have been wrong, but he didn’t think youngsters went to that much effort. A spray can would usually give them the kicks they looked for. No, this was an adult—someone with something to say. A real grudge thing. He stood, tossing a half-eaten apple into one of the wooden waste disposal units dotted around the lake, and made his way over to the grave at the edge of the woodland.

  He waited for a moment and read the inscription. They had done the girl proud; the lake was a fitting tribute, and thousands of people would stop by there, standing where he stood now. They would read about Amelia Root, and some of them might even become curious enough to visit the attic. The room was almost sacred, but it could be viewed easily from the doorway where there would be a rope to prevent the public from entering. But was he exploiting the girl? Some would see it that way, and there were enough people waiting to be offended by anything at all, these days.

  But there was something else, and it bothered Blakely far more than the possibility that some local odd bod was on his case. He hadn’t spoken to Robert Adams for a few months now, and he wasn’t quite sure how he’d react to an unsolicited call. There was no tactful way of approaching the subject. How is Jenny? Has she had any more dreams? Has she gone missing at all? Maybe it was best to wait and see. No point upsetting people if this was just a one off. Blakely glanced at his watch. His twenty-minute lunch break was over. He dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets and set off towards the house.

  ***

  The old man had slept for at least half an hour but had greeted Jenny as if she were a long lost granddaughter. But he looked frail, and at times, Rob wondered if he was going to ever see his home again. They had climbed back into the car feeling guilty. Leaving Sebastian lying in that hospital bed had been difficult.

  “Is this about Seb, or have you and Jake had some kind of domestic?” Rob asked the question while peering through the rain as it danced on the windscreen. Jenny didn’t look up from her phone. She was playing some new game, and things were exploding all over the screen. “Nope. Everything’s okay.”

  “Are you sure? You’re really quiet.”

  “I’m just in a quiet mood.”

  “Because if it’s about the old guy, he’ll be fine. He was really pleased to see you tonight.”

  “I’m okay, Dad, honestly,” she grunted, tapping her mobile and killing something else in the cyber world.

  “Fancy grabbing a burger or something then?”

  Jenny didn’t look up from her phone. “Nah, I’d better get back to Jake.”

  Rob shot her a look. “Hey, you don’t have to get back to anyone. If you want a burger with your old dad then you can.”

  “Well, I don’t!” Jenny snapped. “And if I did, Jake would be cool, so knock it off with the insinuations, okay?”

  “I wasn’t insinuating anything! I’m just saying—”

  “Yeah, you were just suggesting that Jake’s a control freak. Well, he isn’t. I just want to get home. Simple as that!”

  Rob’s heart sank. Jenny had cut him dead. She didn’t want to talk. He pulled up outside the cottage and killed the engine. Jenny slipped the phone into her pocket and unclipped the seat belt.

  “You wouldn’t treat Gordon like this,” he growled. The words tripped off his tongue before he’d had a chance to stop them.

  His daughter spun round. “What?”

  “I said you wouldn’t treat—”

  “I heard what you said. Of course I wouldn’t! I’d sit here making polite conversation because he’s Jake’s father, not mine! That’s a really dumb thing to say, Dad. I mean, even for you.”

  “Is it? Well, you’d probably have happily gone for a burger with him,” Rob snapped, wishing he hadn’t kicked off in the first place.

  “What? Oh my god!” Jenny gasped. “You’re being so childish. Where is this coming from?”

  Robert lowered his head. There was nowhere else to go. He might as well be honest. “You’re like a daughter to him. Gordon. He buys you everything—a car, furniture, a place to live—you know I can’t compete with that. I can’t afford those things.”

  Jenny stared at him. “Yes, you could. You could draw on Mum’s insurance money and go back to work.”

  Rob stared at her. “Is that what you think?”

  Jenny shook her head. The anger seemed to drain from her face. “No. It’s not what I think,” she said softly. “That money is there to keep you in food and clothes for the rest of your life—not to waste on a flash wedding.”

  Rob nodded. “I feel as if I’m failing you.”

  Jenny smiled. “Look, you’re my dad. Nothing will change that,” she whispered. “Gordon could buy me the Earth, and everything on it, but I could never love him the way I love you.”

  Rob watched a tear escape and trip down his daughter’s cheek. “I’m sorry, babe,” he said softly. “I’m just so scared of losing you.”

  Jenny shook her head, wiping away the tear. “You don’t have to compete with Gordon. You won’t lose
me. Not ever.” She kissed Rob’s cheek and climbed out of the car. “You know something, Dad?” she said, looking back. “Jake thinks he’s going to lose me too. What’s up with the men in my life?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sebastian Tint opened his eyes slowly and tried to focus. That was the only problem with a long uninterrupted sleep, he thought—working out where you where took some time. Though, on this occasion, it didn’t take long before his aching limbs reminded him. The kicking, which thankfully was no more than a vague memory, had left him bruised and sore. It hurt to breathe, but there was nothing they could do for cracked ribs and old bones. They took longer to heal, so there would be no walks for a while.

  Nature was cruel, he mused, nibbling on a slice of toast and wondering why his gums ached along with everything else. His mind was as keen as it had been forty years ago, but his body constantly reminded him that time was running out. Why couldn’t he just switch off? After all, his own father had started pissing in the sink at sixty-five and by the time he’d hit seventy didn’t even recognise his own wife.

  Maybe it had been a blessing, for he knew nothing of the illness that took the woman he loved and nothing of the accident that left his sister paralysed from the waist down. Sebastian recalled thinking how the man had been spared—living alone in his own mind as the world around them fell apart. His father died peacefully, aged seventy-two, and was buried alongside his wife.

  “How are you feeling this morning, Mr. Tint?” The nurse looked stressed but managed a smile just the same. “You’re getting some colour back. That’s a good sign.”

  Sebastian nodded. “Still sore. Just missing my own place—and the dog.”

  The nurse cocked her head. “Aww, you’ll be home before you know it,” she said, placing a breakfast tray on the table beside him. He hoped she was right but even eating was painful at the moment. The manager of The Farmers Arms’ was looking after his car and thanks to the network of concerned locals, Mrs. Wainwright at number six was playing mother to Ricky.