Beyond the Dark Waters Trilogy

by Graham West

  “Please don’t tell me you two did that!” Rob said with a groan.

  Jake grimaced. “Not my scene, Mr. Adams.”

  Rob held up his hand to silence them. “Hush! I can hear a car engine.”

  Jenny slipped her phone into her jacket pocket as Jake pulled the headphones from his ears.

  Rob slid down in his seat behind the wheel. “Keep low,” he whispered.

  It was faint, but there was no mistaking the sound. “It’s idling.” Jake said winding down his window. The sound stopped and they heard a car door slam.

  “Get down!” Jenny hissed. “Don’t let them see us.”

  Rob’s heart thumped as he lay across the front seats, listening, waiting. They heard the footsteps; whoever it was wasn’t bothering to creep around.

  “There’s two of them,” Jake whispered. “With frigging hobnail boots on by the sound of it!”

  “Shut it,” Jenny snapped. “They aren’t heading for the footpath. They’re coming towards us!”

  ***

  Sebastian closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The painkillers had kicked in. It was always good for the first hour or so, until his body began to ache again—usually two hours before the nurse arrived with the next dose of pills. At least he had time to think. No TV, no radio. Just the sound of the nurse’s footsteps. “Why?” he whispered to himself, hoping the sound of his own voice would release his mind. Nothing about the writing on the grave made any sense. It couldn’t have been Jenny, could it?

  Whore. That was the word. Who would write a message like that? Someone who hated Elizabeth? Someone who hated Robert or Jenny? It had been over three years since they had buried the young mother and her little girl. Why was this happening now?

  ***

  Dennis Blakely took a deep breath and his heartbeat quickened. “That was one hell of a story!” Kim whispered, her hand moving slowly towards his groin. “But you know who I think has been trashing that grave?”

  “Nope. But I’m guessing you’re going to tell me.”

  Kim giggled. “Well, I think it’s the vicar!”

  “What? Why would Francis want to do that?”

  “Not Francis! That Allington bloke!”

  Blakely laughed. “You think the grave is being vandalised by a ghost?”

  Kim grinned mischievously. “Think about it. Who would want revenge? I can just see it now, the spirit of a dead vicar returns to settle some old scores.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “Probably, but wouldn’t that make a great story? Just imagine. It’s like the stuff you see on those Freeview channels at midnight—you know, the ones that grab you just before you’re going to bed!”

  “You have an imagination, Kim, though I think it’s more likely to be someone who’s very much alive but hopefully not dangerous,” Blakely said as Kim took him in her hand. He turned and kissed her on the forehead.

  “You’re a gentleman,” she said softly. “But sometimes a girl likes it rough.”

  Blakely kissed her again. “I don’t want to hurt you. I wouldn’t.”

  “I need to feel wanted.” She breathed hard as she bit into his shoulder. “Please!”

  He felt her naked body beneath his as he rolled on top, her legs wrapped tightly around his back. “Just do it to me,” she breathed. “Do it like you really mean it!”

  ***

  The rapping on the window was so loud Jenny thought it was gunfire. She screamed and covered her head with her hands. Rob looked up and saw a face peering down at him. “Want to wind this down a moment, sir?”

  The police officer looked as if he was seeing out his days in Tabwell and wasn’t after anything too heavy. The female officer standing behind had that steel in her eyes that suggested this little village would probably end up driving her crazy, but she was happy enough to let her senior colleague deal with this one.

  “Want to tell me what you’re doing parked up here?”

  Rob cleared his throat, wondering where the hell to begin.

  “I presume this is your car?” the female officer interjected.

  “No, it’s mine.” Jenny said.

  “Okay, so I presume you’re waiting for someone?” the older cop continued.

  Rob shrugged. “Kind of, but it’s a long story.”

  He smiled, flashing his badge as an afterthought. “That’s fine. Policing Tabwell has its advantages, but it also has its drawbacks. One of them is boredom. If someone drops a crisp packet here, it’s headline news. Know what I mean?”

  Rob wasn’t sure if it would be polite to laugh.

  “So you see, time is not a problem, sir,” he added. “We love long stories here, so I have a suggestion. Why don’t all three of you come back to our car and fill us in on the details.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was one of those nights. Darren lay awake, staring at the ceiling in a room lit only by the street lamp outside his bedroom window. He wondered if there really was life after death—if his mother and father were actually looking down at him now. Did they know what was going on in his head? Uncle Harry wasn’t that bad, he guessed, but he wanted a family. A brother to fight with, a sister to care for. He turned on the lamp and pulled open the top drawer of his bedside cabinet.

  There was a photograph—little more than the size of a postage stamp—a picture he’d cut from a newspaper a while back and carried with him wherever he went. He dreamed that one day they would meet. He dreamed that she would learn to forgive and maybe—just maybe—learn to love him.

  After all, she was family, even though they’d never talked. He’d never really had anything to do with Harry either, but his uncle had stepped up the mark when Tony threatened to sack him. He studied the black-and-white photograph. She had a kind face, but Jenny Adams would need a heart the size of England if he was ever going to find a way into her life.

  He felt the tears welling up in his eyes. It wasn’t for the first time, either. Tears for the sister he’d never known—the girl whose life he had destroyed in a moment of madness. What was the point of holding on to the dream? Because that was all it was. She probably hated the sound of his name. She would spit in his face. And if her father got to him first, he may not even have a face worth spitting in.

  He’d searched for her on social media, but there was no Jenny Adams matching the photograph, and he had given up looking. Darren placed the picture back in the drawer and turned off the light. Why did he put himself through this? Why did he hold on to a vain hope? Maybe he should just find himself a girl, get a decent job, get married and have a couple of kids. A boy and a girl would be good. Brother and sister. Darren believed he’d make a good father. He wouldn’t screw around behind his wife’s back, and he’d make sure his kids stayed away from pricks like Taylor.

  But decent girls didn’t hang out with lads who stole cars and wrecked families. He needed that elusive job—maybe he could get a promotion or something. Perhaps one of those decent girls would give him a chance a few years down the line, when he’d proven himself. But right now, he had nothing. Darren sank into that dark place once more.

  It was a place from which sleep was his only escape, but sleep, he knew, would elude him as his mind raced. He had promised himself a future, but now, in the depths of the night, he foresaw only rejection. No one would want him. A young thug. That’s all he was. What difference would a suit make? Darren Pascoe turned, burying his face in the pillow, and began to sob.

  ***

  “To be honest,” the officer said with a wry smile, “we thought you’d come dogging.”

  Jenny started to giggle. Rob frowned. “Dogging?”

  “Yep. It wouldn’t be the first time we’d interrupted an, erm, event,” said the young female officer. “A bored middle-aged woman with three blokes. She was mortified when we showed up!”

  “So what happened?” Jake said, suddenly taking an interest.

  “We just gave them a warning. We almost felt sorry for her.”

  Rob shook hi
s head slowly, allowing himself a half smile. He thought about the time Josie had grabbed his crotch as he drove home. “Let’s just stop and do it here!” she’d purred as they pulled up alongside a deserted supermarket car park. There had been something youthful and exciting about fumbling around in the back of a car, wondering if someone would turn up at any moment. It wasn’t the best sex, but it was different enough to merit a fond place in his memory.

  “Anyway,” the male officer continued, “I’m not sure this case merits our full attention, but if you get pictures then we will certainly take a look at them, just in case they’re known to us.”

  Jenny nodded. “Thanks. We’d appreciate that.”

  “Just don’t take the law into your own hands, okay?”

  “Okay,” Rob grunted.

  “Are we free to go now?” Jake asked.

  The two officers nodded. “Good luck. But I suggest Mr. Blakely starts doing his own surveillance in future. I know he’s a friend, but I’m sure he could afford a couple more cameras to cover this end of the park.”

  ***

  Darren sat opposite his uncle at the breakfast table. It still resembled something you’d find in a down-market corner café where they served grease on a chipped plate, but, to his credit, Harry had attempted to get his act together. Darren noticed he was actually washing up instead of letting everything pile up in the sink. He’d also used air freshener, which smelled like the stuff they used in public toilets, but it still beat the smell of stale bacon fat.

  “Okay, what’s up with you, kiddo?” he asked as Darren swilled down the last mouthful of coffee.

  “Nuthin’. I’m just tired.”

  “You didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “I slept okay.”

  His uncle stared at him. “It wasn’t a question, Daz. I know you didn’t sleep. I’ve got ears.”

  Darren’s face was burning. “I was just restless.”

  “No, son, you were crying.”

  Darren stared down at his empty cup, wishing it was deep enough to swallow him whole.

  “Wanna tell me what it’s all about?”

  “I’m okay. A bit down, that’s all.”

  “It sounded more than that, kiddo.”

  Darren hated being called kiddo too. He wasn’t a kid—being a kid had been good. A time of innocence.

  “I miss my parents. It just gets to me sometimes.”

  Harry nodded. “You’re bound to, lad, but maybe you need to talk about it. I mean, I’m no therapist—not like your dad—but I’m smart enough to know that bottling that shit up isn’t good for you.”

  Darren continued to stare into his cup.

  “Look, I’m not much of an uncle, I know that, but I’m all you’ve got, I’m afraid.”

  Darren looked up. “That’s the point, though. You’re not all I’ve got.”

  Harry stopped, a slice of burnt toast suspended in front of his lips. “What?”

  “I have a sister—a half-sister,” Darren replied, ignoring the look of bewilderment on his uncle’s face. “That fling my dad had—the woman had a baby. She had a daughter, and then she got back with her husband and had another baby, years later.”

  Harry stared at him. “Did your mother find out?”

  Darren nodded. “Yep. There was a letter from the woman.”

  “And this woman—what happened?”

  Darren’s eyes flooded. “I blamed her. I blamed her for everything. Even though I knew it was my father’s fault, too. But I loved my dad. I couldn’t accept that he had done something wrong. It had to be her.”

  Harry threw the toast back on the plate, burying his head in his hands. “Jesus, Darren! Please tell me it wasn’t her! It wasn’t her you…” Harry looked up as Darren began to sob.

  “I never meant to. It was an accident. I was drunk and we just wanted to scare her!”

  “And the courts never knew?”

  “No, they thought it was a random thing. We were just out joyriding.”

  “But your mother knew?”

  “Yes, but she kept quiet.”

  “And does the family know? I mean, does your sister—half-sister—does she know you’re her brother?”

  Darren wiped the tears with the heel of his hand and shrugged. “I don’t think it matters. She wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “And do you want anything to do with her?”

  “I need to be forgiven. I know we could never be close, but—”

  Darren felt his uncle’s hand on his. “Why don’t you do the old-fashioned thing and write a letter? Tell her exactly how you feel, how sorry you are. If she doesn’t reply, then you’ve lost nothing. But you never know. It’s something she might need to hear.”

  Darren forced out a weak smile and nodded. It wasn’t such a bad idea. It might be better than trying to find her on a social networking site. It was real paper—real ink. Kind of classy. “Thanks, Uncle Harry,” he said. “I’ll give it a go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dennis Blakely stared into the mirror half expecting to see the reflection of his wife standing behind him. Instead, it was Kim. A girl nine years younger—no wrinkles, no stretch marks and no cellulite.

  “You’ve really got to go?” She sidled up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her hand slid, snake like, down to his crotch.

  “Sorry. I have a site meeting, and I’ve got to grab something to eat first. I’m starving!”

  Kim smiled, moving her hand away. “You want me tonight?”

  Blakely watched her through the mirror, her naked form hidden by his own suited frame. He looked every inch the respectable businessman, the faithful husband, yet he knew if he didn’t get out pretty damn quick, his suit would be discarded on the bedroom floor alongside Kim’s underwear.

  “How about grabbing something to eat?” he suggested, trying to sound casual. He hoped she might have been impressed. Most women hoped that relationships they formed weren’t just about sex, but Kim looked perplexed.

  “Why?”

  “We could talk more. Get to know each other better.”

  “We can get to know each other in bed!”

  Blakely smiled and turned, taking her in his arms. She unzipped his trousers.

  “Are you sure you can’t spare ten minutes,” she whispered, taking him in hand. He groaned, kissing her neck. The meeting could wait he thought, collapsing onto the bed. “I won’t keep you too long.” She giggled. “This is just a quickie!”

  ***

  The cemetery stretched out in front of her in the late-evening sun. She shuddered and moved tentatively forward. The light, such as it was, cast long shadows across the manicured lawns, but Jenny felt little warmth from its source. Her legs were heavy, as if her ankles had been shackled by invisible chains, and her heart seemed to hang like a weight in her chest.

  Suddenly she was there, standing in front of her mother’s grave—a grave daubed with fresh blood. Whore! She studied the word, praying it would vanish before her gaze, but the pain inside intensified with each breath. She ripped the coat from her back and began to rub, frantically wiping the blood from the marble—but the word reappeared. Jenny reeled backwards with the blood-soaked coat still in her hands. Inside, she was screaming; her mouth was open yet there was no sound.

  She felt ice in her veins and a terrible fear tore at her heart. The gravestone oozed fresh blood. Rivers of thick red liquid seeped into the ground and trickled around her feet. Then she felt something else. The screaming within died suddenly and Jenny turned. A young girl stood behind her, dressed in a bloodstained white nightgown. The familiar face, those eyes. The look of sadness.

  “Why are you here?” she gasped.

  A gentle, almost imperceptible smile formed on Amelia’s lips, and Jenny heard the words in her head.

  Beware, my child.

  “Beware? Beware of what? This?” Jenny gestured towards the gravestone.

  You must listen!

  But when she tur
ned back to look at the grave, the blood had gone. The marble gleamed like freshly polished stone. She found herself alone once more as the sun dipped behind the tree line, plunging the cemetery into an eerie orange light. Jenny began to run, her feet suddenly released from the invisible shackles. Up ahead, the gates were closing. Darkness fell, enveloping her like a shroud, and the birdsong ceased, throwing the graveyard into a silence the like of which she had never known. It was a silence that stopped her in her tracks. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. Could it? The sound of a car engine broke in her ears and made her jump. Jenny opened her eyes.

  “Come on, sleepy head.” Jake poked her arm. “You’ve been dead for nearly an hour. I’m bushed, so we’re heading back to the hotel for some breakfast! Then I’m getting some kip!”

  ***

  Darren poured coffee into the only clean mug in the bowl. It was his—an adopted cup with a picture of Big Ben and I love London emblazoned underneath. He’d scraped away the brown crust on the first day, leaving it soaking in boiling water and then washing it again. The lads at the garage had laughed at him and he’d earned himself the title of O.C. Darren. He didn’t care too much. He just like things clean and tidy. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?

  But clean cups weren’t on his mind. It was a certain letter he had to write and the words were revolving around in his head and tumbling out like balls in a lottery draw. They had to be right; the whole thing had to grab his sister from the first line. He’d probably never get to pull at her heart strings, but maybe if he found a way to suppress the hatred, sow a seed… What did they say about little acorns?

  He handed his uncle a mug and managed a smile. Harry patted him on the shoulder. “You look a million miles away,” he said. “How about you piss off home? I’ll cover for you.”

  Darren nodded. He needed time—probably the best part of the day. Maybe he could take himself off to the park with a notepad and sit on the bench overlooking the lake. Fresh air and peace.