Hunting Abigail: Fight or Flight? For Abigail, it's both!

by Jeremy Costello

  ‘Go on, get lost.’

  As Barlow scampered from the room, York moved to the patio doors overlooking the back garden. He peered out into the heavy leaf of shadow overlapping the fence, the hedges. The evening was calm.

  He took a deep breath, the aromas of bare wood and plaster filling his nostrils. A cat sauntered idly across the black blades of grass. The large oak in the far corner ebbed in the gentle breeze. Nothing else moved.

  He squinted and looked back to the oak, the base of its trunk swallowed in the oily dark. Something was moving out there. Unhitching the lock he stepped outside, narrowed eyes locked on the tree. He wondered if it had been an illusion, nothing more than a trick of the mind brought on by an impossibly long day, and narcotics in the mix.

  A few more steps.

  Only ten or so yards from the tree now, he paused to glance over his shoulder. He could see officers inside the house; likely he was invisible to them.

  He turned back to the oak and right there, in full view was the silhouette of a man standing with his back to the fence, eyes glinting in the moonlight. York held his ground, held the stare, his heart in his mouth. Perhaps twenty seconds passed. It seemed like a week. The silhouette’s eyes altered, turned up at the corners.

  He’s smiling, York thought. The bastard is smiling.

  As quickly as he appeared, the figure turned and scrambled over the fence with lightning agility. No hesitation, York plummeted forwards and thrust himself up, vaulting the fence and landing in a narrow alleyway, cats scarpering at the sound of his slapping feet.

  Left.

  Right.

  There. Towards the end of the passage his target disappeared into a garden. He gave chase, dashing along the alley to find the gate locked. He kicked it hard, the flimsy lock shattering away from the jamb.

  In time to see the figure disappearing into the house and locking the patio door, he sprinted through the garden picking up a cracked gnome as he ran. The glass door erupted inwards as the ornament struck it and he followed the debris, the crunch of glass under his feet.

  Passing quickly through a living room, TV blaring out a rerun of some Australian soap, homeowner cowering against the back wall, he found the front door swinging on its hinges. He ran for it, realising the mistake, the red herring.

  The target hadn’t left that way. He hadn’t left at all. He turned in time to catch the silhouette emerging from the shadows on the staircase, arms raised. York threw his hands up in time to deflect the swing of something solid and fell backwards through the open front door. He collided with the concrete path as the figure stepped over him and sprinted for the main road.

  Back on his feet York lunged on, arm burning from the attack. Across the main street, heavy streams of traffic surged back and forth, killing machines made of steel and glass. In a screech of tyres and a blare of horns he ran out into the road, slid across the bonnet of an emergency stop and fell onto the opposite pavement, hip aching from the collision. Up ahead the suspect vanished into a small café, pushing aside patrons, product stands.

  York followed, muscling his way into the coffee shop. Only two tables were in use, the parties of both staring at the scene in wild fascination. The barista merely pointed to a door at the back, feet glued to the spot.

  Through the back of the café he found himself in a small courtyard, stacks of cardboard piled on one side, empty crates on the other. From the far side of the fence, he heard a grunt – his target had gone over.

  Scaling the fence as quickly as his aching body would allow, he crashed down on the other side. Another alleyway, only this time he got lucky - his fleeing target had chosen the wrong direction. York didn’t move, but he didn’t have to. One end of the dark alley terminated with an unscaleable brick wall. The dark shape paused in the shadows, glancing back at him, peering to the top of the obstacle.

  York caught his breath and edged forwards, the figure turning to face him. He still hadn’t seen the man’s face, but at that very moment it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered now was the next few moments. Who was the stronger willed? Who was the stronger physically?

  Who had who cornered?

  There was only silence and a shock of airlessness in the alley, like they were standing at an elevated altitude. What followed was another stare down. This time there would be no running.

  ‘You killed my friend,’ York said at last. His voice carried confidence. At least he thought so.

  The silhouette didn’t reply, simply stood motionless, watching, his face pulling in the shadows.

  ‘You went back on your word, you fuck!’

  Still nothing, just the concentration of careful observation.

  ‘I can stand here all night,’ York assured him. ‘I’ve got nowhere I ne–’

  ‘You talk too much,’ the figure finally murmured in a low guttural grunt. There was no fear in the tone, not even a trace.

  York took another step forwards. ‘You don’t talk enough.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Does it matter, Nicolas? Do you think it will change anything to know who I am, what I’ve done? What I’m going to do?’

  ‘Oh, I know what you’ve done.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Your partner was a fighter,’ the voice grunted. ‘Real spirit. It was almost a pity to put her out of the game.’

  ‘Is that what this is to you, a game?’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact it’s not. I believe disposing of your partner has taken us past the stage of riddles and messengers. That was just my bit of fun.’

  ‘People have died, son, that's not my idea of fun.’

  ‘I've given you a purpose again, Nicolas,’ said the figure cryptically. ‘Are you going to begrudge me that?’

  York frowned.

  ‘Since your family disappeared you have had no real focus in your life. You cling on to each day in the hope that your son may still be alive, and you shoot that crap into your veins because it gives you a reprieve on your excuse for an existence. You think you’re any different to me? We both have our escapisms, mine is just a little more…inventive. Bottom line, Nicolas, you need me.’

  York took a step back this time, suddenly apprehensive. ‘How do you know these things?’

  ‘Because I watch. I observe. And I especially see people in turmoil. I saw you, Nicolas. You stood out.’

  ‘I don’t need you,’ York muttered uncertainly.

  ‘Who are you trying to convince? Only two of us here.’

  ‘Fuck you! You’re through. It’s over. I can’t let you leave here, you know that.’

  ‘You can’t stop me, Detective,’ the voice murmured firmly. The defined glint of a sharp edge appeared in the darkness. ‘No one can. I chose you because you were damaged, a broken man. I figured you’d provide the best sport and you haven’t disappointed. But this little rendezvous is over. Now you’re going to step aside and let me pass.’

  ‘And why am I going to do that?’

  ‘Because, Detective, I will not hesitate to gut you where you stand.’

  York paused a moment, stood fast. ‘Let me ask you something. Do you think I have anything left to lose? Morning after morning I wake up and curse the daylight, devastated that I haven’t died in my sleep from an overdose. I’m not afraid to die, son. So if you think I’m going to step aside so a punk like you can walk away, think again. I can see your knife. Well, I’m unarmed. What do you suppose my chances are?’

  ‘Oh Nicolas. Nicolas, Nicolas, Nicolas…’

  York took a step forwards. ‘Bring it on, you degenerate fuck!’

  In the blink of an eye the silhouette was on him, the glint of his blade slicing through the air inches above his face. Grabbing a handful of hair, York yanked viciously back, his assailant tumbling off him, rolling away into the shadows.

  Instantly back up he leapt onto the figure’s back, swinging hooks at any part of the body, any connection a good
connection. Some of the jabs landed, others found air.

  Pitched off to the side with unnerving strength, York tumbled through the air and landed with a solid thump on the concrete, springing back up in time to feel himself being picked up and slammed into the wall of the alley, a reverberating whump as his head cracked the brick. Glitter and closing darkness danced before his eyes, but his consciousness gripped. With his arms pinned he swung his head forwards feeling the hard connection. His release and the agonising grunt came hand-in-hand as he pushed himself away from the wall, his assailant reeling.

  York charged forwards flailing into the dark, arms wind-milling, but not a single blow landed. From the shadows, a large arm snaked around his neck from behind, lifting him off the ground, crushing his throat. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable. His assailant obliged. He gagged as the serrated edge of the blade was pushed into his lower back. At first there was no pain, only the cold feeling of despair, failure.

  As the chokehold loosened, he dropped to his knees feeling the blade twist slightly as he fell. As if in slow motion he crumbled onto his side, unable to move. He refused to pass out. Then the pain came, and he began to fade away to a soft voice in his ear. ‘No need to thank me, Nicolas. I just pray death is all you hoped for.’

  York tried to reply but no sounds left his mouth.

  ‘I’ll see you on the other side.’

  From his perspective on the ground, he watched as the killer walked casually away free from pursuit, his footsteps rescinding into the darkness, the serrated blade dripping with blood.

  His blood.

  Moments later the alley vanished, and he slipped into the silky black place he’d visited many times before.

  *

  Leanne.

  Frasier.

  His family was with him, their beautiful faces forming. From the shadows they emerged, evaporated. Emerged.

  Something was different this time. He was standing at an odd perspective, almost oblique. Like he was closer to them in some way, nearer.

  Still they couldn’t hear him. His lungs bellowed out the words he needed them to hear but only silence emanated, as though they weren’t meant to hear him, or weren’t permitted.

  He closed his eyes and watched the faces of his loved ones dissolve away again. When he reopened them, the blurry definitions of the dark alleyway reappeared, disappeared.

  Leanne again, standing at the kitchen sink wiping plates, bubbles clinging to her soft hands. Frasier runs into the kitchen, holds up a drawing he’s finished, his face full of pride. Look, Daddy, he grins, it’s our house. Leanne turns to see, her smile broadening. She flicks bubbles at Frasier and he squirms away giggling like any other child. Any other child.

  The scene dissolved again, and the alleyway reappeared. His back felt warm and damp. He decided there was no cause for optimism. Blood was escaping his body at an alarming rate.

  ‘Keep your eyes open,’ a soft voice whispered into his ear. ‘Help is on the way.’

  A woman’s face appeared into his line of sight, blonde. All other details were lost in the haze.

  ‘Remember this, Nicolas,’ said the voice. ‘Remember me.’

  He tried to ask her name but his vocal cords refused to operate. Something was being slipped into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Keep your eyes open,’ the voice said again. ‘Whatever you do, don’t go to sleep.’

  The only thing to follow was the click of heels as the mysterious woman hurried away. Despite her advice, five seconds later he slipped into unconsciousness.

  Leanne.

  Frasier.

  He liked it here.

  *

  Why have I come here? Nothing has changed.

  I stand at the head of the driveway eying the soulless structure. It seems smaller now, but no less threatening. The inhabitants have long since departed by various means, the remnants of their legacy standing firm amidst overgrown bracken and ivy.

  My father is gone.

  My mother is dead.

  I am a different person now, and without prejudice or discrimination I function in the real world with unique qualities. Ordinary people will know my name, but it is not notoriety I seek. Ordinary people will be sickened and disturbed by me. Ordinary people will fear me as I have feared the waking day.

  In each hand I hold a canister, the contents sloshing as I advance upon the house. I place them on the steps and peer through the stained window into the hall. Nothing remains, not a chip of furniture. The floorboards are bare, as they always were.

  I empty the first canister over the porch and steps, the flecking paint crumbling away as if thankful. The second canister I splash over the side of the house, the rich scent of gasoline dominating the air.

  I haven’t brought enough, though the house is an amalgamation of flammable materials. I stand back and strike a match, tossing it into the cloying pool of golden liquid at the foot of the steps. The house erupts in a burst of orange, the blast of heat forcing me backwards. Beyond the far corner of the structure, I spy the briefest glimpse of the frame at the foot of the yard. For no longer than one frigid second, I contemplate returning with extra fuel and razing the diabolical monstrosity to the ground.

  The notion passes, and I quickly become consumed by the blazing spectacle before me. Already the chimney has collapsed. Inside, a fallen crossbeam hangs ablaze across the stairs. Once more I ask myself why I came here. One by one, memories will burn, childhood scorn will perish, and I will be left standing.

  My father is gone.

  My mother is dead.

  Ordinary people will know my name.

  33

  Somewhere in the Indian Ocean, 2011

  Abbey forgot where she was. In the stuffy heat of the tent she rolled onto her back. Here last night, the girl was now missing. Slipping into a shirt, she poked her head through the blankets and scanned the sand. Halfway along the bay was Sol, the obnoxious Australian, lying face down and unconscious on the sand. Nobody else was around.

  Last night’s fire kicked out only smoke, its flames long since dead.

  Crawling onto the sand, she stood and stretched, the perfect blue overhead making it hard to believe there’d ever been a storm. The vestige of wind was barely enough to stir the fronds.

  ‘I’m guessing you must be Abbey,’ said an unfamiliar voice at her back.

  Startled, she turned to see the injured man in the pilot’s uniform, blankets drawn up around his tent. The man’s skin was ashen and oily, though he managed to bare his faintly stained teeth with a boisterous smile.

  ‘What, no cheerful greeting?’ he added in his thick West Indian accent.

  ‘I’m…I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I thought I was alone.’

  ‘No need to be sorry, gal. In the gravity of our situation' – sichueeeshan – 'I am required to be as forthcoming as possible. Forgive me for making you jump. My name’s Gibson. Gibson Sommerfield. I was the navigation' – navigeeeshan – 'pilot onboard.’

  In an instant she liked Gibson Sommerfield. He gave off a warming aura. There was little doubt he was a father. Abbey took a seat in the sand and asked him how he was feeling.

  ‘Like I’ve been in a catastrophic accident,’ he replied. ‘I can’t imagine that to be true, though, gal, otherwise I’d have heard about it on the news.’

  Abbey smiled coyly and nodded at the bandage. ‘You mind if I check this out?’

  ‘James took a look earlier. Apparently I’m in need of some kick-ass penicillin. Not to worry, I’m sure there’s some knocking around here somewhere.’

  ‘Sure,’ Abbey replied dubiously.

  ‘James has been up since dawn,’ the pilot revealed. ‘Searching the wreckage for drugs. Then he took off with that kid with the afro. And the young girl. They went into the jungle to find some odd clearing, or something.’

  ‘Some odd clearing?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask him. Saw it from the
hill apparently.’

  He went on to explain about the others he’d met that morning: Elaine and Eric had gone inland to find fruit and Sol had returned in the middle of the night. After failing to find a spot in one of the tents, the Aussie had flaked on the sand and hadn’t moved since. As for James, she found it amusing that Oli had become his second shadow.

  ‘Elaine tells me she heard static in the plane’s cockpit?’ said Gibson, interrupting her thoughts.

  ‘Yeah, for what good it was.’

  ‘It’s probably just broken. If I can get my hands on the correct components, I might be able to do something with it.’

  ‘You can get it working?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’m trained in radio communications. With the right working parts there’s every chance I can construct a pulsing shortwave frequency transmitter.’

  ‘And for those of us from earth?’

  Gibson flashed his teeth. ‘Sort of an inside-out radio. But one that sends out a continuous signal. If any traffic passes nearby, we’ll pop up on their screens.’

  ‘What about this Black Box thingy that James was talking about? Doesn’t that thing give off a signal?’

  ‘Only for thirty days. I’d like to think I can build something a little more permanent. Nothing like being prepared. I did so many long hauls, one of my flights had to go down eventually.’

  Abbey sat back, unable to tell if Gibson was joking. ‘About that. What happened up there, Gibson? I thought we were in more danger crossing the street.’

  Gibson shook his head. ‘People do get run down, gal.’

  ‘Million-to-one shot, my arse!’

  ‘We’re alive, is that not enough? When the elements turn on you, all the fail-safes, all the precautions in the world can’t help you.’

  ‘You’re blaming this on Mother Nature?’

  Gibson shuffled painfully onto his side. ‘We were levelled at thirty-six thousand feet. When the weather picked up, we climbed a little further to try and avoid the convective clouds. We figured if we could rise above the boundary layer we could smooth things out. At the increased altitude we were fighting draughts from below and above, nothing like any of us had seen before.’