by Simon Clark
Tom Westonby had just returned to the driveway when he heard a familiar roar.
The bus was making its return journey. At that moment, he recalled a vivid image of the bus as it headed to the village a couple of hours ago. The stranger in white had been on board. The one he’d pursued through the forest at midnight.
Without a second’s hesitation, he dashed to the end of the drive. He was just in time to see the bus pass by the gates. There were a dozen passengers: mainly adults with bags of groceries. His heart pounded as he searched the faces.
Where was the woman in white? He scanned face after face. Where was that flow of pale, almost luminous blonde hair?
Twin girls were in the seat that his midnight stranger had occupied earlier. They were about eight years old; simultaneously, both stuck their tongues out at him.
The bus roared away.
His heart went from pounding with excitement to a plunge of disappointment.
Maybe I really did imagine her, he told himself as he headed back to the garage. Not that I want to see her again. He tried to rationalize away his confused swirl of feelings. After all, why on earth would I want to see her? If she’s prowling around the forest at midnight she must be a nut-job.
‘Hello.’
Catching a lungful of air, he spun round.
There at the end of the drive stood the stranger. His gaze swept over her, taking in the blue eyes, the beautiful face, and the mist of pale, blonde hair.
She took a step towards the gate, her head tilting slightly to the side as she studied his face; it seemed as if she was reading the thoughts inside his head.
‘I got off the bus around the corner.’ Her voice possessed a pleasant, light quality. ‘I wanted to pay you a visit.’
‘Oh?’ He knew his response was staggeringly inarticulate. Because at that moment he felt spectacularly inarticulate. What did you say to someone you’d hunted like a wild animal?
‘You were planning to kill me last night, weren’t you, Tom?’
All he could do at that moment was stare in shock. Once more he had a vision of being hauled away to jail. Surely, the woman will complain to the police. She’ll tell them that she’s been assaulted by the savage madman of Mull-Rigg Hall.
Her lips formed a ghost of a smile. ‘Well, Tom, here I am. Your helpless victim. The one you attacked last night. So . . .’ Her gaze turned to the chainsaw in his hand. ‘Aren’t you going to finish what you started?’
FIVE
Tom Westonby stood there on the drive and gawped at the stranger who had just had made that extraordinary suggestion: aren’t you going to finish what you started? The way her eyes had fixed on the chainsaw suggested she really believed he would attack her.
Tom’s patience vanished. He realized she was playing games with him, and that annoyed him so much that he put the chainsaw down, then rounded on the woman.
‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ he snapped.
‘Ridiculous? I’m not the one who goes chasing after people they’ve never met before.’ Her blue eyes registered genuine shock at the abrupt way he’d spoken.
‘I’ve got every right to chase trespassers. You shouldn’t have been on this property. Were you seeing what you could steal from the house? Because I know you weren’t alone, were you? One of your friends clubbed me from behind.’ As he snarled the words, he still couldn’t prevent himself from giving her the kind of visual examination that many young males give females.
The part of his brain reserved for noting details about girls filed the following:
Breasts: Great breasts. Wonderful breasts.
Hair: Blonde.
Build: Slender. Delicate. Hands very delicate, too.
Breasts: Wait . . . breasts already noted. Don’t have to check those again.
Nevertheless: Breasts. Great breasts. The white cotton blouse shows them off nicely. Wonderfully.
Eyes: Pale blue.
Mouth: Small. Lips with character. The way the bottom lip pushes out slightly.
Breasts: You’ve done breasts. They’re already covered. Can you imagine them uncovered?
He realized his eyes had moved down her calf-length white cotton skirt to make mental notes about her delicate bare toes, which were revealed by a pair of sandals.
‘Listen. Whoever attacked me . . . whichever one of your friends . . . left me for dead by the river . . .’ Several million years of nature’s programming wouldn’t quit. Male instinct demanded he note the way she pushed her hair back from her shoulders. ‘I woke up this morning covered with insect bites. I ache so much I feel like I’ve been hit by a rhino.’
She didn’t raise her voice. Even so, she spoke firmly. ‘You attacked me, Tom. As for you being attacked, I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Someone hit me from behind.’ His voice wavered slightly. He’d been so high on those fumes he wasn’t exactly sure of the details. Other than that he’d found himself flying through the air. Meanwhile, an important question needed answering: ‘And how the hell do you know my name?’
‘I also know that you’re a nice person.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You were acting out of character last night.’
‘You know nothing about me.’ He didn’t want her thinking she’d surprised him with this statement – but she had.
‘You feed the wild fox cubs in the orchard.’
‘How do you know about that?’
‘Their mother had died. You’re keeping those cubs alive.’
‘What’s all this about? I don’t even know your name.’
‘Do you want to know it?’
‘What I want to know is how you’ve found out private stuff about me.’
‘Like the seventeen thousand dollars you’re trying to raise?’
‘You better leave now, Miss Whoever-you-are.’ He felt his anger rising.
‘I came here to apologize.’
‘For what?’
She looked him in the eye. ‘For frightening you last night.’
‘Frightening me? Ha! You’re crazy.’
‘I’m also thirsty. It’s such a hot day. I hoped you’d invite me into your garden for a cold drink.’
She couldn’t have surprised him more if she’d suddenly clawed at his face.
‘A drink?’ he echoed. ‘The last thing I’m going to do is offer you a drink. Now for the last time: go away. Keep walking down that road. And don’t come back.’
SIX
Tom Westonby stopped dead. For a moment this seemed so unreal. Why am I fetching the girl a drink? he asked himself. I’ve just told her to clear off, for goodness’ sake. I must be going mad. Then he shook his head before walking out of the house.
‘Here’s some lemonade.’ Tom didn’t want to seem like some pushover that she’d just taken control of so he added, ‘There’s no ice. You’ll just have to make do with it as is.’ He handed her the glass . . . and, yes, he absolutely felt every inch the pushover that the woman had just taken control of.
‘It’s fine.’ She took the drink. ‘Thanks.’
‘You already know I’m called Tom.’
‘Tom Westonby. Yes, I overheard people talking about you in the village.’
‘Oh.’
‘You’re already famous. The girls there are excited about the handsome guy that inherited Mull-Rigg Hall.’
‘My parents inherited it. Well, to be more accurate, my parents have it until my cousin takes full ownership when he’s eighteen.’
‘Village girls don’t quibble over those kind of details.’
‘And you are?’
‘Nicola Bekk.’ She held out her free hand.
Tom shook it. Her hand was small and delicate in his muscular paw. She seemed more like an artistic arrangement of deliciously light bones under that pale skin. Tom Westonby felt his earlier hostility melting away. Yes, OK, she trespassed last night. She’s got an odd sense of humour. She’s outspoken. But she’s extremely good to look at.<
br />
She possessed another quality too, which he couldn’t readily identify. Charisma? Self-confidence? No, more powerful than that. Almost a sense of being invincible. An aura of strength. Once, at school, a teacher had brought in a war hero to talk about his experiences. He’d survived being blown clean out of a building by an artillery shell. After that, a sniper shot him in the chest. The veteran had shrugged. ‘I’ve been blown up and I’ve been shot,’ he’d said. ‘If that didn’t kill me, then there must be a friendly saint taking care of me.’
Nicola Bekk had that same air about her. As if she had an all-powerful protector.
Even as they chatted she strode confidently into the garage.
‘I noticed the van,’ she said brightly, then read what was painted on its side out loud. ‘Markham & Westonby – Scuba School.’
‘I’m planning to drive that down to Greece later this year. Me and my business partner are starting a dive school.’
‘The “Scuba School” on the van suggested that’s the case.’
He saw from her expression that she was gently teasing him. Now the ice had been broken he didn’t mind. In fact, he’d started to feel lonely up here all by himself at Mull-Rigg Hall. He wondered if there was a chance that he and Nicola might . . .
‘And all this equipment.’ She seemed impressed.
He patted a shelf on which were stacked a dozen aqualung tanks. ‘We picked them up cheap at an auction. Most are in good condition.’ He pulled a cylinder from the shelf. ‘This one isn’t. See the scratches and the gouges?’
‘So, it’s no good?’
‘No good? It’s lethal. It’s a bomb waiting to go boom.’ He enjoyed her interest. ‘Just imagine, if you took all the air in a garage as big as this and squashed it down into a cylinder that’s not much bigger than a family-size carton of milk. The pressures are enormous.’
‘So that thing is likely to kill us?’
‘It’s empty. We’re perfectly safe.’ He put the cylinder back on the shelf. ‘Though this tank’s only fit for scrap metal.’
‘All that equipment must have been expensive?’
‘We’ve been saving for the last eighteen months.’ He shot her a look. ‘And you already know . . . somehow . . . that we need another seventeen thousand dollars.’
‘And by the end of the week.’
That flicker of anger returned. ‘How do you know so much about my private finances?’
‘I happened to be walking along the path at the other side of your fence. You were in the orchard when you were talking on the phone.’
‘And you eavesdropped?’
‘I could hardly throw myself in the river to stop hearing, could I?’
To his surprise he found himself laughing. ‘Point taken.’ That teasing way of hers suggested that she wanted to engage with him. This was playful sparring.
So, do you want to play, Nicola?
Nicola turned her attention to the straight-backed chairs that occupied three-quarters of the garage space. ‘I used to love your aunt’s garden parties.’
‘So you came, too?’
‘Only after the other villagers had gone.’
‘Oh?’
‘Your aunt gave me and my mother big bowls full of strawberries and cream.’ She smiled as she remembered happy times. ‘When I was a little girl your aunt let me paddle in the pond.’
‘You were paddling last night.’
‘I just wanted to find out if walking barefoot in the water was as nice as I remembered.’
‘And was it?’
She nodded. ‘Lovely. Like angels kissing your feet.’
‘Who attacked me last night, Nicola?’
‘Have you heard about our dragon?’
‘Coincidentally, Chester Kenyon was telling me about it this morning.’
‘Let’s say the dragon gave you a flick of his tail.’
That quirky sense of humour again – he liked it. ‘Chester said that the dragon was an invention of the adults to keep children away from the river.’
‘Don’t let my mother hear you saying that. She’s very particular about our dragon.’
Tom fixed her with a serious look. ‘I don’t believe in dragons, Nicola.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘So who knocked me clean off my feet?’
‘Thanks for the drink, Tom.’ She handed him the glass, then walked smartly away.
‘Wait!’
‘I’m expected home.’
He followed her to the gate. When she started to run he ran, too. At that moment, he hated the idea of her slipping away.
‘Nicola. There’s a quiz at the George tomorrow. Do you want to come with me?’
‘The village pub isn’t for me.’
‘Oh.’ So there was the brush-off. He did what a twenty-three-year-old guy does with rejection. Tried to look cool about the snub. While feeling like crap inside.
Nicola ran along the road. Her white cotton skirt and blouse resembled a bright flame against the shade of the trees. At the entrance to the woodland path she stopped.
Then she sang out, ‘You could always come over to my house tomorrow?’
‘OK,’ he called back, trying to be nonchalant. Yet a fiery excitement flared up in his veins. Already, the erotic possibilities of Nicola flooded his mind. ‘How do I find your house?’
An intimate meal for two at Nicola’s? Result!
‘No, I’ll pick you up at six. My mother wants to meet you.’
She waved before vanishing into the wood.
Her mother’s going to be there? A chaperoned date wasn’t what he was hoping for.
SEVEN
This would be an easy robbery. The cottage in the forest was so remote it was a joke. The two men passed the can of beer between themselves and laughed.
‘Shit. That dump should be called The Last Place On Earth.’
‘World’s End.’
‘Middle Of Bastard Nowhere.’
Zip Pearson lit a cigarette. This was going to be so bloody easy. They’d been staking out the cottage since early evening. The little crap-heap of stones that passed for a home was at the end of a path. There wasn’t so much as a frigging road. Even if the two bitches in the house could make a phone call it would take an hour for the police to reach here.
He pulled on the cigarette. Runty, the rat-faced guy he was with, squinted at the burning tip of the cigarette in the darkness.
‘Should you be smoking, Zip?’ he wheezed. ‘In a place like this you can spot a cigarette from miles away.’
‘Who’s out there to see, Runty? Who’d give a damn? This place is the end of the world, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, but if someone saw . . .’
‘Scared, Runty?’
‘No.’
‘Then stop whining.’
‘I know I’ll end up back inside. I just don’t want it to be before my kid gets married.’
Zip pretended to play a violin. ‘You’re breaking my heart, Runty. Just look at these tears pouring down my face.’
‘Yeah, it’s OK for a psycho like you. You don’t care whether you do time or not.’
Zip and Runty were at the bottom of crime’s career ladder. They earned their cash by thieving copper cable from railway tracks or peeling lead off church roofs. The other easy picking for lowlifes like them was driving round the countryside, searching out remote farms and houses they could rob. What marked Zip out from the other rural burglary packs was that he liked to hit occupied houses. That way he could take the credit and debit cards. Of course, he had to get the pin numbers, too.
That’s where the entertainment started. After he’d tied up the homeowners, he enjoyed making them give him the pin codes. Sometimes he’d even push them hard enough to reveal where they’d hidden their cash. It was surprising how many people kept large amounts of banknotes at home these days.
‘OK, Runty.’ He sucked on the cigarette. ‘Let’s get ’em done.’
‘Go easy on the women.’
�
�You’ve got to get rough. Otherwise they don’t give up the numbers.’
‘Shit, Zip, you nearly killed that old bitch last time.’
‘Stop whining and move your stinking backside.’
After Zip had lobbed the beer can into the bushes, he picked up the rucksack with his tools of the trade – hammers, screwdrivers, tough nylon string to tie up his victims, and gardeners’ secateurs. If he threatened to cut off fingers with the secateurs, that generally had pin numbers spilling from people’s lips in no time.
The two men headed through the dark.
Even Zip appreciated this was real darkness. Deep darkness. Total darkness. He had to switch on the flashlight otherwise they’d have both blundered into tree trunks.
‘Think about it, Zip,’ hissed Runty. ‘Don’t end up killing those women. I’m not going down for murder.’
‘They’re going to die one day, Runty.’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t your mammy tell you that everyone dies one day?’
‘Just threaten them, OK? No cutting off fingers.’
‘Sensitive soul, aren’t you?’
‘What you did to that guy at the pig farm made me puke.’
‘He wouldn’t cough the numbers, would he?’ Zip laughed again. He was getting excited about the thought of frightening the women in the cottage. ‘After I’d finished with pig guy he’d got nothing left to pick his nose with, had he?’
‘I’m not laughing, Zip. I’m not laughing.’
Zip shone the light in Runty’s face. A fear sweat bled from his forehead. Strange, that. Zip loved breaking into houses. He got a kick out of tying up the occupants. Runty, on the other hand, got scared. The man looked as if he’d pass out from sheer fright.
They headed towards an old stone archway. This was the most impressive part of the property. Even Zip could tell it must have been here before the cottage. Medieval? Roman? Who the frick knew. On the massive keystone at the top of the arch some kind of animal had been carved, though the shape was well weathered now.
‘See that, Runty? The carving might be worth something, if we could move it.’
Runty squinted up at the image. ‘What is it? A dinosaur?’
‘God knows. It’ll weigh a ton though, so we’ll have to forget it.’
