Eye Contact

by Fergus McNeill

  Beyond the station, the foliage grew thicker and less light filtered down through the canopy above. The track ran into a deep, overgrown cutting before passing under an arched brick bridge, and the air was heavy with the sickly-sweet smell of nettles.

  There was a faint tingle of déjà vu as he stepped forward into the shadow of the bridge, and he found that he was smiling. The memory of that day in Winchester came back to him as he picked his way through the damp darkness, drawing strength from it as he emerged into the light, clean air beyond. Ahead of him, the trackbed curved away, a swathe of grass and leaves, twigs and ivy. The railway had not endured, but he had. There was nothing he couldn’t do.

  He walked on along the damp ground, stopping for a moment to listen, but there was nothing – just the long flat curve stretching out in front of him. He’d done his homework, studied the maps – he knew that High Street was just a few hundred yards ahead through the trees – but it wasn’t real until you walked the route for the first time. It was important to prepare properly.

  Now the ground began to fall away on either side, with steep grassy slopes tumbling down to the forest floor and green fields beyond. He found himself almost in the canopy of the trees that lined the foot of the embankment below as it swept on in a gentle arc.

  And then, quite suddenly, the trackbed came to an abrupt end. Naysmith stepped forward to the edge and gazed out across the void before him. This was where the bridge had stood, carrying the rails on, high above the road and the meandering river just visible through the foliage below. It must have been a huge construction – he couldn’t even see the other side through the trees – but now nothing was left except some ancient, ivy-covered pilings down there in the bushes by the roadside. He sat down slowly, thinking.

  This was his third visit to West Meon. It had been chance that had brought him to the village on Wednesday evening, earlier that week. After visiting a client in Sussex, he’d decided to stop here on his way home. It wasn’t too much of a detour and it saved him making a special trip.

  He’d parked a little way outside the village and walked back along the road, hoping to take a look at the target’s house. By the time he got there, it was dusk, with dark clouds closing in across the deep red sky. The lane was deserted, but he walked close to the high hedge, staying in the shadows as he approached the driveway. Gravel was a nuisance – far too noisy. Hopefully there would be another, easier way into the garden. Entering the house itself was not something he favoured. Even if the target lived alone, it still tilted the odds against you, putting them on familiar territory. It also increased the risk of evidence being recovered. He knew the importance of varying his attacks, doing things differently each time, but going into houses seemed amateurish. For now, all he wanted was to look around and learn more about the man he was hunting.

  And then, as he’d stood there in the lane considering what to do next, a door had opened, spilling a wedge of light across the garden. Naysmith shrank back into the darkness for a second before turning and walking away, back up the road. Close, much too close, came the crunch of footsteps on gravel behind him, but fortunately the man turned right when he emerged from his driveway, and set off towards the village.

  It had been unexpected, but there was also a profound surge of excitement in that moment. He hadn’t been spotted – and even if he were, he had done nothing wrong . . . yet. This might be a chance to learn something useful. Quietly, he turned and walked down the lane after the target, straining to see him in the gloom. The light was failing now, and there were no street lights out here. He followed at a distance – far enough that his footsteps wouldn’t be heard – but when they reached the trees, he lost sight of the figure in the shadows. Walking quicker, he’d hurried under those dark branches, padding along the road as it angled slightly to the right. Then, as the cheery lights of the village came into view, he’d spotted the man again, making his way along the road and turning aside at the pub.

  It would have been a natural point to turn back – to go and look at the house – but Naysmith had walked a little further. Approaching the sound of conversation and laughter that drifted out from the pub, he stopped and noted the chalkboard sign propped by the roadside: Pub Quiz Every Wednesday.

  Afterwards, walking back towards his car, he’d passed once more through the lonely tunnel of trees. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness and, as he glanced up at the dark branches, he’d noticed the towering railway embankment, silhouetted against the sky.

  That was on Wednesday. Now, he sat on top of the embankment, hidden in the foliage, gazing down on that same spot. The man would have to pass through here on his way to the pub, and again on his way home. Those old pilings would offer a place of concealment, right beside the road, and having the river so close was another advantage.

  Naysmith remained there for a while, studying the ground below him and fixing it in his mind, noting which point on the embankment commanded the best views of the road. It finally felt right.

  Satisfied, he turned and made his way slowly back along the railway line, learning the ground. The next time he came here it would be dark.

  23

  Wednesday, 25 July

  Wednesday had come, and Naysmith sat at his desk, restless. Since that first encounter in Winchester, this had developed into a challenging hunt and the work he’d put into it heightened his anticipation for the inevitable climax. After exercising so much patience it was now somehow galling to wait even a few hours more. But he forced himself, deciding that he would work through until lunchtime, however difficult it was to concentrate. He sat in on a tiresome conference call, oblivious to the distant voices, watching the clock tick round towards noon. Outside his window, grey clouds gathered slowly in a dark sky. The weather was finally turning and the forecast was for rain that evening. In theory this was a good thing – rain could wash away all sorts of evidence – but working in the wet brought its own risks, especially at night, and that meant he would have to take even greater care than usual.

  A little after one o’clock he sent his last email and slowly closed the laptop. It was finally time to get started.

  He’d replenished the cardboard box in the garage over the last few weeks – quietly picking up items here and there, always going to different shops, always paying in cash. Although seemingly random, everything had been deliberately selected to mask his identity, from the lined gloves that would pick up no fingerprints on their insides, to the shoes that were not quite his size. Every item had been meticulously wiped clean, and he disciplined himself to wear gloves even here. It was this attention to detail that elevated him above the amateurs, ensuring his continued success in the game.

  Stooping, he dragged the cardboard box into the middle of the floor and opened it to inspect the contents – something he hadn’t been able to do while Kim was in the house. Carefully, he drew out the bag containing the clothes – all new, all in dark colours, own-brand items bought from the supermarkets. There was a cheap wristwatch – a couple of minutes fast – that he would throw away afterwards and, in light of the weather, a couple of large towels. In a second bag he placed the usual bottle of bleach, travel wipes and spare refuse sacks. Finally, he drew out a large metal wrench, which he hefted thoughtfully in his hand. It was heavy and solid, about eighteen inches long, with a shaped grip that wouldn’t slip through his gloves. He considered it for a moment, tightening it up so that the jaws wouldn’t rattle, then placed it in with the clothes.

  Satisfied, he transferred both bags into a thick black refuse sack that he took outside. Opening the boot of his car, he placed the sack inside, next to the flat parcel containing his alternate number plates, and the white envelope from Severn Beach. He’d retrieved them from their hiding place on his way home the day before – now everything was ready.

  Back in the house, he went upstairs and shaved. There was an art to deception – the more you behaved as though something was real, the more real it seemed to others. He wasn’t
going to a networking event in London, but he was certainly going to get ready as though he was. Rinsing his face, he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, running a hand across his smooth chin. Smart clothes were laid out on the bed next door, including the trousers that Kim had said for him to wear – and he would be wearing them when it was done, when he was on his way home. He studied his smiling reflection for a moment, then turned away.

  The shower felt hot when he first stepped in, but after a few minutes he was comfortable with the temperature, closing his eyes and breathing in the steam. He washed slowly, allowing the calming water to cascade over him, rinsing away the loose skin cells and hair follicles. There was a purpose to every part of his preparation.

  Back in the bedroom, he dried himself and folded his smart clothes into a bag, along with an appropriate pair of shoes. Placing the bag by the bedroom door, he selected some casual clothes and got dressed – tomorrow, these items would be folded and returned to their drawer without Kim ever noticing they’d been worn. It was strange to think how he’d adapted his routine – a routine he’d meticulously followed for years – just to accommodate her. He pulled on a pair of shoes from the back of his wardrobe, then gathered up the bag of clothes and took it downstairs. Satisfied that everything was ready, he went through to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich.

  By four o’clock he was driving through Salisbury, following the dual carriageway that skirted the northern edge of the city centre. The cathedral spire loomed bleak and tall against the dark clouds, a grey finger of warning raised against the approaching storm. Naysmith scowled up at the sky – it wasn’t raining yet, but the weather wouldn’t hold for long. As the A36 climbed out eastward into the Wiltshire countryside, he turned onto a small side road and drove for a mile or so until he found a quiet lane. Stopping the car, he got out and stood on the tarmac, listening.

  There was no sound. And he would hear any approaching vehicles before they got close. Satisfied, he retrieved the flat parcel from the boot of the car and crouched down to change his number plates.

  The first spots of rain appeared on the windscreen as he joined the motorway. By the time he reached Winchester, it had become torrential. Naysmith pulled over and sat for a moment, listening to the heavy drops drumming on the roof. Hopefully it would ease a little as the evening drew in – he didn’t mind getting wet, but it would be very frustrating if the weather stopped the target from going out. He shook his head. There was no sense in worrying about that now. He took out his phone and sent Kim a text telling her not to wait up, then switched off the handset and stowed it in the glove compartment. Everything was in place. He felt the familiar whisper of excitement ripple over him, a fleeting glimpse of the ecstasy to come.

  Strange cars stood out in small villages and he’d spent a lot of time thinking about where to park. Stopping outside someone’s house would raise suspicion and be remembered when the locals discussed the news in the coming days. He’d briefly considered a pub car park in a neighbouring village – hiding the car in plain sight – but it was just too risky. In the end, he’d identified somewhere suitably remote – a grassy field shielded by a thick hedge, some distance from West Meon. It was off a narrow lane, with an old metal gate that looked as though it hadn’t been closed for years. Checking his rear-view mirror to make sure nothing was coming, Naysmith slowed to a crawl and pulled off the road. The ground was slippery but firm. He tucked the car in behind the hedge so that it couldn’t be seen from the lane.

  The rain was coming down harder now, stinging his face with cold as he got out into the wind and hurried round to open the boot. Taking the bags, he locked the car and set off at a run, splashing along a farm track that led away from the lane across the field. After a few minutes, he came to a heavy iron gate, which he climbed over, then walked quickly along the edge of a ploughed field. He had just over a mile to go, always keeping to the grass to avoid leaving footprints in the furrows, making for the dark line of the woods that lay ahead of him. He really couldn’t have chosen a more miserable night.

  Eventually, he passed under the outlying trees and stopped to catch his breath, shaking off the worst of the rain as he turned to gaze out at the downpour behind him. Hopefully it would ease a little. Running a hand through his dripping hair, he moved on, pressing deeper into the woods until he found a vast old tree – a natural landmark that would be easy to locate again once the night closed in. Here, almost no rain made it through the dense foliage above, and he gratefully put down the bags.

  Taking a deep breath, he slowly peeled off his wet clothes, refusing to hurry despite the cold, placing each item in a neat pile beside the gnarled old trunk. Jeans, underwear and finally his top – everything was accounted for. He couldn’t afford to leave anything lying around. Naked, he used one of the towels to dry himself, then placed it into a black bag with his wet clothes. So damn cold. Shivering violently in the chill evening air, he opened the other bag and drew out his anonymous supermarket clothing. It was difficult to dress, pulling the new T-shirt across his cold, damp skin, dragging his socks up. Eventually, he slipped on his gloves and stood up, hugging himself to get warm.

  After a moment the feeling began to return to his hands, and he stooped to retrieve the wristwatch from the bag, peering down at it as he fumbled with the strap. Ten past six – slightly ahead of schedule.

  He jammed the white envelope deep into his pocket and zipped it shut. Then, drawing out the heavy steel wrench, he twisted the tops of the bags and hid them in a hollow beside the tree. With a final check to make sure everything was concealed, he gripped the wrench and set off through the woods.

  This felt like hunting – searching for his prey, alone in the rain-lashed wilds – and a primal thrill coursed through him. The anticipation, the dreadful eagerness, so intense that he couldn’t help but grin as he picked his way through the undergrowth. Suddenly, in that moment, all the preparation made sense, all the effort was justified.

  Before long, the ground sloped sharply down and he stepped out onto the flat grass of the trackbed. He was on the walking trail, a little way south of the car park. Although it was getting late, and the weather made it unlikely that anyone else would be out here, he was alert now. It was difficult to hear anything other than rain on the leaves above, so he would periodically crouch down low, his eyes searching for movement below the foliage, but there was nothing other than the steady swaying of the trees.

  He walked between the overgrown platforms of the forgotten station and approached the bridge, yawning before him like a cavernous mouth in the gloom. A squall of rain spattered his face as he stepped into the shadow of the arch, and he stood for a moment in the darkness, listening to the rustle of the trees echoing off the brickwork above him. The weather wasn’t easing, but he no longer cared – all that mattered was finding the target. He stepped out into the failing light and walked on, following the embankment as it curved round, steadily rising above the forest floor. The rain, heavy now, echoed among the branches with a dull and constant roar. He smiled – at least nobody would hear him approaching.

  When he reached the drop where the viaduct had once stood, he halted and positioned himself in a sheltered spot, free from the worst of the rain, staring out through the glistening leaves towards the target’s house. As he waited, he kept himself moving, stretching and turning, maintaining the heat in his muscles. He hefted the wrench in his gloved hands, making sure of the grip, reminding himself of the feel of it.

  The weather had settled a little but rain was still falling steadily. Surely it wouldn’t dissuade his target from coming out . . . although it might mean that he’d be walking faster, hurrying along to get out of the downpour as quickly as possible. Still, even if he was, he’d probably slow down again here, under the relative shelter of the trees. Either way, Naysmith was prepared. And he’d have two opportunities – once on the journey to the pub, and once on the journey home.

  He glanced at his watch. It wouldn’t be long now.


  His mind went to the man he was hunting. How strange, for someone to be approaching their final moment, and not to realise it. The target’s life, counting down through those last minutes, as it came to a premature climax. It would have been compelling just to observe, but the sense of holding that life in his hands was simply staggering. The power of life and death. And he had the strength to use it, to turn potential into reality. To overcome the barriers and break the most fundamental human law. And to do it all without ever getting caught. The only rules that applied to him were those he set himself to heighten the challenge.

  Drops of water trickled down his neck, making him shiver, but he ignored them. All that mattered was staying supple and watching the road. He twisted his upper body left then right, stretching the muscles.

  And then he spotted something. There in the distance . . . movement. Was it his target?

  He stepped over to the very edge of the precipice, leaning forward, straining to see, but it was impossible to be sure. Should he wait? No, he had to get closer, had to make certain.

  Grasping the wrench, he scrambled down the sheltered side of the embankment, moving carefully on the slippery grass and leaves, until he reached the base of the slope. Moving as quickly as he dared, he crept down through the trees and crossed the narrow river at a shallow point, all the time picturing where the target was, visualising his progress towards the trees.

  Scrambling up the bank beside the road, Naysmith tucked himself in behind the large brick-faced pilings and took a breath. Nothing could be heard above the splash of rain in the river, so he peered cautiously around the edge of the brickwork.

  A dark figure was hurrying along towards him, wrapped in a flapping overcoat, a black umbrella held aloft against the weather. It was the target all right. That portly shape, the slight waddle as he tried to move quickly, the same height. There was no doubt.