The Darkness Within

by Cathy Glass

  ‘An apology then,’ Chez repeated.

  ‘Up yours!’

  He turned, ready to walk away again.

  ‘No. Wait. I fucking apologize, you cunt!’

  ‘Say it like you mean it, man. Say you’re sorry for all the aggro you caused me and my boss.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Jacob said, his hands balling into fists.

  ‘That’s better,’ Chez said smugly, and slowly strolled back to him. ‘I accept your apology. Now let’s see your money.’

  Jacob hesitated. This wasn’t how Chez normally did business. Usually they exchanged the money and packet of weed in one quick furtive movement so no one could possibly see.

  ‘Come on then man, I haven’t got all day.’ Chez glanced around. As usual the disused depot was deserted and littered with old half-filled skips, and piles of dumped domestic waste.

  Jacob pulled the roll of notes from the pocket of his jeans and passed them to Chez. He began to count them, slowly, teasingly, making him wait. ‘It’s all there,’ Jacob said, agitated.

  Chez stopped and looked up. ‘No, man, I need another twenty.’

  ‘No, you don’t. There’s a hundred there like you said.’

  ‘Yeah, but you owe me twenty from before.’

  ‘It was underweight, you little shit.’ Jacob grabbed him by his hoodie and lifted him off the ground. But this time he didn’t squirm or cower as he had before, and there was defiance in his eyes, not fear.

  ‘You owe me, man. Boss said I should get it back from you, so you learn your lesson. Or no weed.’

  ‘Arsehole.’ Jacob glared in his face. The little weasel was so puny one good blow would wipe him out. But then he wouldn’t have a supplier and he needed the stuff regularly. He set him down with a jolt. ‘Arsehole,’ he said again. ‘It better be the full weight this time.’ He took the extra £20 note from his pocket and shoved it at Chez.

  Chez produced the plastic bag containing the cannabis from his hoodie and threw it at Jacob’s feet.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Jacob said, quickly retrieving the packet. Chez turned and giving him the middle finger began to stroll away.

  Then it came again, that flash of anger, igniting him and blocking out logic or reason so that he was completely out of control. His veins coursed with searing hate and the need to wreak revenge. It had happened when he attacked Eloise and others he couldn’t quite remember, and now he needed to attack Chez to assuage that burning, all-encompassing anger, hot, urgent and raw.

  He went after Chez, leapt on him from behind and brought him down like a large cat felling its prey. A warning pain shot through his chest, but this guy would be easy meat just like women were. Sitting astride his back he pushed Chez’s head down, ground his face into the filth and gravel. ‘You little turd. Not so cocky now, are you? I think it may be your turn to apologize.’

  He suddenly stopped as he heard a movement from behind him. Looking over his shoulder he saw two heavyweight thugs, one carrying an iron bar, advancing towards him. ‘You don’t want to be doing that,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Alone in the rectory Elizabeth sat in front of the computer in the study, finally convinced this was the right course of action. Indeed, she now thought it was the only course. David’s advice: There’s only one way to find out. Trace the donor. But as he’d pointed out, she’d have to live with the consequences of what she discovered. If the donor had led an evil life they’d have to come to terms with his heart living on in Jacob, and if he’d been of good character then Jacob must have become bad for other reasons, in which case she and Andrew as his parents must bear some, if not all, of that responsibility.

  Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth tapped the mouse to bring the search engine onto the screen. All she knew about the donor was that it was a young man in his twenties tragically killed in a car accident. But by deduction she also knew that he couldn’t have lived very far away from the transplant centre for his heart had arrived quickly and by road, and not by helicopter as would have happened had it come from some distance away. While this hadn’t seemed significant at the time she now recognized its importance. It would narrow her search considerably, reducing the probability of finding the donor from highly unlikely – if the search had been nationwide – to quite likely. She planned on checking local newspapers first for reports of fatal road traffic accidents, and if that didn’t produce anything she’d look at coroner’s reports. However, she realized that would be like looking for a needle in a haystack as she’d no idea on which date the coroner’s court had held the inquest. But she did know the date of the donor’s death; it had been the night before the transplant – which was seared in her memory with other important dates like their wedding anniversary and Jacob’s birthday.

  Elizabeth tackled this task as she tackled most jobs, in an orderly and methodical fashion. She began by compiling a list of newspapers within a five-mile radius of Maybury, copying and pasting the links into a Word document. Most of the newspapers published weekly, but while some were free others required at least one month’s subscription to view them online – the current edition and archived copies. Starting with the one at the top of the list she took her credit card from her purse and input its details, aware she’d have to explain to Andrew what she’d done before he saw their credit card statement. She hadn’t told him what she was thinking of doing when he’d returned home briefly between parish business because he’d seemed anxious and preoccupied, although when she’d asked him if there was anything worrying him he’d said he was fine.

  The first paper produced nothing more in the way of road traffic accidents than a car being stuck in a farmer’s field and having to be pulled out with a tractor. The second two carried reports of minor collisions and a lorry becoming wedged under a low bridge. She continued with the next paper and read of a motorcyclist who’d come off his bike but had no serious injuries, and an elderly pedestrian who’d been knocked over while crossing the road. But no fatal car accidents. She widened her search to newspapers within a ten-mile radius, inputting her credit card details as necessary.

  There were a surprising number of online newspapers, some of which only had a small circulation, but she checked them all. More reports of relatively minor road traffic accidents but nothing serious, no one had died. It was a macabre search. Then she found a fatality: a young woman whose car had overturned after a night out with friends. She’d had to be cut free and had died later in hospital. Elizabeth’s eyes welled as she read the heart-rending words from her parents who’d said they were devastated by the loss of their beautiful, kind and generous daughter. She’d just finished university and had been out celebrating a friend’s birthday. Their lives would never be the same again. The same accident was reported in a number of papers in the locality and Elizabeth paused to blow her nose and wipe her eyes. She could feel the parents’ pain. They’d nearly lost Jacob and the death of a child was probably the greatest tragedy to befall anyone. She hoped that since her death they’d found some peace, although she doubted it.

  Elizabeth stretched her shoulders and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after six o’clock and Andrew had said he wouldn’t be back until seven. She didn’t know what time Jacob would return, but assumed he would at some point as he was still coming home every evening for dinner. As far as she knew he didn’t have a hospital appointment although Andrew had said he’d left in a cab but didn’t know where he was going.

  She resumed her search, opening and closing other local newspapers, and then widened her search again to include papers in a twenty-mile radius. As before she added the links to the Word document, and then began with the newspaper with the biggest circulation. Surprisingly this was free to view and she searched through the archived editions until she came to the week she wanted. The front page opened onto the screen and her mouth went dry and her pulse raced.

  The headline: DEATH TRAP ROAD CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTIM.

  Could this be it? She read:

&n
bsp; Bells Lane, Shellsbury, notorious for accidents, has claimed its second victim. Shane Smith, 26, of Birch Road died from the injuries he sustained when his car struck a lorry in the narrow lane and overturned. He had to be cut free of the wreckage and was taken to St Mary’s Hospital. He died three days later. The lorry driver was shaken but otherwise unhurt. The police will not be prosecuting.

  This accident black spot claimed the life of a cyclist two years ago and campaigners have petitioned the council for speed restrictions and better lighting. ‘The road is full of blind corners,’ one local resident said. ‘Lorries delivering to the hypermarket take up most of the road and cars speed along and can’t see around the bends. There’ll be another one if something isn’t done.’

  The victim was one of five, and his mother Tracy Smith said she blamed the council and the hypermarket for her son’s death and planned to sue them both. She has set up a collection in her son’s name. A spokesperson for the council said they were considering various measures to improve the safety in Bells Lane including introducing road humps.

  Elizabeth stared at the article and reread the first two lines. Bells Lane, Shellsbury. Shane Smith, 26, of Birch Road. It fitted, didn’t it? She pulled up a map of the area and studied it closely. The town where Shane had lived was about twenty miles away, and closer to the transplant centre than their village. Little wonder his heart had got there so quickly, if it was him. It had to be, surely? But to be on the safe side, aware it was too big a mistake to make if she wasn’t 100 per cent certain, she bookmarked this web page to revisit later, and searched the rest of the paper for any other road traffic fatalities. There were none. With her senses tingling and on full alert, she then widened her search to newspapers in a twenty-five-mile radius from the transplant centre, where she found another road traffic fatality. But it was a woman in her fifties, and continuing her search she found no other matches. Hot, sweaty and with a slightly nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach she searched no further and returned to the page she’d bookmarked.

  Shane Smith, 26. A year older than Jacob. Now she had his name, age, and address. His heart, which they’d been encouraged to view as nothing more than a pump comprising of muscle, veins and blood like offal on a butcher’s slab, was now an integral part of a once-living human being. It was Shane’s heart, created in the womb of his mother and part of who he was for twenty-six years. A young man who’d doubtless had hopes, plans, aspirations for the future, and had loved and laughed, felt joy and happiness, suddenly and cruelly struck down before his life had even properly begun. Wiped out on a cold dark lane with a history of road traffic accidents. She thought of his poor mother, Tracy, and his brothers and sisters – the article said he was one of five children. A lump rose in her throat. She closed the web pages, saved the Word document, then sat back and stared at the blank screen.

  A strange mixture of elation and utter wretchedness settled on her, like the anticlimax after achieving a much-coveted goal. The adrenalin-fuelled journey to find the donor had been all-encompassing. Now what? Shane’s name, that of his mother and the road where they’d lived were imprinted on her mind, although what she would do with this information she didn’t yet know. Write to Tracy? Try to find her phone number and call her? Or just arrive on her doorstep? But what to say? And did she really want to know? David’s words rang in her ears again. It’s a no-win situation. It had been different with his sister. Her change had been for the better, but in Jacob’s case, if the badness hadn’t come from the donor then it had come from her and Andrew. Damned if we do and damned if we don’t, she thought. But doing nothing wasn’t an option.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  For a second Jacob thought he was waking up after his transplant operation; he had the same feelings of grogginess, of drifting and not really being there, and the pain. Then as he fully regained consciousness and his eyes opened, he remembered what had happened.

  ‘Fucking cunts!’ he cursed, and tried to stand up. The ground gave way beneath his feet with a metallic echo and he fell back. ‘Arseholes! Where the fuck am I?’ It was dark and he felt closed in, yet he could see the sky and feel the night air. What the fuck had they done to him?

  He tried to move again, and gingerly pushed himself up into a kneeling position, sitting uncomfortably on his haunches as he regained his balance. His head throbbed and he could taste blood in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his lip; it was cut and swollen. He spat and then delved into his pocket for his phone. It was still there. They hadn’t taken it; he guessed because it wasn’t the latest model so had little street value. Pressing the button for the torch on the phone he shone it around. The beam picked out broken bricks, small piles of dried cement, gravel, old piping and rotting wooden planks. He was sitting on and surrounded by builders’ rubble. Raising the beam slightly it fell on the rusty metal sides of a container. They’d thrown him in one of the skips at the disused depot. Bastards! Although it could have been worse, he acknowledged, he’d thought they were going to kill him.

  Pointing the beam down Jacob carefully stood, got his balance on a pile of reasonably stable bricks and then picked his way over the rubble to the side of the container. Standing on the highest mound of bricks and dried cement he was now at thigh height with the edge of the container. He levered himself over the side and dropped to the ground below. ‘Fuck!’ he cried as his body jolted and pain shot through him. His legs felt raw and were like jelly but at least they hadn’t broken them as they’d threatened to. He remembered the first few blows of the iron bar and then he must have blacked out. Wait until he got his hands on Chez. He’d teach him.

  He looked at his phone. Jesus! It was 10.14 p.m. He’d been out cold for nearly four hours. There were six fucking texts from his mother, the first asking what time he would be home as his dinner was ready, then growing more and more desperate. Where are you? Are you all right? Please get in touch. We’re worried. Have you got your meds with you? Of course I haven’t got my fucking meds with me! I wasn’t planning on being beaten up, he thought. He tried to laugh, but his chest hurt. He felt in his trouser pocket for his money but they’d taken it all and the cannabis he’d bought too. Bastards! Fucking wankers. He’d get his own back. Chez wouldn’t be so brave without his heavies. He’d make him squirm, grovel and apologize just as he’d had to. Arseholes.

  He coughed and spat, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket. He winced as the rough material touched his split lip. His face was swollen, he could feel it, and his whole body was sore, but at least nothing felt broken. He began walking slowly across the disused depot, shivering against the cool night air. He’d had nothing to eat or drink since he’d left home that afternoon but what was he to do without any money? He supposed he could call his mother and ask her to collect him but baulked at the idea. Her questions, his explanations that she clearly didn’t believe any more, and the recriminations with the Rev, going on and on about how disappointed he was with him. He really couldn’t be doing with all that now. What he needed was someone placid, accepting, conciliatory and good-humoured. Rosie. She wanted him to like her; she wouldn’t pry and ask too many questions.

  Coming to the edge of the disused depot Jacob leant on what was left of the fence for support. He could see the lights of the town glinting in the distance. Another text came through from his mother. He left it unread and pressed Rosie’s number. She’d recently bought herself another car but was she up to this? Would she do as he asked? It would be a good test of her loyalty and commitment. It was time to test her. He’d been pandering to her wishes to take things slowly for long enough. If she failed this test then that would be it. Bye-bye Rosie; he’d ditch her and move on. Women were two a penny. Look how easily he’d found her.

  She answered straightaway in the quiet, self-effacing voice he liked. ‘Jacob? Are you all right? It’s late.’ Immediately showing concern, he thought, a good sign.

  ‘I need your help, Rosie.’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter?’
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br />   ‘I’ve been mugged.’ He heard her gasp. ‘They’ve taken my money and beaten me up. I’m outside the disused depot at the far end of the High Street. Can you come and collect me?’

  ‘Have you called the police?’

  ‘No. There’s no point. I didn’t see their faces.’

  ‘I think you should. They can’t get away with it.’

  Why the fuck was she going on about, calling the police? He needed her to collect him. Didn’t she understand? ‘Can you come and get me?’ he asked, then regretted the edge to his voice. ‘Sorry. I’m in pain.’

  ‘Yes, but shall I phone for an ambulance first?’

  ‘No. I just want you.’

  ‘I’ll get dressed. I was in bed.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Fifteen to twenty minutes. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  ‘Good girl. I’m counting on you. You’re a gem.’ He could imagine the smile of gratitude on her face. He’d seen it before when he’d complimented her.

  He ended the call and his phone bleeped with a voicemail message from his mother. He didn’t listen to it but texted: Not coming back tonight. Staying with a friend. Then with a feeling of self-satisfaction that he was no longer completely beholden to them he returned his phone to his jacket.

  So some good had come out of what was an otherwise shit evening; he didn’t have to go back to the rectory and listen to more crap, and he was working his way into Rosie’s bed although she didn’t know it yet. But what to do about his medication as his mother had previously asked? He could go without the vitamin and mineral supplements, but he had to take the immunosuppressants twice a day and at the same time – 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., otherwise his body would start to reject his heart. If he missed a tablet he had to take it as soon as possible and certainly within a couple of hours. It was already over two hours late and all his meds were in his room at the rectory. Then he had an idea, a rather good one. His mother had said she’d like to meet Rosie, hadn’t she? Well, now she would have the chance.