Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2)

by Mikey Campling

  Seaton looked down at his desk for a moment. “It’s—” he began, but then he shook his head. “I’m sorry. This is difficult for me.” He raised a hand and pinched at the bridge of his nose.

  Cally shifted forward to the edge of the seat. “What is?”

  Seaton looked her in the eye. “It’s this outline you’ve submitted for your dissertation.”

  Cally’s frown deepened. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. She was almost relieved. “I don’t understand. There’s something wrong with it?”

  Seaton sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid there is.”

  “But…but you approved it. You helped me with it.” Cally was raising her voice now, but she couldn’t help it. “I don’t understand. How can you suddenly say there’s something wrong with it?”

  Seaton held up his hands and waved feebly as if to calm her down. “I know, I know. It must be disappointing, but it’s just—”

  “Just what?” Cally demanded. “What exactly is the problem with it?”

  Seaton picked up a sheaf of papers and Cally recognised her name on the cover sheet. “It’s not just up to me. There are other people to take into account.”

  Cally sat back in the chair and folded her arms. She’d take criticism for just about anything, but this was her work. This wasn’t just something she did; it was who she was. “What other people?”

  Seaton ran a hand over his mouth. “My colleagues, for one thing. They are the ones who will form a panel to mark and assess your dissertation. You must know this, surely.”

  Cally nodded. “Yes, of course I do. But I didn’t think they’d look at my dissertation until it’s finished. Why would they even look at the outline?”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want you to go down the wrong track would we? It’s better to direct you now than to let you throw away the chance of First Class Honours.”

  “Throw away?” Cally whispered. She shook her head. This couldn’t be happening.

  “Listen, I don’t mean to be unkind. But, there have been comments. Things have been said.”

  Cally frowned. Perhaps this was all just a misunderstanding. Perhaps, if she could pin down the problem, she could sort this out. “Such as?”

  “Well, for one thing, it’s the title.” Seaton referred to the papers in his hand. “The Mythology of Antiquity: An investigation into the myths and legends attached to ancient sites.” He slapped the papers down onto the desk and sat back with his arms folded as if he’d just explained the whole problem.

  “But you knew that,” Cally said. “I thought you understood. It’s not about the legends themselves, it’s about what those legends tell us about the people who invented them.”

  “Yes, yes,” Seaton said. “It’s a very creative idea. It’s very, how shall I put it? It’s very imaginative.”

  “That’s not what you said last week,” Cally said. “You said it was brilliantly original.”

  Seaton winced. “And it is very original. I’m sure it would make a wonderfully entertaining documentary. I’m sure it would make a whole series for the BBC.”

  “What? What are you…?” Cally couldn’t finish her sentence.

  “But that isn’t what we’re after here. We’re after academic rigour, not edutainment.”

  Cally took hold of the chair’s armrests, her nails digging into the worm-eaten wood. But I spent so long on this. So many hours of chewing through all the literature, desperate to find a fresh angle. And what about all the work she’d already put into the research? Was that all worthless now?

  “All this stuff about legends and myths is great fun, I’m sure. But this is the history department. We deal in facts, evidence.”

  Cally sat up straight. “But we interpret, we deduce, we extrapolate. For instance, I’ve found some great stuff from the fourteenth century right here in Exeter. If I could just get permission to do some firsthand research, it could back up everything I’ve been trying to—”

  But Seaton didn’t let her finish. He cut her off with a stern wave of his hand. “Yes. I’ve seen your letters. I don’t approve.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, young lady,” he said, “your work is based on pure conjecture.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “No? Well what about this?” Seaton said. He looked back to the papers on his desk, flicking through a few pages. “Here it is. You rely heavily on this artefact that you refer to as The Black Stone of Scaderstone.”

  “Yes,” Cally said. “There’s some very interesting work from—“

  Doctor Seaton slammed the palm of his hand down onto the desk. “Discredited.”

  “What?”

  “The so-called Black Stone is a hoax, a fake. It’s modern.”

  “But I worked on the dig. Professor Leyland had some great theories.”

  “Leyland is a crank,” Seaton stated. “The stone was found to be from the 1920s. There were records from the quarry. I don’t suppose Leyland thought to check those.”

  “But that can’t be right,” Cally said. “There are tales about the stone dating back for centuries.”

  “Tales?” Seaton said. He raised his eyebrows. “We don’t deal in tales and supposition. This isn’t archaeology. We want sources, accredited data, contemporaneous quotes.”

  Cally hung her head and looked down at her hands. She blinked and felt the prickle of tears at the corner of her eyes. All her hard work, all her dreams, were crumbling into dust. This is what they think of me. I’m a joke to these people. She could almost hear the hollow laughter of her lecturers; their knowing chuckles echoing through the empty corridors and dusty rooms. And to think that she’d wanted to be like them. But it was worse than that; she’d wanted to be one of them. She sniffed and raised her head. “So that’s it then? It’s no good?”

  Doctor Seaton sighed heavily. “I’m afraid so. I know it must be disappointing. But there’s still plenty of time. You’re such a bright student. You’ll think of something else—I know you will.”

  Cally nodded sadly, but she couldn’t look her tutor in the eye. She stood up and retrieved her bag. “I’d better go,” she mumbled.

  “Yes, of course. But why don’t you come back and see me when you’ve had time to think, and we’ll see if we can hammer out a new idea.”

  Cally tried to smile but she couldn’t quite pull it off. “Yes. I’ll do that.”

  “Next Tuesday would be good,” Seaton said, “I’m free by two in the afternoon.”

  Cally nodded. “Tuesday. Two o’clock. Fine.”

  “See you next week,” Seaton said, and with that, he went back to studying the papers on his desk.

  Cally could think of nothing more to say. She went to the door and let herself out, closing the door behind her without a backward glance. Alone in the corridor, she pulled a tissue from her bag and wiped her eyes. “Bloody hell,” she whispered. “Bloody, bloody hell.” She hurried down the corridor. At that moment, the history department was the last place on Earth she wanted to be.

  In his office, Doctor Seaton sat back in his chair. “You heard all that?” he said.

  The side door to the adjoining office opened and a man stepped into the room. No one could mistake this immaculately dressed man for a member of the history department. His elegant grey suit looked handmade, the pin in his silk tie was a simple bar of gold, and his white hair was carefully styled. Although he was clearly in his sixties, his healthy tan and physical stature lent him the appearance of a much younger man. “Yes, thank you,” he said. “It was very good.”

  Seaton snorted. “Well I’m glad you’re happy,” he snapped. “I hope it was worth it to destroy the dreams of my best student.”

  The man ignored this outburst. “I especially liked the bit about the television. What was it? Oh yes, it would make a whole series for the BBC. Very good. You’ve missed your vocation, Doctor Seaton.”

  Seaton pouted and folded his arms.

  The man smiled. “Well, I’ll leave
you to it. He walked swiftly across the room but he hesitated at the door, and turned to face the doctor. “Oh, by the way,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “I’m afraid I shall have to keep this.” He held out his hand and uncurled his manicured fingers to show the object resting on the soft skin of his palm. The flat disc of polished black stone glittered darkly as the man tilted his hand to admire the artefact properly. “I’m sure you understand the reasons why.”

  Doctor Seaton scowled. “No. No, I bloody well don’t,” he said. “That amulet belongs to me. It’s very valuable.”

  The man nodded. “More than you know. And that is why it must be properly safeguarded. Preserved.” He slipped the stone back into his pocket and smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “And now, I really must be off. Thank you ever so much for your kind assistance, Doctor Seaton; it’s been an absolute pleasure.” He turned and opened the door.

  But before he could leave, Doctor Seaton called out to him. “Erm, about the other thing—it’ll be all right?”

  The man allowed a humourless smile to play across his lips. “Oh, I don’t think any charges will be pressed do you? I mean, I’m sure you meant to pay for that bottle of vodka. It was all just a silly misunderstanding.”

  Doctor Seaton hung his head so that his chin rested on his chest. “Yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking. The shop was busy and I was tired and the queue was very long and I didn’t realise I’d put it in my pocket and then…”

  “Oh, I understand,” the man said. “But I think it’s better if it all just goes away, don’t you?”

  Doctor Seaton looked up and nodded vigorously.

  “And if you look in the bag in the next office, you’ll find I’ve left you a little something as a way of saying thank you for all your help.”

  “Oh,” Seaton said, rising from his chair. “Oh, well that’s very, er, very nice.”

  The man nodded once. “It is your brand isn’t it, Stolichnaya?”

  The doctor smiled so widely his eyes bulged. “Yes,” he said, and he was already making for the side door. “Thank you very much.” He suddenly realised he ought to say goodbye before he left the room. He glanced over his shoulder. But the man in the grey suit had already gone.

  Chapter 8

  2014

  TOM WAS HALF-ASLEEP when the phone rang. He’d been dozing in front of the TV, drifting in and out of consciousness as the news readers droned endlessly about politics and the economy, and other things he tried to show an interest in. He reached out and snatched the handset up. Without thinking, he gave his full name—a habit he’d picked up at work. Instantly, the line went dead.

  For a moment, Tom was confused, his mind still fuzzy from sleep. He looked down at the LCD display on the handset. Is it faulty? It looked OK. Perhaps he’d inadvertently pressed a button as he’d picked up the handset and cut someone off by accident. He wasn’t sure. Carefully, he replaced the handset in its cradle. If it was important, they’d call back.

  “What if it was one of the lads?” he muttered. He wasn’t really meant to give out his home number, but whenever one of the lads was released from the centre, he always gave them a card and told them they could call him any time of day or night. It was his way of going the extra mile. He wanted to make sure he’d done absolutely everything he possibly could to keep them out of trouble.

  Tom frowned. No one had been released for a couple of months. And anyway, none of the lads had ever actually taken the trouble to call him. It was as if they forgot all about him the moment they walked out past the security gates. He suddenly became part of their past, part of everything they were trying to leave behind. If only they knew, he thought. You can run from your past, but you can never leave it behind. Tom ran his hands over his face. He was tired. He glanced back at the TV screen. The news was over and the programme had already moved onto the weather forecast. “Oh bloody hell,” he moaned. “I’ve missed the football results again.”

  He grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. But as he pushed himself up off the sofa, he had a thought. Why didn’t he check the caller ID? He picked up the phone again and tapped in the correct digits, but the automated voice told him that the caller had withheld their number. He replaced the handset. “Bloody telesales probably,” he muttered. It was a bit late at night for a sales call, but maybe they didn’t know that in Delhi or wherever these call centres were these days. They had some sort of computerised way of calling people up and it automatically hung up if a salesperson wasn’t available. Tom shook his head. It was damned annoying. Where did they even get my number? His details must have got onto a list somehow. He ought to be more careful with his personal details. He really didn’t want salespeople pestering him at home. He already had more than his fair share of phone calls to deal with at work: aggressive family members, petty-minded probation officers, hopeless social workers. These people seemed to have nothing better to do than to call him up and make his life more difficult.

  Tom rubbed his chin. “I mustn’t get too negative,” he muttered. “It’s just because I’m tired.” He yawned and stretched. He might as well go to bed. A solid night’s sleep would do him the world of good.

  Tom was brushing his teeth when the phone rang again. He spat into the sink and strode toward his bedroom. Maybe this time he could catch the bastards and tell them not to bother him again. But just as he went through the bedroom door and turned the light on, the ringing cut off. Tom scowled at the phone. He was tired and his mouth was full of gritty toothpaste. He just wanted to go to bed. But that second phone call really needled him. “I’ll sort them out,” he muttered. He went to the phone and tried, once more, to get the caller’s number. But once again, it had been withheld. “Bloody hell!” He replaced the handset more forcibly than usual and it bounced out from its cradle and fell onto the floor. He scooped it up and replaced it more carefully, then glared at it, defying it to ring. Maybe he should just disconnect it? But it was just a wireless extension. He’d have to go downstairs to disconnect the base unit if he wanted to be sure the phone in his bedroom wouldn’t ring. There was probably a way to turn the ringer off on the handset, but he’d never figured it out and he was damned if he was going to try now. Anyway, what if it’s a genuine call and someone’s just having trouble getting through?

  Tom ran a hand over his mouth. Perhaps someone was calling from a mobile phone and their signal kept dropping out. But who could it be? He didn’t have any close friends anymore and his family wanted nothing to do with him these days. But still, you never knew—it could be an important phone call. He trudged back to the bathroom and picked up his toothbrush. Now, what number had I got up to? He frowned for a moment then remembered and nodded to himself as he began to brush. Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four.

  By the time he got into bed, Tom was a little calmer. But he couldn’t get comfortable. He twisted and turned, and the quilt cover tangled around his legs. He sighed and flipped his pillow over, allowing his face to sink into the cool softness of the other side. And he listened to his breathing, trying to slow it down. One, two, three, four. The numbers would soothe him to sleep. It always worked. Eventually.

  But he’d barely fallen asleep when the phone rang again. Tom woke with a start. What the bloody hell is going on? He fumbled for the switch on his bedside lamp, squinting into the sudden glare. But the very second the light came on, the ringing stopped. Tom stared stupidly at the phone, his mouth hanging open. “Why?” he whispered. “Why? Why? Why?” He slumped back against the pillow. He didn’t bother to check the caller ID. There’d be no point. He was so tired now, and so stressed, he could weep. But there was no way he could sleep now. The phone would only ring again. He just knew it would. Unless he did something about it.

  Groaning, he swung his legs down from the bed and pushed himself to his feet. He dragged himself across the room and padded downstairs to the lounge, switching on lights as he went. He knelt down by the phone and traced the wire back to the socket, making sure he pulled o
ut the telephone cable and not the broadband lead.

  “Now try ringing me up in the middle of the night,” he said.

  He stood up and thumped his way back up the stairs, getting halfway before he realised he’d left the lounge light on. He grunted in frustration and went back down to switch it off.

  By the time he got back to his bedroom, he was seething. “Bloody stupid, bloody people,” he muttered. “What’s wrong with people? What the hell do they think they’re doing?” He climbed back into bed, switched his bedside lamp off, and lay on his back, staring at the bedroom ceiling. I’ll never get to s1eep now. Never.

  But he was wrong. His body was numb with exhaustion and as his arms and legs grew heavy, they seemed to sink deep into the mattress, dragging him down into the welcoming, inky blackness of oblivion. But Tom’s overtired mind refused to rest. Forbidden thoughts floated to the surface; echoes of hidden memories mingled with a confusion of almost-forgotten faces. And all through Tom’s disjointed dreams, a whispered threat lurked beneath the surface; an ever-present undercurrent of pure hatred and cold, calculating vengeance.

  ***

  What was that? The sudden noise woke Tom with a start. For a moment, he thought it was morning. But no—his bedroom was still far too dark. There wasn’t even a hint of daylight at his window. “What now?” he whispered. “It must be the middle of the night.” He blinked and worked his jaw to loosen the cramped muscles. And suddenly, he remembered what had woken him up. There’d been a noise—a muffled, metallic thud. In his dream, it had been a prison door, slamming in his face, condemning him to a life behind bars. Tom stared at the ceiling. Just some idiot slamming a car door—that’s all. It was irritating, but it wasn’t something to get in a sweat about. He reached out and turned his radio alarm clock so he could read the time. It was almost four in the morning. He groaned. Probably a taxi. It would be bringing someone back from a night club—someone with a few drinks inside them; clumsy, tired and excited all at the same time. He rubbed his eyes. “Thoughtless,” he muttered. “No consideration.” But he’d done the same thing himself often enough. Back in the day, he thought. Back in the bad old days. He sighed and turned his pillow over again, then lay on his side, and stared at the glowing green numbers on his radio alarm. It was 3:59. If he watched and waited, he’d see the number of minutes flip back to zero. He’d always liked that moment. Time goes on, he thought. And the past was gone; deleted, cancelled out.