Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2)

by Mikey Campling

  Tom counted off the seconds in his head, but he couldn’t concentrate. Something’s not right. The noise of the car door slamming had been close. Too close—as if it was right outside his window. But that couldn’t be right. His immediate neighbours all had very young children. Almost every house on the street was home to a young family. It was that kind of neighbourhood. You just didn’t get rowdy night clubbers stumbling home in the small hours. And Tom would’ve known about it—he was a very light sleeper. He cast his mind back, but the only noise he could remember hearing at night was the baby crying next door. And none of his neighbours went to work so early or worked night shifts. What’s going on?

  Tom rubbed his eyes. His mind raced, conjuring up all sorts of possibilities, but then suddenly, he knew exactly what had caused the noise, and his eyes flew open. “Bloody kids!” They’d be breaking into cars, looking for a stereo to steal or a car that could be hotwired.

  Tom listened. But there was nothing. He raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his brow. Like most of his neighbours, Tom had a small garage but he usually left his car out on the drive. There wasn’t much crime in this area so he’d never really worried about it. Until now. He sighed. No one would be interested in stealing his car, but his car stereo was pretty new. And there were plenty of expensive cars in the neighbourhood. He should be a good neighbour and have a look. If it turned out something had happened and he’d not done anything about it, he’d kick himself in the morning. Once again, he sat up and swung his legs out of bed. He crept over to the window and peered around the edge of the curtain.

  At first, he couldn’t see anything unusual. The street was empty. The parked cars all looked undamaged. There were the usual cars parked in neighbours’ driveways and, as always, there were a few cars parked on the road, all neatly arranged nose to tail. And all empty. Except one. Tom’s heart lurched and instinctively, he put a hand on his stomach.

  The man sat in the small, nondescript Renault hatchback and stared into space. Tom took a shaky breath and tried to fend off the thoughts that were scampering around his mind like frightened mice. Why should it be the same car he’d seen at work? Why should it? It wasn’t directly outside his house, it was a little way up the road. It was dark outside and he was tired and it was hard to tell the car’s colour under the orange glow of the street lights. Tom moved his head, trying to get a better angle of vision. He shouldn’t be surprised really. He’d heard a car door, and now, here was a man sitting in a car. He’d probably just dropped someone off. There could be any number of reasons why he was waiting. Maybe it was even a minicab, and the driver was waiting for his passenger. Perhaps someone was going to the airport to catch an early flight. Tom ran a hand through his hair. There was nothing to worry about. Dark-coloured hatchbacks were ten a penny. He nodded to himself. He’d wait a few minutes and the man would surely drive away.

  “Get a grip, Tom,” he muttered. He sighed. He was letting himself get wound up again. It was those damned phone calls that had got him into this state. They’d left him anxious and on edge. “Come on, Tom,” he whispered. “Do your exercises.” He took a long, slow breath and held it. One, two, three. And that’s when it hit him.

  The phone calls! Tom’s stomach tightened. His shoulders tensed. He let his breath out in a ragged rush and gasped for air. Of course! The first phone call had stopped when he’d answered. The next one had stopped when he’d walked into his bedroom. Had he switched the light on? Yes. And the third call was the same; it had stopped ringing as soon as he’d switched his bedside lamp on. The only way someone could’ve known that, was if they could see his house. The man was out there, watching his house. And it was the same car he’d seen at work. It had to be. And it was the same man. He’d thought the man in the car park at work had been staring at him, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it. Now, he had no choice but to accept it.

  “What the bloody hell is going on?” he growled, and as he spoke, the blood rushed to his head. This wasn’t right, and he damn well wasn’t going to stand for it. Tom pushed the curtain aside and stood close to the glass. He knew he’d be in full view, his white T-shirt clear to see by the glow of the streetlights, but he didn’t care.

  The motion of the curtains must’ve caught the man’s eye, because suddenly, he jolted upright in his seat. He looked from side to side rapidly as if flustered; shocked at being spotted.

  “I knew it,” Tom said. “I knew it was the same bloke.” And there was not a shred of doubt in Tom’s mind. Although he couldn’t make out the details of the man’s face, he was certain. And now Tom realised something else. When he’d first seen the man in the visitors’ car park, there’d been something familiar about him, even then. Do I know you? Where have I seen you before? But it was no good. He just couldn’t place him. Tom raised his hand and pointed at the man, all the while giving him the meanest glare he could muster. “Just you stay there, pal,” he said, and his voice was low and dangerous. “I’m going to come down there and rip your bloody face off.” Tom stepped back from the window and looked around the room for a weapon.

  But when he heard the sound of an engine starting outside, he rushed back to the window. The man was wrenching the steering wheel and revving the engine far too hard. The Renault lurched backward as the man tried to manoeuvre out of the tight parking space. In his rush to get away, he hadn’t even turned his headlights on. Or had he left them off on purpose so Tom wouldn’t see his number plate? Whatever the reason, the lack of headlights and reversing light was making it harder for him to get out of the space. Even with his bedroom window closed, Tom heard the dull crump as the Renault thudded into the car behind. The man twisted in his seat for a second, and then the engine roared again and the hatchback leaped forward, colliding with the car in front. Tom had seen enough. Those cars belonged to his neighbours; good, honest, working men and women. And this maniac, this bloody lunatic was wrecking their precious cars. Who the hell does this psycho think he is?

  A burst of red hot adrenaline flushed through Tom’s body. It exploded into his mind like a percussion grenade. And then he was pounding down the stairs. In the hallway he reached in among the pile of shoes and found what he was looking for. The cool, smooth metal of the baseball bat felt good as he wrapped his fingers around the handle. Then he turned and raced to the front door, yanking it open hard enough to almost tear it from its hinges. He ran on, into the street, hardly noticing the chill of the cold ground against his bare feet.

  The Renault was still there, its engine revving wildly as the driver tried to manoeuvre it out of the tight space. Without hesitation, Tom ran toward it. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a few upstairs lights flicking into life in the neighbouring houses. Even now, people would be dragging themselves out of bed, or hunkering down beneath the bedclothes, knowing something bad was happening and wishing it would all just go away. Either way, Tom didn’t care. Let them watch.

  He slowed his pace as he neared the Renault. A harsh screech echoed across the street as one of the Renault’s wheel rims grated against the curb, and the car shuddered to a halt, one of its back wheels jammed against the concrete. A hard smile played across Tom’s lips. Now the driver wouldn’t be able to reverse. He was a sitting duck. And Tom was going to sort the bastard out once and for all. He stalked toward the car, the baseball bat held in front of him with both hands. He could see the driver clearly now, could see the blind panic on the man’s pale face.

  The driver glanced back and then revved the Renault’s engine as hard as he could. The car whined in protest, and then suddenly it was moving, shuddering backward as the jammed wheel finally managed to mount the curb. The Renault crunched into the Ford Focus behind it, but the driver didn’t even flinch. He finally had the space he needed to escape, and in the glow of the streetlight, Tom saw the man’s mouth twist in triumphant glee. The Renault lurched forward. Metal scraped against metal as the car forced its way past the Audi in front. The Audi’s tail light cracked open, showering splinters of plastic
onto the road. And now the Renault was free. It shot forward, racing toward Tom, still without its lights on.

  But Tom stood his ground. He bared his teeth and scowled. “Come on,” he jeered. “Come on.” He raised the baseball bat and set his mouth in a grim line as the car sped toward him. Every muscle in Tom’s body was pumped, every sinew taut. He was invincible; a mass of pure rage. And still, the Renault came at him. Tom narrowed his eyes and waited. His blood pounded in his ears, drowning out the squeal of rubber against tarmac as the driver slammed on the brakes. The Renault ground to a halt, its front bumper less than a metre away from where Tom stood in his T-shirt and boxer shorts. For a split second, the two men stared at each other. Tom took in the man’s pallid face; the crumpled brow lined with fear, the unshaven jowls twitching involuntarily. He fixed every detail of that face in his mind. For some reason, this man had taunted him, thinking himself safe inside his car. He’d thought he could get away with it, but he was wrong. So very wrong. “You’re mine now,” Tom whispered. “Mine.”

  Tom took a step forward, raising the baseball bat as high as he could, then he swung the bat down, smashing it into the front of the Renault with all his strength. The metal caved in with a dull boom. Tom grinned and held the baseball bat at shoulder height. He adjusted his stance, staring at the horrified driver, looking him in the eye. The next swing would surely burst the windscreen, showering the man in shattered glass. The driver turned his face away. That won’t save you. Nothing could save the man now. But suddenly, the car lurched backward, reversing away, weaving across the road from side to side, its engine whining in protest.

  Tom lowered the baseball bat. “No!” he yelled. There was no way the bastard was getting off that lightly. “Come here!” he roared, then he launched himself forward, dashing toward the car. He ran steadily, purposefully, focusing on his target, closing it down. But the road was wider here and the driver finally managed to get the car under control. The Renault accelerated away, still in reverse. But Tom did not slow his pace. He only needed the driver to make one mistake and then he’d catch up with him.

  The car reached the T-junction and it swerved around the corner, hurtling tail first into the main road, still travelling too fast. The brakes squealed and for the first time, Tom wished for traffic on the main road. If the man crashed now, he’d never get away. But the driver was lucky. The road was empty and the Renault surged forward, its engine screaming and rattling as the driver put his foot down hard.

  “Stop!” Tom yelled. But it was no use. The Renault was already speeding away. Tom stood at the corner and stared in disbelief. He’d been so close. A second earlier and I’d have had you right where I wanted you. He put his hands on his hips and breathed hard, letting his body recover from the sprint. In the distance, the Renault slowed down and at last, its tail lights came on. As Tom watched, the car turned a corner and then it was gone.

  Tom glared at the empty road. “I’ll find you,” he said. “And next time, you won’t be so lucky.” He turned his head and spat onto the pavement. Then, with one last look along the empty road, he turned and headed for home.

  As he walked, the cool night air chilled the sweat on his body, and he savoured the way it stung his skin. I haven’t felt this good for a long time. Not since…Not for a long time.

  But it seemed to take forever to get back to his house, and as he walked his anger drained away, leaving him cold and exhausted. He walked on. As he neared his home, he saw that a couple of his neighbours were standing next to their damaged cars. A youngish man, maybe four or five years older than Tom, stood in his T-shirt and jeans. He ran his hands through his hair then waved his arms as he moaned about the state of his beloved Audi. The other man was older. He simply stood and stared at the dents is his Ford Focus, his hands buried deep in the pockets of dressing gown. He shook his head sadly as if to say, “This is what happens. What did you expect?” But as Tom approached them, they both stopped what they were doing, and stared.

  Suddenly, Tom saw himself as they must be seeing him: the baseball bat, the bare feet, the baggy boxer shorts he slept in and the old white T-shirt that was stuck with sweat to his bony frame. He had no choice but to keep on walking toward them—no choice but to let them stare. I should just walk straight past them, act as if nothing has happened. But the older man was looking at him thoughtfully. They’d spoken on a few occasions and the man clearly remembered him. His name was Richard or Robert or something. It didn’t matter. They knew each other as neighbours and now Tom would have to speak to him. But what could he say?

  When he was near enough to speak without raising his voice, Tom tilted his head to indicate the road behind him. “I chased them off.”

  “Who?” the younger man said.

  Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Kids. Joyriders I expect.”

  “Typical,” the older man said. “Just typical.” He sighed and shook his head.

  And Tom remembered. Yes, his name was Richard. He worked at the discount furniture place. He’d told Tom he should come over sometime and he’d get him a good deal. “Sorry about your car, Richard.”

  “Ah well,” Richard said. “It’s a company car anyway.” He gave Tom a tired smile.

  But the younger man looked Tom in the eye. “Joyriders? They stole a car? Whose?” He looked over Tom’s shoulder. “Your car’s there isn’t it?”

  Tom returned the man’s gaze. “I don’t know. I heard them. Saw them out the window. They were up to no good at this time in the morning.”

  The older man chipped in, “And you came out and saw them off, eh? Well good for you. You’re a braver man than me.”

  Tom shrugged. “They were just kids. I scared them off, that’s all.”

  The younger man folded his arms. “But I don’t get it. Did they steal a car or not? Because, if they went off in the car they came in, then how did you know to chase them?”

  Tom forced a smile. “Well I’m not stood out here in my boxers for the good of my health.”

  Richard chuckled.

  “I heard them,” Tom said. “I’m a light sleeper. They were hanging around the cars. Looking for something to nick. I came out and scared them off.”

  “Yeah and you did a good job of it,” the younger man said. “They must’ve been pretty scared to have done all this damage.” He waved toward his Audi saloon. The Audi had been badly hit. Apart from the tail light, the glossy red plastic bumper was shattered, and the rear panel was dented and crumpled beyond repair.

  Tom tutted. “Looks bad.”

  The younger man stared at Tom. “Perhaps, if you hadn’t—”

  But Richard butted in. “Right, I don’t know about you two but I’m too old to be standing in the street at four o’clock in the morning. I’m going to go in, call the police, have a swift shot of scotch and get back to bed before the wife sends out a search party.” He smiled at them both. “Goodnight,” he said as he turned away.

  “Police?” Tom asked, louder than he’d meant to.

  Richard stopped and turned back to face him. “Yes. I’ll need a crime reference. For the insurance and all that.”

  The younger man narrowed his eyes. “Why shouldn’t he call the cops? I’ll need to talk to them, too. They’ll probably want to ask you a few questions.”

  Tom nodded, trying to make the gesture look casual. “Oh yeah. It’s just…it’s dark and they drove away pretty fast. I didn’t really see much.”

  “Never mind,” Richard said. “I don’t expect they’ll send anyone. But you’ve got to go through the motions haven’t you?” He gave a heavy sigh and headed back for his front door.

  Tom watched him leave. Going through the motions—that’s all I ever do. He looked at the Audi owner. The arrogant idiot was still staring at him. The guy knew something was wrong, but he didn’t have the courage to come out and say it. For a moment, Tom gripped the baseball bat harder. He pictured himself swinging the bat into the man’s face, imagined the cocky bastard’s look of sheer horror as he realise
d what was about to happen to him. A cold shiver ran along Tom’s spine. Oh my god, what’s happening to me? He blinked and looked away. He had to get a grip. He couldn’t afford to think like this. Not now, not ever. I’m not a violent man. Not anymore. He drew a breath and blew it out. He turned back to the man and nodded. “Well, goodnight. Hope you get your car sorted out.”

  And then he walked away. If the man responded, Tom didn’t hear him. He didn’t care what the stuck-up idiot had to say and he didn’t care what he thought. The man was suspicious, but he couldn’t prove anything. If the police came knocking on his door, he’d give them the same story. They’d warn him not to try and be a hero in future and they might even have something to say about the baseball bat. But so what? He hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really.

  Tom let himself in through his front door. He paused in the doorway and glanced back into the street. Good—it was empty. There was no sign of the Audi owner. He must’ve given up and gone back inside. Tom smiled and closed the door, checking both the lock and the security bolt were securely fastened. He dropped the baseball bat down by the pile of shoes and padded through to the kitchen. He’d have a glass of water then get back to bed for a couple of hours.

  As he filled the glass, he wondered whether he’d be the talk of the neighbourhood. There was bound to be some gossip, but only for a few days. It would all blow over soon enough and then his night-time exploits would be forgotten. He’d go back to being the bloke along the street who kept himself to himself, and lived a quiet life, on his own. He closed his eyes as he drank the cold water, draining the glass in one go, savouring each swallow. And counting each gulp. He put his empty glass in the sink and felt much better. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.