Tom sat. He tried not to perch on the edge of the seat, but he couldn’t just relax back into the chair either. He fidgeted then settled for sitting upright, his hands in his lap. He looked nervously around the room, but he didn’t take anything in. All he could think of was what the director hadn’t said, such as, “Nothing to worry about,” or “This will only take a minute.”
The director put his hands together on the table in front of him and crossed his fingers. He looked down for a moment then raised his head and looked Tom in the eye. “Tom,” he said, “how do you think everything’s going?”
Oh hell, Tom thought. Now he knew he was in trouble. He swallowed. “Erm, fine. I think so anyway. Fine.”
The director looked doubtful. “Are you sure about that? I mean—and don’t take this the wrong way—but you look dreadful.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Tom said. “I just had a bit of trouble sleeping last night. That’s all.”
The director didn’t take his eyes off him. He reached out with his right hand and slid a sheet of paper across the desk, lining it up perfectly in front of him. “Yes. That might explain it. Have you had a lot of sleepless nights lately? Stress?”
“No,” Tom said, “it was just the one night. I’ll be right as rain in the morning.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Images of the blue Renault flared across Tom’s vision: the pale-faced man behind the wheel; the baseball bat crashing down onto the metal; his own half-dressed sprint down the street in the middle of the night. Sitting here in the director’s neat office, the whole episode seemed completely surreal. The idea of confessing everything was ridiculous but clearly the director was expecting something from him. Tom moved his lips wordlessly, and in the heavy silence, his blood roared in his ears. He stared at the director. “No,” he said. “Nothing.” He sat back and folded his arms, then unfolded them. He took a breath, hesitated. “Look, if it’s about the car—”
But the director was frowning. “Car? What car do you mean?”
Tom froze in mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open. He doesn’t know. Tom’s mind raced. What was he doing? He’d almost blurted the whole thing out. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Sorry. I was just a bit confused about…” He glanced down at the sheet of paper on the director’s desk. “What did you want to see me about? Was it something urgent? It’s just, like I said, I’ve got a lot of reports to write.”
The director raised his left eyebrow. “OK, Tom, I’ll get to the point. There’s been a complaint.”
Tom tilted his head to one side. “About one of the lads?” He tutted under his breath. “Was it Steve? What’s he done this time?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not being clear,” the director said. He paused. “The complaint is about you.”
Tom stared at the director. “About me?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s probably just a mischievous allegation.”
The blood drained from Tom’s face. “Allegation? Of what?”
“As I said, it’s probably just someone stirring up trouble. But we’ve got to investigate it—you know that.”
“But I still don’t know,” Tom said, the pitch of his voice rising, “what I’m being accused of.”
The director held out his hands, spreading his fingers. “Keep calm, Tom. I have to go through this with you. It may seem unfair to you, but we’ve got to be seen to be taking it seriously.” He lowered his hands and tilted his head toward Tom. “You understand that, don’t you?”
Tom ran a hand over his face. He stared at the director, could see the man was waiting for him to answer, but he had no idea what to say.
“Tom, do you understand that I have to follow this up?”
Tom blinked. “Yes, I suppose so. But what am I meant to have done?”
The director grimaced. “I’m afraid it’s an allegation of physical abuse. An assault on one of our detainees.”
Tom sat perfectly still. A rush of dizziness surged through him. But it was OK, because none of this was really happening to him. He hadn’t done anything wrong, so there was nothing to worry about. It might even be a mistake. He clung to that thought. “Are you sure? I mean, maybe one of the officers has a similar name or—”
The director shook his head. “The letter was very clear.”
“A letter? Who’s written a letter?” That didn’t sound like one of the lads. They solved their disagreements with a threat or a fist, not a letter.
“I can’t tell you that. But the complaint is very specific.” The director picked up the piece of paper from his desk. “He says that you slapped him across the face.”
Tom almost laughed but the sound caught in his throat and came out as a strangled cough. “Aw, come on,” he spluttered. “That’s total bullshit.”
The director raised his voice. “Tom, I’m taking this seriously and you need to treat it the same way.”
Tom held out his hands. “But this is just stupid. You must see that.”
“I can’t discuss it with you any further at this stage. You’ll be called back in at the appropriate time.”
Tom said nothing. He suddenly knew, with grim certainty, exactly what was going to happen next.
“Until that time, you are suspended with immediate effect.” The director paused. “I’m sorry. You’ve done some good work, but my decision is final.”
For a moment, Tom sat there, looking up into the director’s eyes.
“Tom, you need to go home. Now.”
Slowly, Tom stood up. “I see.”
The director stood and walked straight past Tom, heading for the door. He opened the door wide and nodded to someone outside. Immediately, one of the younger prison officers entered the office. The director turned to Tom and held out his hand. “I’ll need your pass, Tom. David will take you out.”
Tom looked David up and down. He looked so young and clean cut, though they were probably the same age. David shifted his weight, rocking back on his heels. He didn’t look Tom in the eye.
“Your pass please,” the director said, a note of impatience creeping into his voice.
Tom reached up and, taking hold of the lanyard he wore around his neck, he pulled it over his head. He looked at the dangling plastic pass for a moment then lowered it onto the director’s waiting hand. As the director closed his fingers around it, Tom fought the sudden urge to grab it back. That rectangle of laminated plastic was the only official badge he’d ever worn. It marked him out. It showed that, for the first time in his life, he belonged to that private club—the people in charge. But now it was gone, probably forever. And there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all.
As Tom drove home, he mentally replayed his conversation with the director, over and over. Perhaps, if he concentrated hard enough, he’d think of all the things he should have said; the correct words that would have made everything all right. But as he parked his car outside his house, he’d made no progress. Yesterday, he thought. Everything was all right until yesterday. He sat in the driving seat for a minute or two, resting his hands on the steering wheel. As long as he stayed in the car, he wouldn’t have to face anything. But once he walked in through his front door, it would just be him, alone in the house in the middle of the day, while his neighbours would be out at work or running errands; getting on with their lives.
He heaved a sigh. I can’t sit here forever. He took a deep breath then climbed out of his car and hurried to his door. He let himself in and went through to the kitchen. Normally, the first thing he did was put his empty lunchbox by the sink, but he’d forgotten to retrieve it from the staffroom. He should’ve insisted. He should’ve refused to leave without it. He allowed himself a wry smile. What a pretty scene that would’ve made.
“I never even finished my sandwich,” he muttered. He put his hand on his stomach. It felt hollow. I ought to eat something, but I’m just not hungry. He ran his hands over his face. He was still weary and weak. He should at least t
ry to keep his strength up. He crossed to the fridge, pulled the door open and bent down to peer inside. But in that moment, he glimpsed something from the corner of his eye, and he knew with a cold certainty that something was wrong.
He stood stock still, then slowly turned his head to the left. There. That’s what he’d seen. The cutlery drawer in the kitchen cabinet was not closed properly. Tom never left it like that. The drawer tended to stick. Its runners were out of line and though Tom had been meaning to fix it for months, he’d developed the habit of lifting the drawer and jiggling it shut. And he did that every single time he used it—without fail. Tom stood and closed the fridge door. He scanned the room. At first glance, nothing else looked out of place. He went to the cutlery drawer and pulled it open. It looked just the same as it always did; neat and ordered. He closed the drawer properly. I was very tired this morning. I must’ve left it like that. He clenched his jaw. He wasn’t convinced. It wasn’t like him to break a habit.
He hesitated for a moment, then went through to his living room. And now, with one look, he knew for sure—someone had been in his house.
Chapter 13
3650 BC
HAFOC SLOWED DOWN then jogged to a halt. They’d been running along behind Nelda for a long time, only pausing when Tostig had insisted they must rest while the sun was at its highest. Even then, they’d only stopped long enough to catch their breath and have a drink of water.
Hafoc stood, breathing deeply but quietly, and he kept a watchful eye on Nelda. She raised her nose from the ground and sniffed the air. Suddenly, she stood stock still and stared into the distance. Hafoc followed her gaze, but he couldn’t see anything unusual. Tostig, Flyta and Sceort exchanged a look, but they said nothing. Hafoc stepped forward to join them. He was greeted with stern frowns from Flyta and Sceort but he stood his ground. I don’t care what they say. I’m not giving up now. He did his best to look each of the older men in the eye.
Tostig broke the silence. “Stay here,” he murmured. “I’ll see if I can pick up Brond’s trail.”
Flyta gave a disapproving grunt, but Sceort had something to say. “It’s no use now,” he spat. “We’ve lost the trail completely. I knew this would happen.”
Hafoc felt the blood rise to his face. “No. Nelda was on the trail. She knew where she was going.”
Sceort squared up to Hafoc and took a step toward him. “It’s a dog. It knows nothing. And we’ve followed it like fools.”
Hafoc glared at Sceort. I could punch him in the face, catch him off guard, he thought, although a fight would surely do more harm than good. He opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t get the chance.
“Lower your voices,” Tostig said. “And do as I say.”
Hafoc turned away from Sceort. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “But Nelda was on Brond’s trail, then something upset her.” He went forward to Nelda and held out his fist to her. She glanced at him then went back to staring into the distance.
“Go on, Nelda,” Hafoc whispered. “Go and find Brond.” Nelda twitched her ears at the sound of her name, but this time, when Hafoc waved his arm forward, she did not move. “Go on,” Hafoc urged, waving his arm again.
Nelda lowered her head, her ears pricked forward. She did not look at Hafoc.
“Find Brond,” Hafoc insisted. Why wouldn’t the dog move? What was wrong with her?
Still staring forward, Nelda lowered herself to the ground and lay down. There was something up ahead she did not like, and she wasn’t going anywhere near it.
Hafoc closed his eyes for a moment. They’re right, he thought bitterly. I know they’re right. The other men were more experienced than him. He’d been a fool to think he knew better. He opened his eyes and turned away from the group. He couldn’t bear to see the look on their faces. No one spoke. Hafoc swallowed hard and thought of walking away. He could leave now. He wouldn’t have to be stealthy, and if he walked quickly enough, he might even find his way home by nightfall. But then he imagined returning home without Brond. He pictured the looks, the questions. It would be an even greater shame than this. No. He’d stay with the group. There was still a chance they’d find Brond and then all would be well.
Tostig walked to Hafoc’s side. For a heartbeat, he laid a hand on Hafoc’s shoulder, and then he moved forward, scanning the ground for a trace of Brond’s trail. Hafoc stared at Tostig’s back. Had that touch on the shoulder been accidental as he’d passed by? Or had Tostig meant to console him? Hafoc frowned. He didn’t want Tostig’s pity, but if their leader was showing him some support, it was very welcome.
Suddenly, Tostig stood up straight and raised his nose. Hafoc frowned, then he too felt a change in the breeze and he knew what Tostig had detected, and understood why Nelda had been upset. Tostig turned back to the group, his eyes wide, and uttered the word that confirmed what they’d all sensed, “Smoke.”
It was faint and some distance away, but it was definitely wood smoke. It could only be the Wandrian. A tingle of excitement raced up Hafoc’s spine. At last, they were closing in on the savages who’d taken his brother. Now, it was only a matter of time before they caught up with them. Hafoc turned to Sceort and Flyta and smiled, but they took no notice. Their faces were masks of grim resolve. Hafoc dropped his smile. Once again the older men were right—this was no time for happiness. The Wandrian were brutal and merciless. They would not give up Brond easily, and the fight would be more vicious than anything Hafoc had ever known.
Hafoc turned back to Tostig just in time to see their leader give a hand signal; they were to follow as fast as they could. Then Tostig was running, slipping through the shadows, darting between the trees. Sceort and Flyta followed without hesitation and Hafoc fell in behind them. As he set off, he glanced down at Nelda, but although she stood up, she hung back and lowered her head. She wasn’t going to join them. Never mind, Hafoc thought. Now they had the clear scent of smoke to follow, they no longer needed her. Hafoc rushed to catch up with the others. Nelda could look after herself.
The men quickly fell into a rhythm. They moved together as one, watching each other, treading in each other’s footprints, keeping pace. And Hafoc could match them now. Finally he understood the way to move through the forest. He felt the joy of it and knew it had become part of him. When all this was over, he’d hunt with the other men and hold his head high. But for now, he must run, and he must make himself ready for the fight ahead.
They ran on, and all the while the scent of wood smoke grew stronger. Hafoc’s throat was dry, and the muscles in his legs burned with exhaustion. Should he beg the others to slow down, or let himself fall behind? Neither. He forced himself to carry on, breathing as deeply as he could, focusing on each breath, making it count.
As he ran, he saw a movement in the undergrowth, off to one side, matching their path through the forest. If he turned his head to look, he’d surely miss his step, but he watched from the corner of his eye. And when he caught a glimpse of brindled fur, he recognised it straight away. Good girl, Nelda. You’re following us after all. Hafoc smiled to himself. Nelda hadn’t wanted to come, but she was standing by them, and her loyalty gave him strength. If the dog could keep running, so could he.
Even so, when Tostig finally slowed down and came to a halt, Hafoc’s blood roared in his ears and his legs were unsteady. He took a few long breaths. The smell of wood smoke was strong now, but the forest air was cool and sweet. Hafoc bared his teeth and savoured every breath. He’d never felt like this. Even on a hunt, he’d never known such a surge of excitement, such a savage thrill. He didn’t care about the Wandrian, wasn’t frightened of them. Let me at those animals. I’ll tear them apart. But Tostig was signalling them to gather around and Hafoc pushed his thoughts aside and joined the other men at Tostig’s side. Tostig looked at them in turn then simply pointed ahead. Hafoc looked and saw the patch of light through the trees: a clearing.
Tostig pointed at Flyta and waved him on. Flyta nodded once, then moving in a half crouch, he crept towar
d the clearing. In moments, he was all but invisible among the shadows. Without thinking, Hafoc stepped forward to follow, but Tostig held up his hand to stop him. Let me go, Hafoc thought, but he held his tongue. Flyta was the stealthiest of them all—it was better if he scouted alone. The group would just have to stand and wait. I must be still, Hafoc thought. For now.
Hafoc glanced at Sceort. The older man was holding his bow ready and fitting an arrow to the bowstring. Should I be doing that? He looked to Tostig.
Tostig looked him in the eye, holding his gaze. There was a sadness in their leader’s eyes that shook Hafoc to the core. His look told Hafoc all he needed to know: there were only two ways forward now—kill or be killed.
This is it, Hafoc thought. We’re going to fight the Wandrian. Hafoc tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. Tostig nodded once, then busied himself, readying his bow. Hafoc took his own bow from his shoulder and did as Tostig did, copying his every movement. Soon, all three of them were ready, their bows held low in front of them, their arrows snug against their strings but not pulled tight. A shiver ran through Hafoc’s body. He could hardly keep his hands from shaking. Breathe. Breathe and be ready. But his heart pounded and his chest was too tight. Where was Flyta? What was taking him so long? And what about Nelda? Where had she gone? He looked back along their path and there she was, skulking among the ferns. She looked up at him, but kept her head low. Her ears were pricked forward. She still wasn’t happy, but Hafoc didn’t have time to worry about a dog. He turned back to Tostig and Sceort, but they took no notice of him. Each man was preparing in his own way.
Suddenly, a sound echoed through the forest. All three of them heard it at once. The long, low moan chilled them to their bones. For a heartbeat, the men stared at each other in horror, and then they were in motion. Darting between the trees, they leaped over undergrowth, fanning out, fixing their eyes on the clearing ahead. Hafoc forgot about stealth. He could only hope to be fast enough, strong enough to do what had to be done. He was falling behind Sceort and Tostig and he pushed himself harder, willing his legs to move faster. He gasped for breath. In a few moments he would be in the clearing.
Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) Page 11
