Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2)

by Mikey Campling

  The middle-aged man turned to look over his shoulder. Good. He’d pushed the Astra back as far as the bend in the track, and the car had come to rest partway up the bank of earth that ran alongside the track. At the bend, the track was wider, and with the Astra partly on the bank, the track was clear enough; he could just about squeeze his car through the gap. I should be able to get away, he decided. That’s if, when this over, I’m in a fit state to do anything.

  He glanced at the mess he’d made of the Astra. It wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. And that, too, was good. He waited for a moment. No sign of the driver. He must’ve been shaken up pretty badly. But that was nothing. Nothing to what was going to happen.

  The man took a breath and blew it out. So far, so good. He made sure his handbrake was on then turned the Renault’s engine off. No point wasting petrol. He’d have to leave the car there for quite a while.

  He looked down to the passenger seat for his weapon, but in the crash, it had rolled into the footwell. He tutted to himself. He should’ve thought of that, and secured it properly. A little detail like that could cause the whole plan to unravel. He leaned across and reached down, wrapping his fingers around the smooth metal. He lifted the baseball bat and gave a grim smile. It was a horrible, thuggish thing, but there was a certain justice about using the man’s own weapon against him.

  He checked his rear view mirror. The track was deserted, but although he wasn’t expecting anyone to come along at this time of day, it was time to get moving. He opened his car door and swung his legs to the ground.

  Tom’s mind was adrift. In one moment, his world throbbed with pain and confusion; in the next, a savage, muddled darkness swirled through his mind, blotting out his thoughts, slowing down every sensation. In some strange, disconnected way, he knew where he was and what had happened. But he couldn’t so much as lift a finger to help himself. He could barely even flutter an eyelid.

  But then, there was a noise—a regular sound he recognised. It was the sound of footsteps on gravel. Someone’s coming. They’ll help me. Or maybe, they’ll send for help. An ambulance. That was what he needed. An ambulance sounded good.

  The footsteps were close now. Very close. When they stopped, Tom managed to open his eyes. Just a little. A dark shape loomed above him. Somebody, a man, leaned into the car and looked down at him.

  Tom tried to swallow. “Help,” he whispered. “Help me.”

  The dark shape disappeared.

  Tom rolled his tongue around his mouth, but it felt heavy, as if he’d had too much to drink. He needed to explain, to get some help. He tried to turn his head but something clicked and grated in his neck, and a jolt of pain shuddered down his spine. Oh god! Please don’t let me be paralysed. Not that. Anything but that.

  The man ducked his head to peer inside the Astra. Tom was in a bad way—worse than expected. But he was already trying to talk. He’d live. Now, he just had to get him out of the car. The man retreated for a moment. He stood up straight and ran a hand over his face. He hadn’t expected Tom to go sideways like this. Would it be all right to move him? Would it be safe? He chewed his lip and looked up and down the track. What choice did he have? He had to get Tom moving. He put the baseball bat on the ground next to the front wheel and bent over to get his upper body inside the car.

  Tom lay on his side, crumpled on the car floor. One leg stuck out of the car door, the other was folded underneath him. If the man took hold of an arm and a leg, he could probably lift him clear of the car without too much difficulty. Tom was wiry, almost skinny. He wouldn’t weigh too much.

  The man bent to his task, but in the confines of the car, he struggled to get a good grip. Tom moaned and the man withdrew his hands, recoiling in horror from the weight and warmth of Tom’s body. For a moment, a wave of guilt washed over him. I did this. I did this to him. The man shook his head. This was harder than he’d expected it to be, and it worried him that Tom’s face was so pale. What if he’d suffered some kind of internal injury? What if he died? The man took a deep, steadying breath. It was too late to fret now. He had no choice but to proceed with his plan. He had to assume Tom would be all right. The crash had just shaken him up, that was all, and a few bruises were nothing—nothing compared to what Tom had done. He deserved this.

  The man nodded to himself. I’ve got to get him out the car—fast. He leaned in farther, bracing his knee against the car seat, and this time he didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Tom’s upper body, and, ignoring Tom’s moans, he backed out of the car, heaving Tom up and onto the driver’s seat. The man paused for a couple of breaths. Tom was heavier than he looked. A dead weight. The man frowned and pushed the thought away, then renewed his grip. Grunting with effort, he heaved Tom up off the seat and dragged him clear of the car. The man was breathing hard now, his heart pounding. A film of sweat broke on his brow and trickled down his cheek.

  “Bloody hell,” he hissed. It was no good—his arms weren’t strong enough. He’d have to put Tom down. Slowly, he laid Tom on the gravel so he was lying on his side, then the man straightened up, gasping for fresh air. He hadn’t planned on Tom not being able to walk, and dragging Tom off the track wasn’t a viable option; there was too far to go and Tom was just too heavy. What the hell am I going to do now?

  He looked back at Tom’s car and his eyes went to the baseball bat on the ground. He stepped forward and picked it up. If he couldn’t get Tom moving, he’d just have to do it here.

  Tom groaned. At first, the pain had been vague and far away, but now it ran through him, cut him to the core. He tried to push it from his mind. He had to battle through the pain. He had to hold on. He was being dragged from the car and that was good. It hurt when they laid him down, but soon, they’d look after him, give him painkillers. Soon, he’d be all right and then he’d need to talk to someone. He’d need to explain, tell them what happened, tell them about…

  No. Please no. Tom opened his eyes as much as he could, squinting into the bright daylight. He wanted to see a kindly face, a green uniform. But the man who stood over him, had neither. “No,” Tom mumbled. “No more. Leave me alone.”

  The man didn’t speak.

  “Why have you done this to me?” Tom pleaded. “What do you want from me?”

  The man pointed the baseball bat at Tom’s face. “I’ll tell you what I want,” he snarled. “I want you to pay for what you’ve done.”

  Tom lifted his head from the ground and a burst of pain arced across his skull. He grimaced and pushed his hands against the gravel. He had to get up. He had to run. But the man jabbed the baseball bat into his chest, and Tom collapsed back onto the ground, rolling so that he lay on his back. He raised his arms to fend off further blows, but they didn’t come.

  The man bent over him, staring into Tom’s eyes. “Did you think you’d get away with it? Did you?”

  Tom shuddered. What the hell was happening? What the hell was he supposed to say?

  But it didn’t matter. The man wasn’t waiting for an answer. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?” he went on. “Did you think you’d fool me?”

  “I don’t know,” Tom whimpered. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

  “Ha!” The man shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t you? Don’t you know what I’m talking about, Tom?”

  “No. I don’t know you. How do you even know my name?”

  “Oh, I know more than that, Tom. In fact, let’s not use your middle name any more. Let’s use your first name.”

  A spark of desperation fired in Tom’s mind. A surge of adrenalin. He rolled onto his side then pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. A cloud of dust rose into his face and caught in his throat. He coughed and tried to scramble to his feet, but his shoes skidded through the gravel.

  The man watched for a moment. His face showed no emotion. He changed his grip on the baseball bat, holding it with both hands. Slowly, he raised it to shoulder height, and brought it down across Tom’s back. The blow was
n’t hard, but it caught Tom’s spine perfectly.

  The pain ripped through Tom’s body and he collapsed to the ground, his face grinding into the gravel. He lifted his head and again the baseball bat came down, slamming into his ribcage. It knocked the breath from Tom’s body and he writhed in pain, rolling onto his side. He drew up his knees and curled his body into a ball. “Leave me alone,” he cried. “I’ve done nothing to you. Nothing.”

  The man raised the baseball bat again, then hesitated. “Nothing? Nothing?” He shook his head; incredulous. “How can you say that? You’ve taken everything from me. Everything.”

  “No. I never stole anything. I’m not a thief.”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean,” the man sneered. “You took everything from me. Because of you, I lost everything that made life worth living. And now, you’re finally going to find out what that feels like.”

  Tom looked up, searching the man’s face for some clue, some hint they knew each other. But all he saw in the man’s eyes was cold, hard determination. “I told you,” Tom tried, “I don’t even know you. You’ve got the wrong person.”

  The man snorted. “Is that the best you can do? I’ve got the wrong person, have I? Oh dear.” He sniffed. “I suppose your first name isn’t Robert then.”

  Tom froze. He closed his eyes.

  “Or shall I call you by a more familiar name? You don’t mind do you, Robbo?”

  Tom opened his eyes and stared at the ground. It’s finally here. The moment he’d dreaded for every minute of every day for the last four years had finally come. He sighed. It didn’t matter. Not really. He’d always known this day would arrive. He’d always known this was what he deserved. “Go on then,” he mumbled. “Get on with it.”

  The man gave a short, dry laugh. “Oh, no. This isn’t about giving you a beating.”

  Tom took a breath. He didn’t want to ask but he had to know. “What then?” When no answer came, Tom turned his head and peered up at the man. “What do you want?”

  The man bared his teeth. “Get up,” he growled.

  Tom shook his head. “Why? Why should I?”

  The man brandished the baseball bat toward Tom’s face. “Because you’re going to show me. You’re going to show me what you did with him.” The man’s face twitched. And this time, when he spoke, his voice caught in his throat. “You’re going to show me. You’re going to show me what you did with my son’s body.”

  Chapter 20

  2018

  ANDREW KEPT HIS HEAD DOWN as he walked toward the girl and her friend. The less they saw of his face, the better, and it gave him the chance to curse himself under his breath. How could he have been so careless? First he’d lost them when they’d got on the bus, and then he’d ended up too close, and they’d spotted him. This just gets worse and worse. Maybe he should just turn away and slip into the crowd. But he couldn’t do that. Unexpected behaviour made people suspicious, it made them remember you. But a casual encounter was quickly forgotten. Just be polite, he told himself. Play along, then walk away. It would be fine.

  But he’d been thrown by the first thing the subject’s friend said: Where do we know you from? Andrew’s mind worked fast. There was no way either of the girls could’ve seen him before—was there? It’s just small talk, he told himself. She’s just making conversation. He swallowed hard and looked at the young woman who’d questioned him, trying to make his expression vague and hard to read. “Sorry, I don’t think you do know me. You must be mistaking me for someone else.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. “What do you do?”

  Andrew’s heart missed a beat. “Do? I erm…” And then he remembered—when students asked that question they wanted to know what subject you were studying. They liked to pin each other down as medics, artists, or engineers. “Statistics,” he said. “Data analysis.” It was close to the truth. The best kind of lie.

  The friend rolled her eyes. “Ah, a geek,” she said.

  The subject smiled, but Andrew could see the disappointment in her eyes. Good, he thought. With a few words he’d made himself instantly forgettable. “Yeah. I guess it is a bit geeky. I won’t bore you with the details.”

  “I’m Gemma, doing law,” the friend said. “Cally here is our star historian.”

  “Hi. I’m…Andy.”

  “Are you sure?” Gemma said. “You don’t sound too certain.”

  Andrew let out a nervous laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “Actually, I prefer Andrew. I was just trying to fit in.”

  Gemma raised an eyebrow. “Really? Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Andrew admitted. “I wasn’t sure, I mean…” His voice trailed away, but they were still looking at him, expecting him to finish his sentence. “I’d better own up.” He hesitated. “I’ve never been to one of these things before.”

  “Great,” Gemma said. “This is Cally’s first time, too.”

  He smiled at Cally. “What do you think of it so far?”

  Cally returned his smile. “Yeah, it’s good. At first I wasn’t so sure. But now—I’m glad I came.”

  Andrew’s eyes went wide. This was not how he’d intended to play it. This was all wrong. But it was also very flattering. He gazed at her for longer than he should. From a distance, he’d known she was attractive, but up close, her eyes were brighter, her skin smoother, her hair softer. Her smile was warm and unguarded, and was she blushing a little? Yes. But that couldn’t be on his account, could it? It’s just the heat, and the crowd.

  Gemma tilted her head to one side and looked Andrew up and down. “You know what? You look a little out of your comfort zone.”

  Andrew tore his eyes away from Cally. Oh no. He must have given himself away somehow. “Really? Like I said, it’s my first—”

  “No, it’s not that,” Gemma interrupted. “It’s what you’re wearing.”

  “Oh.” Andrew looked down at his clothes. He’d chosen the old pair of Levi’s carefully and his shirt was plain white cotton, but his boots were hand-made Italian leather, and his favourite linen jacket had definitely been a mistake. “I guess I do feel a bit overdressed. I think I’m the only man here wearing a shirt with a collar.”

  Cally bit her bottom lip.

  “Yeah,” Gemma said. “I think you’re just missing something.” She stepped toward him and took hold of the lapel of his jacket.

  Andrew raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t complain.

  Gemma fiddled with something, attaching it to his lapel. She stood back. “There you go. You’re one of us now.”

  Andrew turned the large badge to see it properly. “No more cuts,” he read. “Amen to that.”

  Gemma gave him a sharp look.

  “Not that I’m religious or anything. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with religion, I just…”

  Gemma laughed. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. She pursed her lips for a moment, thinking. “Listen, Andrew, we should be getting started.”

  “Oh right,” Andrew said. “Nice meeting you.” He smiled. “I don’t want to hold you up.” He took a step back, then hesitated. “Er, thanks for the badge.”

  Cally shot Gemma a look, and after a moment’s hesitation, Gemma let out a theatrical sigh. “Well, I guess you can tag along. If you want to.”

  Andrew looked from Gemma to Cally. They were waiting for his answer, but what the hell should he do? He was so far away from his plan of action it hardly seemed to matter anymore. Really, he should get away while he could, but then, he’d have to try and follow them, and it would look strange if they spotted him. Perhaps it would be better if he played along and stayed with them.

  Gemma looked past him, into what was left of the rapidly thinning crowd. “Unless, you’re with someone?”

  “No,” Andrew said. “I’m here by myself.” The thought of the extraction team flashed through his mind. They could be right behind him—waiting for their moment. Cally wouldn’t know what hit her. Andrew swallowed. If he stayed with her, perhaps
he could try a gentler tactic. He could persuade her to come and see Crawford voluntarily. “I suppose I could.” He looked at Cally. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” Cally said. “I don’t mind at all.”

  “Great,” Andrew said, though without much conviction. I’m not ready for this, he told himself. I’m out of my depth and I’m on my own—aren’t I? He cast a glance over his shoulder. There was no sign of anything suspicious, but that didn’t mean a thing. The extraction team were somewhere nearby; they had to be. He bit his lip. This was all wrong. Surely there’d been a mistake. Gemma was the one they should’ve been targeting. She was the politically-motivated one, the troublemaker. Cally was just a nice girl. A really nice girl. But that wouldn’t make any difference to Crawford and the rest of them. Once they’d set their sights on someone, once events were set in motion, the process couldn’t just be stopped. Mistakes didn’t matter. What mattered was that they covered their tracks. And that could get messy. Very messy, very quickly. But what could he do? How could he make this work out?

  He adjusted the straps of his rucksack as they started walking. For a moment, he thought of the rucksack’s grim contents and a shudder ran through him. He’d read the manuals the night before, almost ashamed of his fascination with the grisly details. The Taser was the worst. It fired twin metal barbs into the victim and thin wires delivered an electrical pulse that would incapacitate the girl instantly—and painfully. What if she injured herself when she fell? What if the barbs hit her in the face? There was no way he could take that risk—not with this girl. No way.