Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2)

by Mikey Campling

  At home in his eighteenth-century farmhouse in the Cotswolds, Crawford was relaxing in his conservatory when his mobile phone rang. He put his cup of tea down carefully on a mat to avoid marking the polished oak table, and checked the incoming number before he accepted the call. “Go ahead.”

  He listened carefully. “You’re sure? He’s with them now?”

  Crawford pinched the bridge of his nose. What the hell was Andrew playing at? “All right,” he said. “Stay with them. Perhaps he’s improvising, trying to get her on her own. If you get the chance, bring her in as quietly as possible.”

  In Exeter, standing next to the gate into Northernhay Gardens, a middle-aged man mumbled into his mobile phone then slipped it into the zippered pocket on his fleece. In a moment, he’d relay Crawford’s orders to the team, then they’d just have to play it by ear. Business as usual. He sipped the last of his Starbucks cappuccino then picked up the other cup. It was still full. A shame to waste it but it had served its purpose. He’d definitely established the girl’s ID, and when he approached her again, she’d see him as harmless. He set off, and threw both cups into a bin as he passed. It was a shame he couldn’t take the coffee with him. It looked like it was going to be a long day.

  Cally walked beside Andrew, trying not to stare, trying to put one foot in front of the other without tripping up or doing something stupid. She noticed the furrow in his brow, the frown lines at the corners of his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Andrew blurted. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “You just look—oh, I don’t know.” Cally looked away for a moment. “You know, you don’t have to be here if you don’t want.”

  “I know,” Andrew said. “I’ve just, got a lot on my mind. You know, work and stuff.”

  “Work?” Gemma said. “I thought you said were a student.”

  “No,” Andrew replied. “I didn’t. You asked me what I did, and I said statistics and data analysis. That’s what I do. It’s pretty boring.”

  “Oh, right,” Gemma said, though she didn’t sound convinced.

  Andrew laughed nervously. “I’m a bit old to be a student, aren’t I?”

  “No,” Gemma said. “There are lots of mature students these days.”

  Andrew looked away for a moment. “Do you think it’ll do any good? The march, I mean.”

  Gemma snorted. “Will it stop the cutbacks? No. Will it make a difference? Maybe not. Is it the right thing to do? Hell yes.”

  Cally tried very hard not to roll her eyes. It was something she’d heard Gemma say once too often. Please don’t go off on a rant—not now.

  “So, Andrew,” Gemma said, “why did you come today?”

  Andrew shrugged his shoulders. “I work for a government department. I don’t like to see people lose their jobs.”

  Gemma nodded vigorously. “Good for you.”

  They walked on in silence for a while. Gemma kept casting sideways glances at Andrew, so Cally flashed her a meaningful smile. She didn’t need to nudge her friend in the ribs. She didn’t even need to say anything. Her bright eyes told Gemma everything she needed to know.

  Gemma made a show of studying the line of marchers up ahead. “Oh, I’ve just seen some friends. Do you mind if I…?”

  Cally tried not to look too relieved. “No, of course not.”

  Gemma hesitated. “Well, you could, you know, come with me if you like. I could introduce you to some real firebrands.”

  Cally pretended to consider it. “Not right now. But don’t let me stop you. You go ahead.”

  “All right,” Gemma said. “I’ll see you later.” She glanced at Andrew. “Any problems, give me a call.”

  Cally nodded. “See you later.”

  Gemma gave them a brief, tight smile, then turned and strode away into the throng.

  Cally watched her leave, then breathed a sigh of relief.

  Andrew smiled. “She’s very intense, your friend.”

  Cally laughed. “Tell me about it. I live with her.”

  “You, er, you didn’t want to meet the firebrands then?”

  “I think I’ve seen and heard enough firebrands for one day.”

  Andrew chuckled.

  He has a nice laugh, Cally thought. And when he laughed, there was a mischievous glint in his eye. Even nicer. “What exactly is a firebrand anyway?”

  Andrew studied her expression. “Well if the speeches are anything to go by, it’s just someone who likes the sound of his own voice.”

  “Oh god, the speeches,” Cally groaned. “They were just awful, weren’t they?”

  “And that bloke with the sunglasses—who was he anyway?”

  “Ah, the hero of the hour. The famous whistle-blower.”

  “Right. I should’ve known that,” Andrew said, and he rubbed his forehead as though cursing his own stupidity.

  Cally took in the change in his mood. There he goes again—in a world of his own. It was like a light going out. Hidden depths, she thought. Still, that wasn’t a bad thing. He was very different from the students she’d met at the university. Andrew seemed more mature, more real. And if it took a bit of effort to get to know him, then that was fine by her. “So, what exactly is it you do?”

  Andrew looked her in the eye. “I could tell you, but then…” He smirked and raised his left eyebrow.

  “You’d have to kill me?”

  “No, but I’d have to fill in a form.” He paused. “And trust me, it’s a very long form.”

  She laughed.

  “And I’d probably have to buy you a coffee.”

  Cally stopped laughing. She studied his expression. Was that a serious offer? Was he trying to ask her for a date? “Oh, why?”

  Andrew cringed. “I just meant, you’d need a strong coffee to keep you awake,” he blurted. “It’s all very boring. Very dull. It sends me to sleep sometimes.”

  “Not state secrets then?”

  “No, but you know how it is,” he said. “It’s all confidential.”

  “Oh, how disappointing,” she teased. “I thought you were going to turn out to be a spy or something glamorous.”

  “No. Nothing glamorous. Sorry.” He looked away.

  Cally winced. She hadn’t meant to make fun of him. “That’s all right. I’m a history student. It doesn’t get much less glamorous than that.”

  Andrew shrugged. “I don’t know. It sounds interesting.”

  Cally almost stopped dead in her tracks. Oh my god. He sounds like he means it. “Well, I could tell you about it if you like—over that cup of coffee.” He looked at her and she gave him her best smile. “If you want to.”

  For a split second, Andrew gazed at her, his lips parted. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that sounds…nice.”

  “Good.” Cally looked away to hide her smile. As they passed a shop window, she noticed her reflection and she studied the scene. This was how she looked to the world: a young woman strolling through the city, her man striding along at her side. And it was good. They looked right together. They looked like a couple. But then, as she watched their reflections flit across the plate glass, she saw Andrew glance furtively over his shoulder—once, twice. Cally turned away from the shop window and gave Andrew an enquiring look, but he didn’t notice. He walked on, looking straight ahead, his expression unreadable. Cally frowned. What was she getting into here? Andrew seemed nice, but she didn’t know him. They’d only just met, but here she was, already arranging to go and have a coffee with him. Anything could happen. But that could be a good thing.

  She took a breath. There was only one way to find out. And besides, it was only a coffee. If she chose the place, she could make sure it was somewhere she was comfortable, somewhere busy. What could go wrong?

  “There’s a place I like,” she said. “A café. Well, a tea shop really. By the cathedral. It’s not far.”

  “You mean we should go right now? What about the march?”

  “Oh, I don’t think anyone will miss us. And we could be here in
spirit, couldn’t we?” Cally grinned. “This place I know, they make the best coffee, and the pastries—just fantastic, they melt in your mouth. And with the scones you get homemade strawberry jam and clotted cream.”

  Andrew held his hands up in mock surrender. “OK, OK. You had me at coffee.”

  Cally smiled. “Come on, we can cut through that alley.” She pointed ahead, and Andrew looked carefully at the narrow entrance to the side street. As he watched, a steady stream of people came and went through the entrance to the alleyway. “Sure,” he said. But when Cally started to step away from the line of protesters, he reached out to touch her arm. “Hang on.”

  She turned sharply and saw, straight away, the doubt in his eyes. Oh no, he’s changed his mind. What had she done wrong? Had she been too pushy? “What’s the matter?”

  Andrew shook his head. “Nothing. It’s just, if we wait a minute, we’ll be level with the alley and we can just, you know, duck into it.”

  Cally raised her eyebrows. “Seriously?”

  Andrew leaned his head toward her and spoke quietly: “I just don’t think our comrades will approve if they notice us sloping off for a coffee.”

  Cally glanced over her shoulder and considered the orderly line of marchers stretched out behind them. If anything, their ranks had grown more crowded since they’d left the gardens. Still, if everyone decided to slip away, there’d be no march, no protest. She sighed. An all too familiar sinking feeling stirred in the pit of her stomach. Really, she should stay on the march a little longer and then go home and do some work. Thanks to Doctor Seaton she was way behind schedule. But then she remembered the dressing-down she’d had in Seaton’s office, and something snapped. Why should I always be the one who tries to do the right thing? The cutbacks were going to happen anyway, and as for her dissertation—she worked so hard, she deserved a little treat. When had she last taken a little time off, just to enjoy herself?

  She gave Andrew a sly smile. “All right. Give me a signal and we’ll make our dash for freedom.”

  Andrew snorted. “I know what you’re going to say.”

  Cally was all wide-eyed innocence. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. And I told you before—I am not a spy, OK?”

  “If you say so.” She looked ahead. They were almost level with the alleyway. She grinned. “So what should we say—on my mark or on the count of three?”

  “Neither,” Andrew said. He put his hand on her arm. “Just run.”

  They laughed as they dashed into the alley, arm in arm. They dodged through the bustling throng of heavily laden shoppers and bemused tourists, earning a few funny looks and one or two hostile glances. But Cally and Andrew didn’t notice, and they didn’t look back.

  Behind them, a middle-aged man stopped at the entrance of the alley and leaned against the wall. He exchanged a look with a young woman as she passed him by on her way into the alley. She was casually dressed in jeans and a chain store sweater, and there was nothing remarkable about her at all. But then, she pulled out her phone and, glancing at the screen, she made a show of gasping as though realising she was late for an appointment. She slipped her phone into her shoulder bag and hurried through the crowd.

  The middle-aged man smiled to himself, and then he turned and walked away. The alley led to the grassy area in front of the cathedral. There were several ways to get there, but he’d done his preparation. He knew them all.

  Chapter 21

  2014

  TOM STOOD ON THE STEEP SLOPE that led down into the quarry and groaned as a jolt of pain shot through his left leg. His knee buckled and he grabbed the spindly trunk of a nearby tree for support. The tree was long dead and his fingers sank into the damp, mouldering wood, but it held him up. For now. He spat on the ground. The taste of blood in his mouth wasn’t so strong now, but perhaps he was just getting used to it. Christ, what the hell am I going to do? He closed his eyes for a moment, but it didn’t help. He didn’t have any answers. He didn’t even know where to start. How could he even think about making a plan? He hardly knew what he was doing. But I’ve got to try, because, if I don’t…

  He couldn’t finish the thought. He opened his eyes and stared down at the straggly mass of bracken and brambles that covered the slope below, and listened to the man stumbling through the undergrowth, close behind him. The man was already breathing heavily, so perhaps there was some hope there. It had only taken them a few minutes to scramble down this far. If the man was out of breath already, then he must be seriously out of condition. On a good day, I could be out of here in thirty seconds, Tom thought. But this wasn’t a good day. Not by a long stretch. His legs were only just steady enough to keep him upright, his bruised ribs turned every breath into a torture, and his back burned with a dull ache that grew sharper with every staggering step he took. But as bad as those pains were, they were nothing compared to his head. My head—it’s killing me. And he knew that this was true—literally. Gently, he put his hand up to his forehead and winced as another bolt of agony stabbed across his skull. His stomach lurched and a wave of nausea surged though his body. He tried to take a deep breath, but his ribs had other ideas and he gasped in pain. He closed his eyes, and two words repeated themselves over and over in his mind: head injury. He was going to die.

  “What’s the problem?” the man complained. “You can’t stop here. Get moving.”

  Tom opened his eyes and slowly, he turned to face the man. “Listen, I need to get to the hospital. My head—I need to see a doctor. I need an ambulance. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to.”

  The man’s face hardened. He squared his shoulders. He’d been using the baseball bat like a walking stick, pressing it against the ground, but now he raised it to waist height. “Yeah?” he sneered. “Is that what my son said? And how about your other victims? Did they beg for mercy when you beat them?”

  Tom’s scalp suddenly prickled with cold sweat. The ground swayed beneath his feet. He gripped the tree trunk so tightly, it was a wonder the rotten wood didn’t split apart.

  “Thirteen,” the man said.

  “What? I don’t—”

  But the man didn’t let him finish. “You don’t know?” The man was incredulous. “How? How could you not know what I’m talking about?”

  Tom looked at the ground.

  “Thirteen,” the man said, “is the number of people you’ve attacked. Or at least that was how many you wanted to own up to.” The man took a step closer to Tom. “I was there—at your trial. And that’s what they said: thirteen similar offences to be taken into account.”

  “I didn’t do all those,” Tom mumbled. “It’s just what they tell you to say.”

  The man snorted.

  Tom looked up at him. “They tell you—own up to such and such and we’ll go easy on you.” He shook his head. “And I went along with it. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Oh please,” the man said. “Don’t even try to tell me you’re innocent.”

  “No. I’d never say that. I know what I did. I live with it every day.”

  “And do you think I don’t?” the man said. “Every day I face the consequences of what you’ve done. And let me tell you, it doesn’t get any easier. It gets harder and harder, and harder, every single day.”

  Tom sniffed. He closed his eyes, and memories of the dark days of his trial flooded his mind: the loneliness, the fear and confusion, his sorry attempt to brazen the whole thing out. Through it all, there’d been a man in the public gallery: always sitting at the front, his impassive stare fixed on Tom. The cold patience of the man’s watchful eye had unnerved Tom more than raw anger could ever have done. Of course, Tom had glanced at him, had even guessed the man was the boy’s father, but he hadn’t been able to meet his gaze. He’d never acknowledged the man’s presence, never shown him any hint of apology or remorse. Would it have helped? Would it have made any difference?

  Tom opened his eyes and studied the man’s face carefully. Yes. Back then, the man had been n
eatly dressed, well-groomed and clean-cut. Now, his hair was a straggly mess, the line of his jaw was hidden by his scruffy grey stubble, his eyes were red-rimmed and his face was puffy and pale. But the cold, calm look in his eyes was unmistakeable. Why hadn’t he recognised him straightaway? How could he have been so stupid?

  The man saw the recognition in Tom’s eyes. “Finally. It took you long enough.”

  “You were there. I should’ve known.”

  “Huh.” The man gave Tom a look of pure contempt. “I guess I didn’t make much of an impression. But then, you were concentrating on not giving anything away, on not incriminating yourself. So it wasn’t much of a trial, was it?”

  Tom shook his head sadly.

  “Is that it? Can’t you say anything? Even now?” The man looked away for a moment and took a deep breath. When he turned back, his face was flushed with barely contained rage. He pointed a finger at Tom’s face. “It was all your fault,” he snarled. “If you had come clean, if you’d told the police what you knew, then the whole damned trial wouldn’t have fallen apart. I’d have known what happened to my son. Can’t you understand that? Can’t you see what you’ve done?”

  Tom put a hand over his eyes and rubbed furiously, hardly feeling the pain that scorched across his forehead. “No,” he mumbled. “No, it wasn’t like that.”

  “Don’t you dare,” the man roared. “Don’t you dare tell me how it was. You…you killed my son. And I had to sit there and watch you get away with it.”

  Tom let go of the tree so he could cover his face with his hands, and this time, when his knee complained, he let it give way. He sank to the ground, landing heavily on his backside, and hung his head, burying his face in his hands. “I didn’t,” he whined. “I didn’t do it.”