Afterwalkers

by Tom Becker

  “Wasn’t expecting visitors,” he said. “Roxanne’s still not back to work, I’m afraid.”

  “Not here to see Roxanne,” Sarge replied. “It was you I wanted a word with. Buzz us through, will you?”

  Jamie spotted a flicker of unease in Don’s eyes.

  “No can do,” he said, apologetically spreading his hands. “Employees only when the boss isn’t around. Roxanne worries about people in her office, see.”

  “Roxanne isn’t here. Let us in.”

  “I can’t!”

  Sarge leaned against the counter, his mouth set in a dangerous smile. “Let’s put it this way, Don,” he said casually. “You’ve got precisely five seconds to open that door before I pick up one of those chairs and make my own, chair-shaped door in the glass. Are we clear?”

  Don stared at him, apparently trying to work out whether Sarge was bluffing. Then the burly man sprang up from his seat and bolted away down the corridor. Sarge watched him flee with a contemptuous shake of the head.

  “Quick smart, lad,” he told Jamie, and marched out through the front door. Jamie scurried after Sarge as he headed round the side of the building and into the car park behind. It was as far as Don had got – Liam was pressing him up against the side of one of his taxis, a handful of his shirt in each fist.

  “Nowhere to run, Don,” Sarge called out.

  “Get off me!” Don shouted. “What do you want?”

  Sarge strode over and pushed his face into the cab driver’s. “Where is he?” he demanded.

  “Where’s who?” croaked Don.

  “Mathers.”

  “Who?”

  Sarge scratched his stubbled cheek. “Don’t be stupid, Don. We saw you talking to him right here. And maybe talking to people isn’t a crime, but last night Mathers came round to the house when Liam and me were out and attacked my youngest. See the marks on the lad’s neck?”

  Don’s eyes flicked over towards Jamie. “You’ve got it wrong!” he protested. “I’ve known Mathers for years. He wouldn’t do that!”

  “He did,” Sarge said firmly. “Believe me: I’ve known him for longer than you have. So I what I need from you, Don, is an address.”

  The man stared miserably up at Liam, and then across at Sarge.

  “Lark Farm,” Don said finally, with a slump of the shoulders. “If you keep on past the cab firm and follow the road out of town, you’ll see it on your left. Mathers has been staying there since he came to town.”

  “And why did he come to town?” Liam demanded. “Why did he jump our Jamie?”

  “I don’t know!” said Don. “Honest! He said he had a score to settle and needed to in a place somewhere out of the way. Something about a dog … but I didn’t know it was anything to do with you, I swear!”

  “It wasn’t,” Sarge said ominously. “But it is now.”

  At a glance from his dad, Liam let go of Don’s shirt, letting the cab man slide down into a sorrowful heap in the snow.

  “Be seeing you, Don,” Sarge said crisply. “‘Specially if your little tip leads us up the garden path.”

  “You don’t know what you’re getting mixed up in,” Don said sorrowfully. “No one does – until it’s too late.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” said Sarge. “We’ll take our chances.”

  He marched out of the car park, shaking his head. “This bloody town,” he muttered. “Not an honest man to be found anywhere.”

  They followed Don’s directions, turning right at the car park exit and walking on until they left the boarded-up buildings behind and the countryside reclaimed the land. The street became a narrow lane, bordered by hedgerows; the snow deepened until it was almost knee-high. Jamie struggled to keep pace with Sarge and Liam as they ploughed onwards. Snow was seeping into his trainers and his socks were wet through. Home suddenly seemed a very long way away.

  Ahead the lane began to curve to the right, and a wooden gate interrupted the hedgerow. It guarded a rutted path that forked off to the left, hobbling past a couple of trees and up the hillside. Liam nudged Sarge, pointing at the set of tyre tracks leading up the path.

  “Reckon that could be a 4×4?” he asked.

  “Reckon so,” Sarge agreed. He looked back at Jamie. “Stay alert now, lads,” he said. “No wandering off.”

  As they clambered over the gate and started along the path a bird started singing among the trees, as though they had set off a strangely melodic burglar alarm. Their silence took on a wary edge now, Liam glancing over his shoulder as they tackled the hillside. Jamie was panting and out of breath by the time they reached the brow, where they found Lark Farm waiting for them.

  The farmhouse was a low, sullen-looking stone building with the curtains drawn firmly across the windows. Behind it two large sheds loomed over its shoulder like bodyguards, and then there was nothing but a snowy wasteland of fields leading all the way to the coast. The tyre tracks led up to a dirty patch of land in front of the farm, where they became lost in an indecipherable churn of mud and snow. There was no sign of life anywhere.

  “Nice place,” Liam remarked. “Very homely.”

  “Mathers would fit right in,” said Sarge.

  “I’m just glad the bloody dog’s dead.”

  Here, on the exposed hillside, the wind was free to roam, stalking across the ground like a wild animal, its call a high-pitched shriek in Jamie’s ears. They fanned out around the farmhouse, trying to peer in vain around the curtains in the windows. Both the front and the back doors were locked.

  “This place is deserted,” Liam said. “You think Don was lying to us?”

  Sarge shook his head. “Mathers was here, all right. I can smell him.” He turned and scanned the horizon beyond the barns, a seemingly endless line broken only by the solitary silhouette of a scarecrow in the field, its clothes rippling in the breeze. “Keep looking.”

  Jamie walked past the farmhouse and entered the cavernous barn on the left. A savage draught was blowing in through the door, the corrugated iron roof rattling in the wind. The floor was covered with brown, lumpy sacks of produce, loose potatoes spilling out across a worktop against the far wall. In the corner of the barn a thick tarpaulin had been draped over a large object. Carefully lifting up the tarpaulin, Jamie was rewarded with a dark green gleam.

  “Over here!” Jamie cried out. “I’ve found it!”

  Sarge and Liam came running in seconds; together they pulled away the tarpaulin to reveal Mathers’s 4×4. The vehicle was splattered with mud and snow; the door was unlocked and the keys were still in the ignition. The driver, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Well, wherever Mathers is,” said Liam, “he went on foot.”

  “This isn’t right,” Sarge said warily. “Something’s happened here.”

  He marched out of the barn and looked out over the fields, searching the sweeping expanse of countryside for answers. The wind had picked up, making the scarecrow sway as it continued its lonely vigil. Sarge’s eyes narrowed.

  “What’s that scarecrow doing there?”

  “I’m no expert, Sarge,” replied Liam, “but I think it’s something to do with scaring away birds.”

  “In the middle of winter? Look at the ground, lad! You think there’s any crops growing underneath a foot of snow?”

  “Maybe the farmer forgot to move it,” suggested Jamie.

  “Maybe,” Sarge said grimly. “Maybe not.”

  He strode off across the field.

  “Where’s he going?” Jamie asked Liam.

  “God knows,” his brother replied. “I think he’s starting to lose it.”

  The wind let out a banshee screech as Sarge covered the short distance to the scarecrow. He reached into his pocket and brought out a knife, a bright flash of silver in the murky afternoon light. Sarge cut away at something above the scarecrow’s right arm
and the limb slumped free. Another flash of silver, a flick of the blade above the left arm, and the scarecrow tumbled to the ground. Jamie realized with a sudden chill that it wasn’t a scarecrow after all, but a lifeless human body.

  Even death hadn’t been able to wipe the smirk from Mathers’s face. He grinned lifelessly up at them, mocking their horrified expressions. Liam paled and turned away; Sarge swore and kicked the snow. Jamie just stood and stared. He had seen Greg’s limp arm trailing out of his sports car but this was the first time he had been confronted with the face of death. Mathers’s throat was bruised so badly it was almost black. How strong must his attacker have been, Jamie thought, to squeeze the life from a giant? Suddenly he was back in the darkened kitchen in the Lodge, with a hand on his throat and a knee driving into his chest. Unexpectedly, he felt a surge of pity for the giant scrap dealer.

  Something soft and cold brushed the end of Jamie’s nose. He looked up into the sky. It was snowing again. Sarge reached down and hooked his arms underneath Mathers’s armpits, hoisting him into a sitting position.

  “Look sharp,” he said to Liam. “Grab his legs. We’re not leaving him here.”

  Liam stared at his dad. “Why not?”

  “Look at him!” Sarge pointed at Mathers’s crushed windpipe. “Don’t you think the police might have a question or two about what happened here? Who do you think they’re going to want to talk to first? I’ll wager it’ll take our good pal Don all of two seconds to drop us right in it.”

  “Drop us in what?” Liam protested. “We didn’t do anything!”

  “Really?” Sarge barked with laughter. “And what about that shiny pile of copper wiring that’s probably still sitting in Mathers’s scrapyard? Or had you forgotten you helped me nick it? No, we’re taking care of this now. Come on, Jamie, stop gawping and shake a leg.”

  The snow was swirling down around them, dappling Mathers’s frozen face with white flakes. Jamie’s hands were turning bright pink in the cold. He blew on them in a futile effort to warm them up.

  “He was strangled too,” he said softly.

  “What’s that, son?” rapped Sarge.

  Jamie looked across at his dad. “We all thought it was Mathers who attacked me in the Lodge because it kind of made sense but I never actually saw his face. And now he’s strangled, just like someone tried to strangle me. All I’m saying is, maybe it wasn’t Mathers who attacked me. Maybe it was someone else.”

  “Like who?” Liam demanded. “It wasn’t Mr Redgrave – you were talking to him on the phone.”

  Sarge turned and scanned the horizon, scratching his shaven head. “Save the guessing games for later,” he said. “Whoever killed Mathers might still be in the area, and we’re sitting ducks out here.”

  Liam relented, picking up Mathers’s legs whilst Sarge grabbed the scrap dealer’s arms. They carried the body across the field through the billowing snow with Jamie following close behind, trying not to look at Mathers’s grey rictus grin. It was a relief when they reached the shelter of the barn and could escape the wind and the snow. They wrapped up the body in a blanket before laying it to rest in the back of the 4×4, Sarge closing the boot down over it like a coffin lid. Then they hurried inside the vehicle. Jamie climbed into the back seat while his dad and brother sat up front. Unlike their battered van, the 4×4 was scrupulously clean, with scrubbed leather seats and an air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror.

  As Jamie buckled his seat belt Liam peered out through the open barn doors at the thickening white deluge enveloping Lark Farm. “You reckon this thing can make it through the snow?”

  “If we hurry,” said Sarge, turning the key in the ignition and rousing the engine into snarling life.

  “Where are we going?” asked Jamie.

  Sarge tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Home,” he said, reversing the 4×4 out of its bay and swinging it around to face the barn’s exit. The windscreen wipers scraped into life as the vehicle ventured out into the snow, leaving the grim protection of Lark Farm to face the elements on their own.

  “You sure that’s a good idea, Sarge?” asked Liam. “This respecting the dead stuff is all very noble, but if anyone finds out we’ve got Mathers’s body in cold storage it’s going to look like we’re the ones who did him in. We’ve already got his dead dog buried in the field behind the Lodge, remember?”

  “Unlikely to forget,” Sarge replied quietly. “It was me that buried it.”

  The 4×4 rattled down along the path towards the main road, bouncing Jamie around in the back seat. In other circumstances the journey might have felt like some kind of exciting fairground ride, but with every bump he could hear the corpse in the boot thudding against his seat. Jamie leaned forward, trying to keep close to his dad and brother. An aura of intense concentration enveloped Sarge as he steered the van up the main road towards Alderston, the vehicle’s windows milky blind eyes in the growing blizzard.

  The weather might have made for treacherous driving, but Jamie realized it was also a useful accomplice, throwing a cloak of invisibility around them. The roads were deserted but even the nosiest of neighbours would have struggled to identify Mathers’s 4×4 as it jolted past their house – let alone who was in the driving seat. For the first time Jamie felt a glimmer of gratitude for the harsh, unrelenting winter. Still, as the van bumped and skidded its way through the town, he wished that they had left Mathers where they’d found him. The atmosphere in the Lodge was foreboding enough without throwing a dead body into the mix. But Sarge had been insistent. It was strange – only an hour ago his dad had been hell-bent on destruction; now, upon finding his old friend and adversary already dead, Sarge looked pensive and shadowy.

  They were all relieved when the silhouette of Alderston Church loomed into view on the horizon, and the 4×4 skidded down the road past the cemetery. Sarge pulled up outside the front gate of the Lodge but left the engine running.

  “So we’re home,” said Liam. “What now?”

  “Take the van and go and dump it somewhere,” Sarge told him.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t care, as long as it’s far away from here. Take it back to the farm if you have to. The boy and I will take care of Mathers.”

  Sarge opened his door, allowing a gust of snow to come howling into the vehicle, and jumped down on to the pavement. Liam rubbed his hands together and shifted over into the front seat.

  “Now we’re talking,” he murmured, adjusting the rear-view mirror.

  Jamie got out, shielding his eyes from the blizzard, and trudged round to the boot of the 4×4. Sarge had already opened it, and was wrestling with Mathers’s blanketed body. Jamie hurried over to take the corpse’s feet, grunting with the effort as he helped share the burden.

  “You going to be able to carry that?” Sarge had to shout to make himself heard above the wind.

  Jamie nodded. He’d let his arms fall off before he dropped it. Sarge walked backwards through the front gate, checking over his shoulder every few steps. Even though he knew his dad was shouldering most of Mathers’s weight, Jamie struggled to keep up with him. He bent low, trying to avoid the full force of the bludgeoning wind, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the front door.

  “Not in the house!” Sarge shouted, with a shake of the head. “Round the back!”

  Jamie followed his dad around the side of the house, the snowy bushes leaving brilliant white smears on his coat like icy bloodstains as he brushed past them. The snow was falling so rapidly he could barely make anything out except for vague shapes. His arms were really tired now, and he had to stop to change his grip. Sarge didn’t say a word, waiting patiently until Jamie was ready. They made for the shed in the corner of the garden, where Sarge propped Mathers against the side of the small building and opened the door. The interior was a rusty jumble of tools and garden furniture.

  “We’ll leave him here for now
!” shouted Sarge. “Until the weather breaks!”

  As his dad began to manoeuvre the corpse inside, Jamie felt a prickle on the back of his neck. He turned and looked up towards the bathroom window.

  And saw a face looking back at him.

  Jamie blinked, and the face vanished. The shed door slammed behind him and Sarge’s hand was on his shoulder, firmly steering him towards the Lodge. Jamie looked up again towards the bathroom window, but it remained a blank shadow.

  The longer he spent in Alderston, the more grateful Jamie became for his dad’s presence. Reassured by the sound of Sarge making tea in the kitchen, Jamie went upstairs to check the bathroom and the rest of the house. There was no sign of any intruder – whoever or whatever he’d seen had vanished. As he looked out at the church through his bedroom window, Jamie could see the blizzard begin to ease. It had stopped snowing altogether by the time Liam returned, grinning from ear to ear having navigated the 4×4 through the snow.

  “I put it back where we found it,” he told Sarge proudly. “Figured we didn’t want anyone trying to follow its tracks here.”

  Sarge barely seemed to be listening. He ate dinner in silence, and sent his sons up to bed early so he could lie out on the living room settee. Jamie didn’t bother changing into his pyjamas, getting into bed fully dressed and burrowing beneath the duvet until he was completely covered. It had been another long, strange day in Alderston, and as cold as the bedroom was, Jamie could feel his exhausted limbs melting into sleep. But just as he felt himself drifting off, a noise made his eyes ping wide open.

  Someone was in his room.

  Peeping out from beneath his duvet, Jamie saw a figure hunched down on its hands and knees by the skirting board. A pool of water gave off a slick glint on the floorboards beneath it. A squeak of fear escaped Jamie’s mouth, and the figure’s head slowly turned until Jamie was face to face with Kitty Hawkins.