Desperation Point

by Malcolm Richards

  Blood rushed in Cal’s ears as Jacob stood, his glittering, black eyes reflecting the lamp light. He watched as the man moved around the desk and reached out a hand.

  Cal flinched, but instead of feeling fingers clamping around his windpipe, he felt them gently wrap around the back of his neck. And Jacob did not squeeze or snap, but stroked Cal’s skin with fatherly tenderness.

  “I’m relying on you, Cal. We all are,” he said. “When the time comes you will be the one to lead the Dawn Children into glory. To show the world it cannot continue its slow sink into depravity.”

  Cal looked away, frightened and embarrassed. Ashamed that he had shown fear. Slowly, Jacob moved his hand to Cal’s chin and gripped it between finger and thumb.

  “Tell me I’m right about you,” he said. “Tell me I was right to take you back.”

  Cal nodded stiffly as images of his mother flooded his mind. Jacob leaned closer, staring into his soul. Slowly, he released his grip. A frown returned to his brow as he took his seat at the desk.

  “Sometimes I wonder if your silence is an act of defiance,” he said, leaning back on the chair. He was quiet, contemplating. Slowly, he shook his head. “Perhaps it’s my fault. I’ve let you run wild for too long and without purpose. I thought you weren’t ready for the next stage, but perhaps you’ve been ready for a long time.”

  Cal nodded, half listening. His eyes wandered to the window, where darkness waited on the other side, calling to him. Jacob’s voice pulled him back to the room.

  “I will not keep you locked in a cage like an animal, but if you leave the farm again of your own accord there will be consequences. Tonight, you’ll sleep in with Morwenna and the others. Tomorrow, I have something planned for you. A test of your loyalty. One that will prove your allegiance to the Dawn Children. One that will turn you from a boy into a man.”

  Cal stared at Jacob, the pressure in his chest making his body tremble. If he couldn’t see his mother, she would forget him. She would let Dylan and Melissa come home. And that would be the end of it. The door closed on him for good.

  I should leave here, he thought. I should just go home and walk right in.

  And then what, boy? You think you’ll escape me? You think I’ll just disappear? I’m part of you just like you’re part of me. And I’ll use your hands to tear her open.

  No. Don’t say that. I’ll never do it.

  Oh, but you will, boy. You will. I promise you—it’s just a matter of time. . .

  “Was there something else, Cal?”

  Jacob peered at him, searching out treacherous thoughts.

  Cal shook his head, pushed his mother from his mind, and filled the emptiness with darkness.

  23

  IT WAS LATE. CARRIE sat in the living room, with the curtains closed and the lights down low, slowly getting drunk on whiskey. Sally had already gone to bed. Ever since visiting Dylan and Melissa, her mother had been pressuring her into allowing them to come home. She knew Sally meant well, that she wanted to see Carrie happy and reunited, but all the constant prodding and poking had made Carrie lose her temper.

  She’d shouted at Sally over dinner, making sure to remind her of all the terrible things she'd done, like abandoning Carrie for the last five years, like leaving her alone to deal with the grief of losing Cal.

  Sally had paled and grown deathly silent. It had been enough for Carrie to know she’d made her point.

  Now, she felt angry and confused, and the whiskey was doing nothing to drown her guilt. Why couldn’t her mother just leave her alone? But wasn’t the reason she’d exploded because her mother had done exactly that?

  Amid this emotional tug-of-war, Carrie still hadn’t told anyone about her encounter with Aaron Black—she’d even lied to Dylan about it. More importantly, she still hadn’t told anyone about what had happened up at Desperation Point.

  Silence. It could be so dangerous.

  Carrie glanced at the half empty whiskey bottle on the table. Perhaps everyone was right. Perhaps it was time to put Cal to rest, to take back her husband and child, and get on with the rest of her life. She wasn't sure how it would be possible, not with a piece of her missing.

  But that's how people overcame loss, wasn't it? They got up from the floor, brushed themselves down, and got on with living. Maybe not for themselves, but for the people who loved them and needed them.

  Like Melissa and Dylan. Perhaps even like Sally.

  Getting up, Carrie replaced the whiskey bottle in the drinks cabinet, then made her way upstairs. She paused on the landing, staring at the soft light filtering from beneath Melissa's bedroom door. She thought about apologising to her mother, but she was drunk now and apologies would only lead to more tears and more grief. More guilt.

  She hovered, her gaze moving along the corridor until it came to the last door. She moved toward it, pulled by a magnetic force.

  Cal's name plaque was still there. She should take it down, she thought. But that would be like erasing him or pretending he never existed.

  She opened the door. His room was still the same, the walls bare, the furniture minimal, a handful of his favourite childhood toys lined up on the windowsill.

  There hadn't been time to make the room his—he'd only returned from the dead for just a few weeks before disappearing once again. Perhaps that would make it easier to paint over the walls, to turn the room back into an office.

  Carrie moved up to the sill and stared at the small battalion of plastic figures. Her eyes fell upon a green dinosaur. A Tyrannosaurus Rex. His absolute favourite.

  Do you remember, Cal? You used to carry him around everywhere. He used to sleep under your pillow at night.

  Picking up the toy, she held it between forefinger and thumb. Her heart splintered, sending ripples of pain deep down to her core. This was all she had left of him. This was all she had to hold onto.

  Carrie looked out the window, into the darkness of the yard.

  “Come home,” she whispered. “I can't bear this anymore, so please, come home.”

  She stood, silent and still, searching the shadows for a sign of him, until she heard her mother stirring on the other side of the wall.

  An idea came to her.

  Taking the dinosaur, Carrie tiptoed downstairs and into the kitchen, then opened the back door. The cold rushed in, but she barely noticed.

  Carefully, she set the dinosaur down on the doorstep.

  If it was still there tomorrow, she would drive to the hardware store in Truro to buy brushes and paint. If it was gone, she would do everything in her power to find her son.

  She already knew what the outcome would be, but at least now the decision would be left in the hands of fate.

  24

  AARON SWORE UNDER HIS breath as the narrow country lane he was driving along snaked sharply to the right. He hit the brakes a little too forcefully and the car skidded as it rounded the bend, the screech of rubber on asphalt startling a murder of crows. The birds flew up from the hedgerow, a black ribbon coiling into the sky.

  Heart beating in his chest, Aaron slowed the car to a safer speed and continued through the countryside. If he was going to die, and he supposed he had to eventually, he would do it at a respectable age and surrounded by riches, certainly not alone in the middle of nowhere.

  He was tired, which wasn’t helping his concentration, and he was now regretting not stopping at the petrol station he’d passed a mile back and grabbing another coffee. Yesterday’s revelations had kept him awake most of the night, wondering if today was the day he’d find Cal Anderson. It was a crazy notion, he knew. One that was stupid, not to mention dangerous. But now, as he glanced at the map sitting next to him on the passenger seat, excitement overrode anxiety.

  The circle he’d made on the map contained a handful of farms. He would begin there. If the farms came to nothing, he’d scour the woodland. It was a terrible plan, he thought now, as he turned off the road and onto a tree-lined dirt track.

  But it was the only pl
an he had.

  Apple Acres didn’t look much like a farm. Rows of barren trees stood in fields on either side of the track, their gnarled branches snatching at the ash-coloured sky. The yard was clean and the farmhouse was in good shape, with gingham curtains hanging in sparkling windows.

  Aaron had pictured all farmer’s wives to be ruddy-faced and full of smiles, like the ones found in children’s stories, but the woman who answered the door regarded him through wary eyes.

  “Yes? What do you want?”

  Employing his most charming smile, he quickly introduced himself—Aaron Black, author—and explained what he was doing—researching a book about the Porth an Jowl murders.

  “This ain’t Porth an Jowl. And it ain’t got nothing to do with us,” the woman said, folding her arms across her chest.

  “You haven’t seen anything suspicious lately? No one sneaking around at night, bothering your animals?”

  “Don’t have any animals. We grow fruit. And the only thing suspicious I’ve seen around here is you.”

  Aaron’s smile widened as the woman’s eyes narrowed. He thanked her, decided against asking for a tour of the farm’s outbuildings, and returned to his car.

  “Thanks for nothing,” he grumbled.

  The woman remained on the doorstep, clearly not going anywhere until he did. Irritated, Aaron took a pen from his bag and drew a cross through Apple Acres on the map. He pulled his camera from his bag, snapped a picture of the house and the woman’s now angry face, then reversed the car out of the yard.

  Not a great start, he thought.

  Why was everyone in this damn place so suspicious anyway?

  He headed back to the road, disappointment threatening the already weak foundations of his so-called plan.

  Holden Farm was his next stop.

  Climbing out of the car, he made his way across the filthy yard and knocked on the front door of a granite farmhouse. When no answer came, he glanced over his shoulder, then circled the house, looking for signs of life.

  The smell of livestock burned his nostrils as he came upon another yard and a collection of outbuildings. Scrawny looking chickens roamed freely, clucking and scratching at the ground.

  Aaron called out a hello and was answered by a loud grunt. Following the sound, he entered one of the small buildings to find a family of rotund pigs staring up at him from the confines of their pen. Wrinkling his nose, Aaron returned to the yard and made his way past the buildings. A field lay beyond, and a tractor was moving across it, back toward the house. He could just make out the farmer at the wheel, his burly frame filling the cabin.

  Deciding it was best to be gone before the farmer returned, Aaron returned to the car. He would not find Cal here—all the animals were still very much alive.

  His hope dwindling, he pressed on.

  By the time mid-afternoon came around, he’d cleared another two farms, both welcoming him with suspicion and borderline hostility. Now, he was hungry and cold, his mood darkening with the day. Staring at the map, he was suddenly tempted to toss it out the window. He needed a better plan. One that didn’t involve traipsing around the countryside in the freezing cold and pissing off the locals.

  I should drive back to London. Give Taylor back the money. Then drive off the nearest cliff.

  It was a grim thought. One he quickly shook from his mind. A hot bath and a warm dinner was an appealing alternative. But there was one more farm not far from here, and there was just enough daylight to take a look.

  He slowed down, looking for the turn off. It crept up on him a few seconds later and he almost missed it, spinning the wheel sharply to the left.

  The dirt road before him was winding and narrow, filled with pot holes. Hedgerows, wild and overgrown, flanked both sides. Thirty metres along, he came to a large field gate blocking his path.

  A battered and faded sign was tied to the gate with twine, which he could just about read: BURNT HOUSE FARM. PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT.

  With the engine still running, Aaron stepped out of the car. The gate was unlocked. He moved up to it, peering over the bars. He could see silhouettes of buildings in the distance. Darkness was descending quickly now, sweeping across the land in a malevolent wave.

  His gaze returned to the sign. Recalling Ross Quick’s shotgun, he wondered if it was a wise idea to ignore the warning to keep out. But the only way to find Cal was to leave no stone left unturned.

  “Screw it.”

  Sliding back the bolt, Aaron pushed the gate open, then ran back to the car. He drove on.

  Soon, the dirt road came to an end, opening on to a cracked and filthy yard. The farmhouse faced him. Most of the windows were boarded up or shuttered. Broken slates lay on the ground, fallen from a roof that was in much need of repair.

  In fact, Aaron thought, as he killed the engine, the house was in such disrepair that it could easily be abandoned; making it the perfect hiding place for someone who didn’t want to be found.

  Anxiety fluttering in his stomach, he grabbed his camera and climbed out of the car. The cold was bitter now, biting at his exposed skin as he looked around. He turned, so that the house was now on his left. In the failing daylight, he saw a few outbuildings bordering the yard, including a large barn at the end.

  He turned back to the house, lifted the camera, and took pictures, the flash lighting up the yard. He turned another ninety degrees to his left and stared at an empty field.

  Aaron froze. Blood rushed in his ears.

  Someone was watching him.

  His first thought was that it was Cal. Then, as his eyes focused on the shadowy figure, he realised his mistake.

  It was a scarecrow, staked to a roughly fashioned cross that had begun to rot, making the scarecrow lean drunkenly to the left. Relief flowing through his veins, Aaron pointed the camera at the eerie straw figure.

  “Say cheese.”

  Quickly, the humour left him. What would he do if Cal really was hiding here somewhere?

  His plan hadn’t reached that far.

  He could try and talk to him. Or grab a wrench from the car and knock him out cold.

  Yeah, sure. Says the man who just almost pissed himself at the sight of a scarecrow.

  Aaron’s gaze returned to the house and the yard. There was only one way to find out if this place was truly abandoned. He would investigate the outbuildings first, then the house. If he found signs that Cal was staying here, he would take photographic evidence, then return during daylight. Perhaps he’d even convince Carrie to come along. But only if she agreed to be interviewed for the book.

  His pulse quickening, Aaron stole across the yard and headed for the barn.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  The voice startled him.

  Spinning on his heels, he turned to see a small figure standing in a rectangle of soft light in the farmhouse doorway.

  It was a child.

  Slowly, Aaron stepped forward.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, still surprised that people lived here.

  Now he was closer, he could see the girl’s pale skin and long, red hair. She was thin and slight, a little underweight perhaps. She held the door behind her, blocking his view of the inside.

  “Is your mother home? Or your father?” Aaron kept his voice soft. “I’d like to talk to them.”

  The girl stared at him with strange, dark eyes.

  Before she could reply, the door opened and a woman appeared. Aaron could just make out her features in the waning light. She was older than Aaron, perhaps in her fifties, with pallid skin and red hair like the girl, but cut short.

  “This is private property,” she said, pulling the girl into the house and the door behind her. “You need to leave.”

  Aaron apologised and held out a hand to introduce himself. The woman shrank away.

  “I don’t mean to trespass,” he said, keeping his distance. The woman had pulled the door to, so only a strip of light illuminated her. “I’m looking for someone. A boy named Cal.
He’s about sixteen years old, but small for his age. He’s missing and his mother’s anxious to see him.”

  Draped in shadows, the woman’s face was unreadable. “Ain’t seen him. No one comes out here and that’s the way we like it.”

  “You’ve had no trespassers? No food going missing?” Aaron paused. “No animals getting hurt?”

  “Nothing like that. Now, please go. Before I call my husband.”

  Aaron nodded. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

  He turned and walked the short distance back to the car, bothered by the fear he’d heard in the woman’s voice. He supposed if you lived an isolated life in the middle of nowhere, a stranger appearing on your property would arouse immediate suspicion, especially in the dark.

  But it was more than that. There had been something in the way she’d mentioned her husband, as if they’d both have reason to be sorry if he came to the door.

  Country people, he thought, sliding the key into the ignition. They were a strange bunch.

  He glanced at the woman still standing in the doorway, her skin white as paper in the glare of the headlights. She waved a hand, shooing him away.

  Turning the vehicle around, Aaron drove away from Burnt House Farm, an uneasy feeling churning his gut. He was no closer to finding Cal Anderson than he had been this morning. Heading back toward Truro, he became increasingly convinced that tomorrow would be no different.

  25

  CYNTHIA CLOSED THE door and slid the lock into place with trembling fingers. Sensing movement, she turned, ready to give Lottie a scolding. The child had been told time and time again: never to open the door to anyone! It was the boy’s fault. His defiance was causing ripples. Ripples that would soon turn into waves.