Fourteen Days (21 page)

It had taken him almost three hours to get to St. Clears, which meant he would be gone for at least six to seven hours in total.
Nicky’s going to kill me
, he warned himself. He thought about calling her, letting her know that he was all right—but how could he? He would have to lie again, make up some story about why he was so delayed. And he was sick of lying to her, sick of acting like an asshole. He had to just finish this and get home.

And hope to God he wouldn’t find his clothes scattered across the street.

The GPS had taken him to the wrong part of the town, forcing him to pull out the map from the glove compartment and check his route the old-fashioned way.

Getting lost down some overgrown dirt-track, he managed to flag down an elderly couple out walking their two Alsatian dogs to ask them for directions. “Hello,” Richard said. “I’m a bit lost.”

Smiling, the couple walked over to the car. “Where you off to then?” the man asked, peering down at the window, with one hand on the roof.

“I’m looking for a farmhouse.”

The man chuckled. “Well that’s like looking for a needle in a haystack ’round here.”

“It belongs to an S. Young. Do you know it?”

Frowning as he tried to recall the name, he murmured, “Young. Sounds familiar.” He turned to the woman. “Myra, do we know any Youngs?”

Taking a moment to think, she then replied, “Yes. There used to be a Stephen Young over on Cromwell.” She pointed to the left of the car. “He owns the Newside land. But I think he’s dead now. Not a hundred percent on that though.”

“Thanks for that, I really appreciate it,” Richard kindly said. “Could you point me in the right direction please?”

“No problem.” She leaned down to the window. The man moved aside. “Follow this lane until you come to a junction. Then take a left. And then left again. That should take you to the gate.”

“So it’s down here,” he pointed straight ahead, “and then two lefts?”

“That’s right.”

Richard smiled. “Thanks very much. Have a good day.”

“You too,” the man replied. “Mind how you go.”

The car then pulled off noisily down the muddy lane.

After reaching the junction and turning left, he joined a narrow country road which went on for nearly two miles before another left turn came available, prompting him to question the woman’s directions. Hopeful that he was heading the right way, he carried on up an even narrower road, with side bushes brushing past his car. The road continued for perhaps half a mile before finally leading him to a farm gate to his right. Poking his head out the window, he tried to see if there was a farmhouse beyond the gate. There wasn’t, just an empty field of tall, unmanaged grass. He slowly drove on a little further, hoping to see signs of life. After another two or three hundred meters he saw a large wooden house gate covered in flaky red paint. He could see a steep driveway, perhaps a hundred and fifty meters long, leading to a cottage. Still unconvinced that this was the right place, he climbed out of the car, leaving the engine running, and walked over to the gate. Reaching it, he saw a metal letterbox fixed to the wall on the left side of the gate. Richard’s stomach turned with apprehension—written on the letterbox, in faded-black italic letters, was the name: Young.

He had successfully located the farmhouse.

He returned to his car and sat, terrified at the prospect of delving any deeper. Holding onto the steering wheel tightly, he thought of Nicky, wondering why he had been gone so long.
I have to go home
, he thought.
She’ll be worried about me
. He nodded, as if convinced that fleeing was the smart thing to do.

But what about the baby
? he thought again.
I’ve come this far. It’d be stupid to go home now. She’ll understand. I
’ll tell her we’ve gone for a beer. It’s no big deal. I’ll phone her, tell her I’ll be another few hours. I’ll be as quick as I can. I’ll sneak up to the house
,
peep through the window—and if there are
any signs of Peter, or the baby, then I’ll make a run for it. I’ll tell the police when I get home. Make them worry about it. Why should I have to deal with all this? I’ve got enough on my plate.

I’ve got my own bloody life to worry about
.

He reached over to the passenger seat and picked up his phone. Just as the phone illuminated, he noticed the words ‘No Coverage’ written across the screen. “Fuck!” He moved the phone around the car, hoping to find a signal—there wasn’t. He got out of the car and walked around the vicinity, hoping to have better luck—there was still no signal. He shook his head, frustrated, and said, “Bloody countryside.”

Climbing back into his car, he reversed a little into a small opening at the side of the lane, trying to hide the car, but still have it near enough for a quick getaway.

He switched the engine off, slipped the phone into his pocket, took a deep breath, and left the car, gingerly making his way up to the gate. Stepping up onto the lower beam of the gate, he tried to get a better look at the house, hoping to see a car parked outside—there was. Noticing the large padlock at the end of the gate, he carefully climbed over and made his way along the bushes. Desperate to remain unnoticed, he kept his body hunched. The sun was still blazing and he could feel sweat dripping down his face, burning his eyes. Up ahead was a large barn. He ran up the grassy hill toward it, eyes still fixed on the house, body still hunched. Entering, he glanced inside through the large wooden doors, praying that it was deserted—it was. Nothing was inside, no animals, no hay, no equipment. Completely derelict. Through a small gap in the barn’s wooden frame he could clearly see the house. The cottage was white, with small windows, a thatched roof, a large chimney, and a small shed attached to the side.

What his next move was going to be was still unclear. His initial thought was to sneak up to the window, like a frontline solider, and observe. But with the clear sky and the large open space between the barn and the house, he knew he would stand out a mile.
Maybe I could just knock on the door and pretend to be someone else
, he thought. But then he remembered that he had already met Peter Young when he bought the house. But that was months ago, and they only met the one time. Would he really recall Richard’s face? And so what if he did? Would it really make a difference? After all, he would never suspect Richard of knowing anything. And he certainly would never think, nor believe, that the ghost of Christina Long had made contact with him, and shown him everything just by touching him. It seemed absurd, ludicrous, beyond belief—even to Richard.

Unable to think of a solid plan of attack, he sat on the dusty floor, hot and bothered, and dripping with sweat.
What the hell am
I doing here
? he thought.
How did I ever get myself into such a ridiculous situation? I’d gladly swap this for the office any day of the week. Hell, I’d even swap it for clothes shopping with Nicky.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he rested his head back against the wood behind him and closed his eyes.

Over an hour had gone by with Richard still sitting on the barn floor, contemplating his next move. He had convinced himself that he was there, waiting for the sun to go down, just to gain a better chance of sneaking up to the house. But deep down, he knew that terror was the real reason he was still curled up in the corner, among all the dust and cobwebs. The sun was still hours away from descending. He was sure that Nicky had probably started to worry by now, maybe even called his friend Neil to check up on him. He pulled out his phone to check the signal again. Just as before there was none. He sighed loudly and slipped it back into his pocket.

Glancing up at the house again through the gap, he knew that it was time to act. He got up from the floor, dusted himself off, and made his way out of the barn. Staying tight to the outside walls, he scurried along toward the house. At the end of the barn he inspected the house; he still couldn’t see any signs of life other than a car parked outside.

It was time to make his move.

He took two long, deep breaths to ready himself and set off. Virtually crawling, he scampered up the grass bank, aiming for the side of the house. His eyes were fixed on the windows and front door for movement. Reaching the house, he stuck tightly to the wall, his breathing erratic, his heart pounding.
What the hell are you doing, Gardener?
he thought, shaking his head in bewilderment.
Why are you creeping up to a farmhouse in the middle of Wales? Have you lost your mind?

Putting the voices in his head to one side, he edged closer to one of the windows. He carefully moved to see inside. Through the white-net curtains he could see that the room was a small sitting room. He scanned the room thoroughly and saw that it was deserted. Nervously moving past it, still glued to the wall, he crept toward another window, positioned next to a door. Peeping in, he saw the kitchen; still he couldn’t see any signs of life. Continuing along toward the back of the house he came across another window and saw a bedroom, with a small TV clearly on at the far corner, a double bed, unmade, and a large, old-fashioned wardrobe with both doors hanging open.

With beads of sweat now dripping profusely down his face, he moved on to the window at the back of the house. Glimpsing quickly at his surroundings, he neared the slightly ajar window, virtually holding his breath, his muscles tense. Just inches away, he unintentionally kicked a small metal bucket, creating a deafening clunking sound. His heart rate increased fiercely as he reached down and grasped the bucket. Just as he did, the sound of a baby crying startled him further. Still crouched down, he listened hard.
Is that him
? he asked himself.
Is that Christina Long’s baby
? Straightening, he could feel a large shadow loom over him. Terrified, he quickly turned his head to see what was causing it. His jaw dropped in fright and he gasped. Standing behind him was Peter Young, holding a metal poker. As Richard opened his mouth in an attempt to explain himself, Peter swung the poker, slamming it into the side of Richard’s head.

T
he sound of the TV brought Richard out of his unconscious state. Cries of canned laughter from a comedy show echoed around the room. His eyes slipped in and out of focus as he tried to recall what had happened, and what he was doing sitting up against a large stone archway, with his ankles bound together with rope and his wrists tied behind his back. His head pounded angrily like a bad hangover, and he had to close his eyes against the searing pain. He could feel and taste a cloth gag, which had been wrapped around his head and stuffed into his mouth. Visions of Christina enduring the same such treatment filled his mind.

As if a bright light had been turned on, he knew exactly what had happened and where he was—and more importantly, who had imprisoned him.

Peter Young was sitting on a sofa chair at the center of the living room, staring at the television screen opposite. The room was small and the lime-green furniture and flower-patterned wallpaper looked dated. With the curtains closed, the only source of light was from the television and two small lamps fixed to the wall. At the far end of the room was a large open doorway leading into a kitchen. Behind Richard, past the stone archway, was a yellow-tiled hallway that led to the front door and the rest of the cottage. And fast asleep on Peter’s lap was a small child. The baby boy looked no older than one, wearing a blue one-piece outfit.

Panic struck Richard when he saw this, and his breathing became erratic through his nostrils. Struggling to move, he wriggled noisily on the floor, trying desperately to get to his feet. But it was no use—his efforts were ineffective.

“Don’t bother,” he heard Peter calmly say.

Richard could feel his mind race and his body almost spasm with terror. He tried to move but was frozen, staring intently at Peter’s chunky, towering frame.

“Stay exactly where you are,” Peter said, standing with the baby in his arms. He lowered the sleeping child into a cot at the side of the sofa, kissing him as he tucked him into a blanket. “So, tell me,” he said, starting to walk toward Richard. “Who are you?”

Richard’s words were muffled by the gag.

Peter groaned. “Look, if I pull that thing out of your mouth, you promise not to scream or try anything funny? I don’t want you waking up the baby.”

Richard nodded obediently.

Kneeling down beside him, Peter untied the gag. Richard let out a loud breath of relief.

“So, I’ll ask you again,” Peter said, still kneeling down. “Who the hell are you?”

Richard had to think fast. “I was just looking for help.”

“Help for what?”

“My car’s broken down, and I couldn’t get a signal on my phone.” Instantly he regretted mentioning that he had a phone because he could still feel its weight in his pocket. “So I took a walk to look for a public phone.”

“Where’s your car?”

“It’s just outside your gate—by the bushes.”

Peter didn’t reply, he just glared deep into Richard’s eyes, clearly trying to see if he was lying.

“It’s just outside,” Richard repeated, desperation and panic in his voice. “You can check if you want.”

Peter paused for a moment. “You know what: I might have believed you if I hadn’t caught you sneaking around the house—because most people ring the bloody doorbell when they want someone’s help.” His calm tone had changed dramatically, causing Richard to tighten up and sidle back a little.

“Please, I was just a bit lost,” he explained, his voice quivering. “And I was admiring your land.”

All that was going through Richard’s mind as he watched Peter was getting home to his wife, and how he had made a stupid mistake coming here in the first place. Why couldn’t he have listened to the voice of reason in his head? Why couldn’t he have just gone to the police like an ordinary person?

“I tell you what I’m gonna do for you,” Peter calmly said, as he got up heavily from the floor. Richard anxiously followed his every movement. “I’m going to give you a chance,” he said, walking over to the sofa, “to tell me the truth about why you’re here.” Reaching down, he grasped something out of Richard’s view. “And if you don’t—” Richard gasped loudly in horror when he saw Peter turn and point a shotgun directly at him. “—I’m gonna blow your fucking head off.”

Almost hyperventilating, Richard’s muscles tensed, nearly bursting. “Please. I’m telling you the truth,” he pleaded, his eyes filling with tears. “I swear to God. I wouldn’t lie. Please—put the gun away. I’ve got a family.
Please!
”

“Then why were you spying on me? And don’t give me any more of your bullshit this time! I’m not stupid!”

“I wasn’t spying. I swear it. I just needed some help.”

Richard couldn’t stop his body from shuddering as he thought again about Nicky, sitting at home, waiting for him to return, with no clue where he was. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the last place on earth she would ever think to look for him was in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. He was truly all alone, with no help coming, and home seemed like a million miles away.

Peter clicked the gun’s safety catch. “You’ve got three seconds…”

“Please—
it’s the truth!
”

“One…”

Richard fought hard with his tied hands and ankles, trying desperately to loosen them. “Please.
For God’s sake
. Just put—”

“Two…” He rested the butt of the shotgun against his collarbone and closed one eye as if to take aim.

Almost sick with panic, Richard decided that it was time for another lie, another story. He really had nothing left to lose. One last stab at convincing Peter why he was there. The truth just wouldn’t cut it—and time was fast running out. “All right, I’ll tell you the truth!”

Peter pointed the gun to the floor. “I’m listening.”

“I came here…” He hesitated, unable to believe what he was about to say. “…to steal your car.” Shaking his head, he looked down at the floor, as if ashamed.
What a stupid lie
, he thought.
He’s never going to buy it. What’s wrong with you? You’re going to get yourself killed. You idiot!

The room fell silent.

“You came to steal my car?” Peter asked, suspicion in his tone.

“Yes. And I’m sorry. Please don’t call the police. It was a stupid mistake.”

Clearly still wondering whether or not to believe his story, Peter sat back down on the sofa chair, glancing at the sleeping baby. He reached into the cot and caressed the boy’s head. “The last thing I want to do is shoot you,” he said, eyes still fixed on the child. “I wouldn’t want to hurt this little one’s ears.”

Richard, still fighting to loosen his restraints, kept his eyes on the shotgun, which was still firmly in Peter’s grasp. “Thank you.”

He turned to Richard. “Don’t thank me yet—I said I didn’t
want
to shoot you—doesn’t mean I won’t.” Taking his hand out of the cot, he sank back in the chair, making a clicking sound with his mouth, as if mulling over what to do next. “Whether you’re telling the truth, or whether you’re here for some other reason doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you trespassed—on
my
land, and spied through
my
windows.” He scrutinized Richard up and down. “You don’t look like a car thief. Car thieves are usually scummy teenagers, wearing baseball caps and gold chains. But you look at least thirty. And you’re reasonably well-spoken and dressed.” He shook his head. “So I’m stumped. Something about you just doesn’t add up.”

“Please Peter,” Richard said, sounding worn-out, “can we just forget about—”

Peter stood, his eyes wide with fury. “How do you know my name?”

Richard’s heart sank deep, unable to think of a fast response. How could he have made such a foolish error? After all the quick thinking, all his lies, trying to hide his true intentions, how could he trip up on such an obvious thing? Of course a car thief wouldn’t know the victim’s name. And even if he did, Peter was in no way going to advertise his presence after what he had done to Christina.

Aiming the shotgun again, Peter walked forward, stopping about a meter from Richard’s helpless body. “Well—
talk!
” Suddenly the sound of a baby crying made him look over his shoulder at the cot. “Now look what you’ve done!” He turned his attention back to Richard. “You woke him up!”

“Please, just let me go,” he pleaded loudly over the cries.

“You’re not going anywhere.” He winced as the baby’s shrieking increased. “I wanna know how the hell you know my name. And no more bullshit, or I swear to God I’ll blow your brains out all over that wall! And no one’s gonna hear it.”

Finding it difficult to breathe, Richard could feel tears trickle down his cheeks, onto his lips. He wanted to answer his question—but how could he? No one would ever believe it. But then, how could he not say with a shotgun pointed directly at him? He decided to go for broke. “I know what you’ve done.” He couldn’t quite believe what he was about to say, but was unable to stop himself. “I know what you did to Christina Long. And so do the police.” He glanced at the window. “The house is surrounded by them.”

Peter’s face changed from a look of anger to shock. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said, without conviction. “Who’s Christina Long?”

Unconvinced by Peter’s failure to come clean, Richard continued. “You know exactly who Christina Long is. There’s no point denying it. The police know everything about what you did to her. They’ve been watching you for weeks.”

With an unsure look on his face, Peter continued aiming the gun at him and walked backwards over to the window, pulling the curtain slightly to the side. The sun shone through the open curtain as he scanned his farm. “There’s no one out there. You’re full of shit.”

“Do you really think they’d let you see them? They’re hiding. They’re not stupid.”

“I don’t know who you think I am, but I’ve never even heard of this woman.”

“You can deny it all you want, but they’re out there. Waiting for you.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said, moving away from the window. “You’re just some attention-seeking nutter.”

Richard shook his head, keeping his eyes locked on the gun. “I’m not. And I’m telling you the truth. That’s why I’m here—to talk you out.”

Peter’s hand had started to shake, causing the shotgun to quiver. Beads of sweat had gathered on his brow. He wiped them away quickly with his sleeve. “You’re talking shit,” he stuttered. “Nobody even knows I’m up here.”

“They know everything, Peter.”

“Bullshit.”

“They’ve been to your house on Old Hall Street. They know you kept Christina locked in the house.”

“Bullshit!” Peter screamed, his voice quivery.

“They know you tied her to the bed.”

“You’re lying!” He was now almost in tears, with the tip of the gun pointing down at the floor.

“They know you brought her body here.”

“How the hell…”

“And they know you took her baby.”

Stunned, Peter turned to the child, who had stopped crying. “This is
my
baby. And no one’s gonna take him away from me.”

Richard, as discreetly as possible, tried to pull his ankles and wrists apart to create enough space to pull his hands and feet out. “He’s not your baby. He doesn’t belong to you.”

“Yes he does. He’s mine!”

Richard’s feet were almost through the rope’s loop. “No he’s not. And they’re gonna come for you. But I promised them that you’d go quietly. They know what you’ve been through, they understand. That’s why they agreed to send me in first.”

“Bullshit!”

“It’s not bullshit. It’s the truth. They know absolutely everything. They know that you loaded Christina’s body into the boot of her car. They know you wrapped her up in a white sheet. They know she was wearing a white dress the day you took her. And they even know about your sister’s involvement.”

“It’s got nothing to do with my sister! You leave her out of this!”

Cautiously, Richard slipped a shoe off his foot, allowing more space to part his ankles. He wriggled his feet subtly until finally he managed to free a foot from his bounds. Peter hadn’t noticed. “They will—as long as you promise to give me the baby. Otherwise she’s an accessory to murder.”

Peter shook his head in denial, clearly unable to comprehend what was being said. He sat heavily on the sofa chair, as if his body carried the weight of his problems. His head dropped and the grasp of his gun loosened. “He’s mine,” he mumbled quietly. “He’s my baby.”

Richard’s wrist was merely an inch from freedom. He pulled and pulled, all the while trying not to show any strain on his face. He could feel the flesh under the rope blister as it rubbed back and forth. “You have to do what’s right. It’s not too late.” He gave one last tug until he finally managed to slip his hand free; his wrist was bright red and sore. This was his chance to make a break for it. Leaping to his feet, with his heart beating fiercely against his chest, he made a dash for the front door directly behind him. Grabbing the handle, he frantically turned it. Locked. Panicked, he unbolted the large sliding-lock at the top of the door. Pulling at the handle again without luck, he reached down to unbolt another lock, but stopped suddenly when he felt something hard touch the back of his head.