Last Rites (7 page)

The man hit the ground hard, grunting with pain as he slammed into the wet floor beneath him. He rolled over in the moisture, reaching for the torch, desperate to see its light again, fearful of this almost tangible darkness. He shook the implement violently and it flickered back into life. But the beam it gave off now was sickly yellow, not the powerful glow it had possessed when he’d first entered the underground tunnels. He shook it once more. Flicked it on and then off but still it produced only the same feeble yellow glow that was barely more adequate than a candle would have been. But it was still light and he clung to that. Better the paltry glow of a match than nothing at all in this place.

He picked up the spade and moved on, ignoring the pain in his ankle. He must, he reasoned, have twisted it when he fell. Every time he put weight on it pain shot up his left leg. But there was no time to feel self-pity and certainly no time to rest and inspect the injury.

The sounds from behind him made him all too aware that his pursuer was now very close.

He wondered how much longer he had.

14

North London

Mason woke with a start, sitting bolt upright on the sofa where he’d fallen asleep. He looked anxiously around, as if to reassure himself of where he really was, desperate not to be in the place he’d found himself in his nightmare.

Fists and feet slamming into you.

His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding. He sucked in a couple of deep breaths, his mind finally getting a fix on his surroundings.

‘Shit,’ he murmured, pressing both hands to his face.

It’s all right.There’s no one trying to kill you.You’re in your flat.

Again he looked around, squeezing his eyes tightly shut for a moment. The same images that had assaulted his subconscious flooded briefly across his mind and he opened his eyes again. Breathing heavily, he got to his feet and wandered through into the kitchen where he spun the tap and filled a glass with water. He drank it quickly, gulping down the clear liquid as if it was life saving.

How long have I been asleep?

He looked at his watch and was surprised to find that it had been almost three hours since he’d dropped off. His head felt as if someone had stuffed it full of cotton wool. He shook it gently as if to clear the fuzziness, then he drank some more water. Walking back into the living room he crossed to the window and looked out, down into the street below.

It was busier than when he’d first arrived.There were some schoolchildren passing on the opposite pavement, young kids. No more than nine or ten, he guessed. A taxi was sitting helplessly behind a large lorry that was having problems negotiating a path through the parked cars on one side of the street. The taxi driver was shouting something at the driver of the lorry, occasionally sounding his hooter as if that simple act would magically remove the articulated obstacle from his path. The passenger in the taxi was leaning forward, presumably asking how much longer they were going to be stuck in the jam. Traffic moving in the other direction had also slowed to a crawl. Mason watched two youths, both about sixteen, standing outside the hairdresser’s directly opposite.

One was smoking and Mason looked on as the first offered the second a cigarette while they both glanced through the windows into the salon, their attention taken by a blonde in her twenties who was having extensions attached.

Mason sipped at his water, feeling his heart thump a little faster.

Those bastards are about the same age as the little fuckers who almost killed you.

He drew breath slowly and deeply.

It doesn’t mean they’re the same. Not all kids that age are like the ones who attacked you.

He watched as the two youths finally made their way along the street and out of sight.

Go on, fuck off.

Mason continued to gaze out into the street for a moment longer, not really seeing the activity before him, only aware of the sounds drifting up to his flat. He finally turned away and returned to the sofa, flopping down disconsolately on it. He gazed at the laptop then read and re-read the letters he’d written that afternoon before falling asleep. Mason would, he told himself, print them off after he’d eaten. The thought of eating made him think that he hadn’t much food in the flat. Perhaps he should take a quick walk to the shops and get enough to last him a couple of days. He hesitated, the noises from the street still filtering through the stillness in the flat.

You can’t sit in here for the rest of your life, can you?

He got to his feet and walked through into the kitchen again, once more checking in his cupboards and his fridge for a likely meal.

A few minutes down the street to the supermarket.You know what you need. You won’t be gone more than an hour. Get some bloody food. And some milk while you’re at it.

Mason stood gazing into the empty fridge and found, to his surprise and dismay, that his hands were shaking. The thought of leaving the flat for any length of time had done this, he told himself.

‘Come on,’ he said aloud, trying to reassure himself.

He pushed the fridge door shut and reached for the jacket he’d draped over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He pulled it on and took a couple of steps towards the hallway.

As he reached for his keys he realised that his hand was quivering so violently now that he could barely keep it under control. He blinked hard, his head suddenly feeling as if it had been inflated. He tried to swallow but his throat was dry.

‘Panic attack,’ he told himself but that understanding did nothing to alleviate symptoms that were growing rapidly out of control.

Mason swayed uncertainly, convinced he was going to faint.

‘Fuck,’ he rasped, retreating to the living room, hands flailing before him as if he’d suddenly been struck blind. ‘Fuck.’

His breathing was rapid now and he dropped onto the sofa like a stone, a thin sheen of sweat covering his face and the back of his neck. He closed his eyes, the dreadful feeling of light-headedness gradually subsiding. The doctor had warned him about this, he’d even recommended him having a prescription for tranquillisers but Mason had refused. He’d be fine, he’d said.

Right, really great. On top of the fucking world.

He held his hands out before him, seeing if the trembling had stopped.

Mason was still considering this when the phone rang.

15

Walston, Buckinghamshire

Becky Harwood was two days past her twenty-third birthday and hungover like never before.

As she slid into her jeans and sweatshirt she blinked hard, hoping that the action would relieve the pain inside her head. Perhaps it was a tumour, she thought. Her grandfather had died of one. Maybe it had skipped a generation and she was now the recipient of the Harwood curse. Becky smiled to herself and stood up, padding out of her room towards the bathroom. Once inside, she splashed her face with cold water and inspected her reflection in the mirror, groaning when she saw the sallow image that stared back at her. Nothing that a shower and some make-up couldn’t salvage, she mused. She would, she decided, take a shower when she returned from the stables, just like she did every morning. That was part of the problem. She did exactly the same thing every single morning and had been repeating the action since she was nine. Her father said that as long as she lived at home she had to contribute and Becky’s contribution to the running of the household was to exercise the five horses that her father owned.

When she’d been younger she’d loved it. She and her brother, Josh, had fed, groomed and ridden the horses every single morning. It had been hard work when she’d moved to secondary school, getting up to see to the horses on a school day and then trekking into Walston to learn for the rest of the day. Becky had voiced her objections to her daily routine with a vociferousness that grew more intense the deeper into her teens she got. However, she had persisted with her task. Even when Josh had left home to attend university in Durham she’d continued. Her pleas to her father to hire someone to help her or, better still, take over from her completely, had fallen on deaf ears. But Becky realised that the riding stable was the family’s main source of income so she had helped despite her protestations. When she left school her father had promised her a full-time job at the stables. It had seemed a reasonable offer. What she hadn’t bargained for was how badly paid she’d be.

Lack of money and lack of excitement was a potent mixture to a girl in her early twenties and, for some time now, Becky had been planning her escape. Even if she only worked in an office, she thought. It had to be more exciting than caring for horses for the rest of her life. And yet something deep inside her that felt uncomfortably like betrayal told her she should stay with her parents and help them with the family business. Nonetheless she still wondered how long family loyalty could be put in the way of personal desire.

She pinned up her blonde hair then cleaned her teeth, listening to the sounds of movement from downstairs. Plates being laid out on the large wooden table, cutlery being placed beside it.The radio was on too. Becky could hear it. Radio Four. It was always Radio fucking Four. Or one of the classical stations. She was beginning to think that her parents listened to that station just to torment her.

Perhaps if she had her own place. She smiled to herself, wondering how the hell she would ever afford to move out. She certainly couldn’t rent anywhere on the pittance that her father paid her. She had friends in Walston she could share with, she reasoned. Becky glanced at herself in the mirror once again and her face lit up at the mere thought of flat-sharing. The freedom it would give her. She could get up every morning and not have to listen to Radio fucking Four for a start off.

She hurried down the stairs and into the hall, slipping her feet into her wellington boots and pulling on her coat before stepping outside. There was a cool breeze blowing across the yard and Becky shivered slightly as she closed the front door behind her. It was only a short walk to the nearest of the stables and Becky scurried towards the white-painted door, the fresh air clearing her head a little. Perhaps, she told herself, she’d feel better after breakfast.

She unlocked the stable door, frowning a little as she realised how quiet it was. Normally the horses could hear her and they neighed or whickered excitedly, knowing that there was food and attention coming their way. Becky pulled the door open, wondering why it was so quiet inside the building.

Even as she stepped inside and slapped on the lights there was no sound.The fluorescents in the ceiling sputtered into life and Becky stepped into the stable. She looked towards the first stall expecting to see an elegant bay nose its way into view. There was no sign of the animal nor of its four companions in the stable. Then Becky realised that she was standing in something sticky. Something with a tacky, glue-like consistency that smelled strongly of copper.

She looked down and saw that it was congealed blood. It covered the floor of the stable. Coated it like a reddish-brown carpet. Becky swallowed hard and moved towards the first of the stalls, wondering if she should wait and fetch her father first. Something was badly wrong here. She looked over the wooden partition and she screamed hysterically, turning on her heel without even checking the other stalls.

Becky ran back towards the house, tears streaming down her face, her stomach churning.

She had to tell her father that the bay was dead. That its eyes had been pierced with something long and pointed before its head had been almost severed. No wonder there was so much blood.

Had she looked in the other stalls she would have seen that the remaining horses were in exactly the same state.

Holly Preston

In all of her seventeen years and ten months on the earth, Holly Preston had never felt tension like this. She had never experienced such stomach-knotting fear as that which now gripped her. Barely able to swallow because her throat seemed constricted, she stood in the bathroom of her parents’ house with the pregnancy-testing kit standing on the glass shelf above the sink, the instructions spread out on the top of the toilet lid beside her.

She was late. Her period, something Holly could normally predict with robotic precision, was overdue. Her heart pounded a little faster even at the thought. She inspected her reflection in the mirror of the bathroom cabinet as if the pale-skinned, long-haired image there would be able to reassure her. For a moment she sat on the edge of the bath, running a hand over her slender legs as if that act would distract her from the gravity of the one she was about to perform. Her legs, she told herself, needed shaving. She’d take care of that little chore after she did the test. Not that the state of her legs would really matter if the test turned out to be positive.

If she was honest with herself, Holly hadn’t really thought about the full impact upon her life if she was actually pregnant. She didn’t want a child, not at her age. She knew that her parents wouldn’t approve and she was sure that her boyfriend wouldn’t be very happy. She’d thought briefly about the possibility of an abortion but she hadn’t got a clue how to go about getting one or where to go. Least of all, she hadn’t a clue who would accompany her if such an eventuality came to pass.

She had friends who would come with her but she prayed that she didn’t have to ask them.

It had been an accident. She had been unlucky. What were the chances of the condom splitting? Holly was sure there were statistics regarding this subject but, if she was honest, she didn’t really care. She didn’t give a toss how many condoms in every hundred split while in use. Perhaps she should just have gone on the pill as her boyfriend had insisted in the first place. It would have been easier, he’d told her.And safer, he’d insisted. It would also, she thought, have saved her the agony she was going through now.