Scared (13 page)

A mantra flowed through his head:
Think of something else, think of something else...

As though the pain was a being that had the ability to hear, it raised a notch, a monster that liked to torment and send a man insane. With each new level, he told himself he couldn't take any more. Not another second of this bastard shit. And every time he managed to tolerate it.

He'd heard somewhere, maybe on TV, or something he'd read in a magazine he'd picked up some place, like the doctor's waiting room or whatever, that the human body and mind were able to transcend pain. At the time he'd read the article, he didn't think he'd stored it in his brain, just moved on to the next editorial, one about a man who loved his dog despite the damn thing biting his toe off. But that piece had remained in the old grey matter and returned at the peak of his distress.

He could only describe it as going into a trance, his soul rising out of his body to hover above him, his shell left there hanging. The part of him that processed pain, his
self
, was free of distress. It had seemed odd to begin with, watching himself and Toby, their bodies lit as if those damn lights weren't off. Like he was a ghost.

Or am I actually dead?

The second he'd thought that, his self zipped back into his body. The rush of pain had stripped him of the ability to breathe, and he felt like someone was choking him.

He wanted to hear Toby's voice, one that brought instant calm. He needed to hear him in order to fully understand he wasn't alone. Oh, he knew Toby was there, all right, but in this darkness it was easy to forget. It stretched on for what seemed like miles, yet closed in on him at the same time. Pressing into his body. Making him aware that whatever he did, however much he wished not to be there, he was.

Toby didn't speak.

Russell inhaled a breath at last. “I'm...” His voice, just a whisper, broke through the seam of his dry lips. “I'm okay, mate."

And he'd risen out of his body again, wondering if he'd passed out and this was what it felt like when you neared death. Did the self separate from the body, waiting in some kind of indeterminate state for the body to give up? Did the self linger, just in case the body wanted it back?

Whatever was going on, he didn't give a shit. There was no pain.

He saw his head bob, his chin drop to his chest, and his self was dragged back into that body, although he felt no tenderness this time. Sleep, blessed sleep had shooed it away for now.

He knew he dreamed, even though it seemed like he was awake inside a body and mind that had just shut off for a while. He found himself at the graveside where he'd worked last year, staring down at a hole, Toby underneath all that mud. The recollection of how he'd felt back then skidded through him, and he turned full circle to appraise his surroundings, frightened that Frost would return and catch him there.

If George, his old work mate, had stayed like he should have and saw Toby down there, would he have remained quiet and not told the police? Russell didn't think so. The old man always kept to the rules, and no amount of begging would have stopped the bloke from picking up the phone and reporting Frost.

But George hadn't been there. No, he'd fucked off early, as usual, leaving Russell to lock up the cemetery. And what if Russell
hadn't
gone back to that grave? He wondered what the state of his mind would have been like by now, if he'd kept silent, leaving what he'd only known of at the time as a body under the heavy darkness of earth.

I'd be a mess.

He narrowed his eyes, seeking out any kind of movement in the foggy shadows of the place he'd once worked every day. Nothing appeared abnormal. Because he dreamed, he stood waiting for something weird to happen, for Toby to burst out of the earth as a vampire or monster, but the unnatural silence held everything suspended apart from him.

A fox frequented the graveyard at night. They'd never seen it, but the russet killer left evidence behind—dead animals, its own faeces—and in the daytime it made creepy sounds in the nearby bushes that flanked the edge of the land. Russell waited for such a sound now, but it was like noise itself had been confiscated for this dream, and Russell was to star in a silent movie.

Toby appeared beside him, unmarked and clean, and for a minute Russell tried to process how that had happened. When this had occurred for real, his lover had blood on his hands and face and smears of mud on his clothes. Toby smiled, showing gravestone teeth, the front two etched with R.I.P and their names underneath.

Russell opened his mouth to tell Toby what he'd seen, that they were going to die, but Toby became transparent, fading, blending in with the mist. Quickly, Russell jumped into the open grave, going down on his hands and knees, fingers shaped like claws as he dug at the earth.

He dug for a long time, deeper than the original grave. His fingers met with packed earth, fingernails getting broken, and he sat back, uncomprehending that Toby wasn't there.

But he was here. I saw Frost put him in.

Yet he just stood beside me. What the hell does this mean?

How he got out of the grave he didn't know. One minute he was in it, the next he stood beside it again, his hands clean, standing out bright white by the light of the moon.

I'm dreaming. Must remember I'm dreaming.

Confused, he wandered toward the old shed he and George used to store their tools and make tea on their breaks. Inside didn't look the same. The chair George favoured had gone, replaced with a stone coffin, the lid askew. A clean blackboard on an easel stood in place of the fridge, and behind it, still covered by that old coat he'd placed there last year, was the small window. Where he'd tucked the coat between the shed wall and a rotting piece of wood that acted as a window frame, spiders had made themselves at home in layers of dust, their webs thick like swathes of cotton candy.

A shuffle sounded beside him, and he automatically glanced at the open door. The mist had thickened, forming an opaque wall that prevented Russell from seeing into the graveyard. He slammed the door on it, the mist's sudden density spooking him, as though it held some meaning he had yet to grasp. He locked the door and moved toward the blackboard, taking a deep breath and lifting the lower corner of the coat so he could peer outside. A spider scuttled along the fabric and down his arm, and Russell jumped back, flicking his wrist to make the critter fall off. It gripped with long legs, refusing to budge, and as Russell stared at it, the arachnid grew. He brushed it off, stamping on the bastard once it hit the floor, and decided it might have been an omen for him not to look out the window.

Swallowing, he moved forward again, omen or not.

The blackboard had writing on it.

TOBY'S GONE.

Gone? What the fuck does that mean? Gone where?

Russell blinked. New words had formed.

YOU'RE ALONE.

Alone? Where, in this dream, or in the basement? Have they taken Toby down? Did he die and they've come to get him? What?

NO. HE'S JUST...GONE.

Russell struggled to wake up, frantic that Toby had died hanging beside him, while he'd been here in this fucking place, dicking about with spiders and goddamn blackboards.

The veil of sleep lifted, transporting him back to reality. He jerked, the manacles ripping into his flesh, but it didn't matter. Even the dribble of hot blood flowing down his arms failed to make any significant impact.

"Toby!” he croaked.

Toby drifted, out of his body, to somewhere he didn't recognise. He'd never visited much of the countryside in his life, and this field, full of buttercups, the grass clipped short like a football pitch, was an alien place. It stretched for miles, surrounded by white clouds that stopped abruptly at the horizon, no blue sky in sight. But it was daytime, he got the sense of that, the light too natural to be any form of manmade illumination.

He turned in a circle, wondering which direction to take, something telling him he must walk in order to get to a destination that called strongly with a voice as soft as he imagined an angel's would be. It didn't feel odd that he was here. Somehow, this was where he was meant to be, and nothing else existed in his mind except getting to wherever he had to go.

It didn't much matter which way he went—it all looked the same—so he limped forward, the flowers brushing the tops of his bare feet. Realising they were bare and that he'd limped, he stared down at himself. The shock of seeing welts and bruises over his naked body brought with it a prodding memory that urged him to embrace it. He stood still, head cocked, waiting for images to form in his mind, ones he could latch on to and reel in until they formed a bigger picture.

Naked. Welts. Bruises.

He lifted his arms in front of him, studying the circles of open skin around his wrists. It was like someone had slit the flesh with a jagged knife, the blade an inch thick. Blood had crusted, although in places it still glistened, fresh seepage oozing over pink flesh—meat. Creamy fat globules, like mini bunches of grapes, nestled within the flesh, and the brief thought of what he'd look like without any skin brought a shudder to his spine.

Why am I like this? Why am I here?

Frowning, he hobbled on, his destination pulling him one way, his mind the other. He felt as if a large chunk of information was missing, information he needed to know in order to decide whether he allowed his destination to lure him there. Where
was
his destination? And how did he know he needed to get there?

Toby stopped again at the sound of tinkling.

What the fuck was that?

Spinning in a circle—shit, his ankle hurt!—he hoped to see something other than the field and clouds, some chink in the green- yellow-and-white expanse that could tell him where that tinkle had come from.

Nothing greeted him but the same view.

What the hell?

"This way, Toby..."

Who said that?

The female voice held familiarity, as though he should recognise who had spoken. He turned again, his eyes hurting from the brightness of the clouds now. They glowed, as if a great lamp had been switched on behind them, and he squinted to protect his eyes from the glare.

"Come on! This way!"

The voice had come from behind him, and he spun quickly, coming face to face with a woman. She smiled, her brunette head tilted, her blue eyes twinkling from the light. She appeared a little older than him and had the strong features from his family lineage.

"Who are you?” he asked, taking in her gauzy, flowing gown. “Where am I?"

"This way,” she said, taking his hand and guiding him forward.

Toby dug his heels into the grass. “No. Not until you tell me where I am and why I'm here. Why I'm fucking naked and battered up."

She had walked on when he stopped, and now their arms, linked by clasped hands, stretched between them. He had the sense that if he let go, he'd find the answers to his questions, but he didn't
want
to let go. Her touch felt so right, like he belonged here, that if she took him to his destination, everything would be okay.

And why wouldn't it be okay if I knew why I'm in this state? What the fuck happened to me? Was I in an accident? Am I in a coma?

Close...I'm close with that thought. Think! Fucking think!

The tinkle sounded again, louder this time, like a chain was being jerked frantically. A man called his name, the voice cracked and needy, as though whoever had spoken was panicked and afraid. Toby looked around, hoping to see the man emerge from...from what? Nowhere? Like the woman had?

This is so weird. Here I am, with no clue why. I don't even know who I am or what I did before...this. I know my name is Toby, but—

The grass rustled.

Rustled...

"Russell?” Toby yanked his hand out of the woman's grasp and ran the other way, instinct telling him where to go.

The clouds darkened on the horizon, grey rising at first, then black forming underneath, a thick, angry stripe. Toby ran on, knowing that blackness was where he needed to be. A fierce wind blew from out of nowhere, jostling him as if it wanted to start a fight. He shoved against it, hair pushing back from his face, the skin on his cheeks rippling with the force. Hail pelted down, great slanting rods of it, dashing into his face and obscuring his vision. Each rod was pointy-tipped, scratching at his face like unseen fingernails.

Pointy-tipped shoes... What the...? What do they mean? Why did I think of them?

The hail continued to smack him, a chastisement he felt he didn't deserve. He glanced back at the white clouds and the woman still standing with her arm outstretched. The scenery there was untouched by the storm, the light still bright, the woman unaffected by the spiteful wind. A momentary feeling of goodness slipped through him. But it wasn't strong enough for him to return to her. The darkness called louder, his whole being taut and buzzing with the knowledge that if he just reached that pitch horizon,
then
everything would be okay.

He turned away from her, facing the storm once more.

"Come back, Toby,” she called, and he imagined her smiling, beckoning with her hand.

That hand...did it have the ability to rein him in? The wind tried to push him backward, an accomplice to the hand he was sure worked to tug him to the place the woman stood.

No! I don't want to go with her. I need to be somewhere else. I need to go forward. My life is forward, damn it!

"Hey!” she shouted. “Come back here! I came all this way to collect you. I'm not supposed to go back without you. Please, Toby. Come with me!"

"No,” he screamed, the wind snatching the word and carrying it back to her. “I can't. I've got to...I must..."

He switched his mind off from her, battling onward with just the blackness in mind. He felt better in himself for doing that, the confusion of whether to stay or go disappearing once he'd set his focus on reaching the black stripe.

After running for what seemed miles in a short space of time, Toby reached the horizon. It engulfed him, swallowed him, a hungry monster's mouth that brought the first inklings of pain to his extremities. He ran on, regardless of his ankle throbbing and his wrists filling with indescribable agony. Sightless, Toby trusted his inner voice, those tinkles spurring him forward. The voice came again—
Toby!
—and then came more pain. Body-racking shards of agony spearing his body, his ankle throbbing harder, his wrists feeling as though they were about to snap.