The Taken

The Taken

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PRAISE FOR SARAH PINBOROUGH!

BREEDING GROUND

“There’s plenty of suspense, some gruesome and creepy imagery…Breeding Ground’s conclusion begs for a sequel, and will be enjoyed by all end-of-the-world horror fans.”

—The Horror Fiction Review

“With Breeding Ground, I think Sarah Pinborough has finally cemented herself among the big boys of horror, gender issues be damned. As it was with all her other books, I can’t wait to see what she’s got in store for us next!”

—Dread Central

“Breeding Ground is a wonderfully entertaining and shriek-inspiring novel beautifully wrought by an author with an unflinching eye and a steady hand.”

—Creature Feature

THE RECKONING

“… [A] gripping tale of supernatural suspense…fans of Bentley Little, Richard Laymon and Dean Koontz will be pleased.”

—Publishers Weekly

“[A] great story complete with solid characters and an interesting premise.”

—The Horror Channel

THE HIDDEN

“Quite unique… Ms. Pinborough does an amazing job.

… A great read.”

—The Horror Channel

“Original and gripping.”

—Horror Web

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THE DYING MAN

The body that lay twisted on the hard stone paving slabs seemed unrecognizable as the vicar. Wearing ordinary gray trousers and a V-neck pullover, out of his church uniform he was no longer a representative of a higher power, but just a person, vulnerable and so pathetically human. Hearing Simon letting out a long shaky breath beside her, Alex absorbed the details, her eyes and brain working together against her need not to know, not to see.

“Still alive … he’s still alive.” Simon stared as the vicar’s eyelids fluttered open. Alex fell to the ground, kneeling in the man’s blood, her heart pounding in her chest with hope. Reverend Baker coughed; a weak, wet sound that sent a shiver up Alex’s spine, and spots of blood appeared on his teeth as he opened his mouth, his breath raw and sweetly rotten.

“Shhh. Don’t try and speak. Don’t try and speak.” Her own eyes were blurring with tears, but she could see that the vicar’s were so full of pain he couldn’t even focus. When he whispered, he sent his words somewhere between her and Simon, as if a ghost had joined them that only he could see.

“Melanie Parr. …”

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The Taken

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Other Leisure books by Sarah Pinborough:

BREEDING GROUND

THE RECKONING

THE HIDDEN

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THE TAKEN

SARAH PINBOROUGH

LEISURE BOOKS

NEW YORK CITY

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This one is going out for the girls:

For Liz who’s living it large in the States, and for Sam who’s hotting up the beaches in Dubai. Live your dreams, ladies, and thanks for being such fab friends.

Also for Jan and Peggy, for quietly supporting my writing. It doesn’t go unnoticed!

A LEISURE BOOKŽ

April 2007

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

200 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10016

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

Copyright Š2007 by Sarah Pinborough

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

ISBN-10: 0-8439-5896-0 ISBN-13: 978-0-8439-5896-6

The name “Leisure Books” and the stylized “L” with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America.

Visit us on the web at www.dorchesterpub.com.

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We may be dead and we may be gone

But we will be, we will be, we will be, right by your side Until the day you die.

This is no easy ride.

—The Smiths

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The Taken

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Sarah Pinborough

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The Taken

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The air hung invisibly heavy, dragging downward from the sky, its weight almost humming with the tension of an approaching breaking point. There was a storm brewing, the kind that hadn’t come to this sleepy part of Somerset for years, or so it seemed to Mary as she wheeled the last barrowful of mowed grass to the compost heap, or “compost mountain,” as she liked to call it, glad that at sixty she was still able to do these things for herself without a twinge or an ache.

She smiled. Well, maybe just one or two nagging aches that set in a little later, but never too painful to dull her warm glow of satisfaction; in a weird way, maybe they even heightened it slightly.

Despite the discomfort caused by sweat that clung to her like a second skin unwilling to be shed, Mary’s spirits were high. After getting Paul’s party decorations up, Alexandra would be making them both a cool gin and tonic, waiting for her aunt to come in and be amazed at what could be done with a few streamers

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and balloons if you had that special creative touch, and maybe her smile would light up a little like it used to in the days before Ian left. Twenty-seven was too young to be carrying that much pain around with you like lead on your back, and Mary feared the strain was beginning to show. Her niece had lost weight over the last few months, and it seemed at times that Alex had become a reserved shadow of her former self, all that beauty and brightness bound up inside, afraid to be released. Maybe Paul coming would do her some good; maybe she’d open up to him.

Pushing the low-hanging leafy branches aside, Mary wheeled the barrow forward into the hidden space that Paul had called “Pooh Corner” when he’d been little—a long time ago now, her bouncing boy was forty today—preparing her shoulders and thighs for the sudden push up the side of the heap of fresh grass to dump her load over the back.

Out of the corner of her eye, in that space where on clear winter mornings the light came pushing through the far side of the trees like one of those crazy laser shows, she could make out the worn shapes of the headstones in the graveyard on the other side of her land. Sometimes the peaceful sight of them would make her stop and think about the nature of time, and how it sped past so quickly, the questions bubbling in her brain. Where had those years gone between when Paul was ten and now, and would he bury her there amongst family and strangers when her race came to its inevitable end?

Yes, sometimes it would make her stop and think. But not this time. This time her eyes froze like the rest of her, confused for a moment, vision fixed on the pile of

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grass. No, not the grass at all, but what was on top of it, what hadn’t been there ten minutes before when she’d emptied the lawnmower last, and what shouldn’t, couldn’t possibly be there. Her shaking arms released the metal barrow, which banged heavily into her knee as it dropped, and deep in her mind she knew there’d be a nasty black bruise blooming there the next day, but right then, right in that silent moment of stopped time, she couldn’t feel a thing as the past raced forward to meet the silent, twisted present.

The small red sandal sat on the bed of sweet-smelling cuttings, polished and shining, untarnished by mud or blades of murdered grass, as if deposited from above, a gift from the angels. Staring at the shoe that had been out of fashion for thirty years, Mary felt her breath catch in her throat. So time was moving, not stopped at all, but pouring out slowly like glue, savoring itself, allowing Mary the possibility of seeing everything, every color in the trees, the leaves and the thousands of different shades in the leather. Who could have put it there? Who would have? No one. Not after all this time. Needing to touch it, needing to feel its reality, its dead flesh next to her skin, she reached slowly forward, her hand shakily stretching out into the tunnel of her vision.

The giggle slashed the silence and Mary spun round, a whimper escaping her.

Branches rustled, first to her left, and then moving back behind her, back to the other side of the compost heap, where the long, tired limbs of the trees almost touched the ground of the graveyard, no hedge required to define the boundary. Slowly turning, her feet shuffling over the dead wood, Mary’s eyes widened. It can’t be. It just can’t be.

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At the bottom of the crippled tree in front of her, in the gap between branches and the hallowed ground, she could see the lower half of a small girl, dressed in a perfectly pleated green kilt, the upper torso hidden from view.

The scalpel of memory sliced into her brain, sharp and painful. The giggle came again as Mary’s eyes dragged themselves down, past the pink skin of young almost-chubby knees, to the high white socks, and then downward, knowing what she was going to see, one foot shoeless, the other strapped up in a perfectly polished red sandal. Standing and staring at this surreal snapshot, something stirred inside Mary, a coiled snake waiting to strike, and if her frozen face could have moved, she would have frowned. The terrible familiarity of the clothes and the shoes itched inside Mary and she could almost taste the child’s name in her mouth before she whispered it.

“Melanie Parr.”

The giggle came again from somewhere out of sight, and Mary moved to take a step backward, to get help, help for or from what she didn’t know. The voice that came through the branches lilted childishly.

“I lost my shoe, Mary. Have you got it? Have you got my shoe? I’m cold without it. You’ve made me cold, Mary.” The reproach in the voice was clear, the sentiment jarring with the young giggle.

Shrieking, Mary stumbled over a branch behind her and fell forcefully to the dry ground, the shudder that spread through her bones making her bite down on her tongue, her mouth filling with the taste of metal as she bled.

“I’ve come back, can’t you see?” The quiet voice 5

barely carried in the heavy air, but Mary flinched as she listened. “I’ve come back home. The Catcher Man brought me home.”

As the giggles got louder and harsher, too harsh for a ten-year-old, a forty-year-old ten-year-old, Mary knew that if she didn’t get away right then she never would, she’d go crazy, really never-come-back-down crazy, and squeezing her eyes shut, she dragged herself backward until she was out of the wall of branches and in the fresh air of her garden, pulling herself to her numbed, heavy feet and running like she hadn’t in years, letting the scream trapped inside her out, giving it free rein in the humid air, knowing that no matter how hard she yelled, it would never be able to take all of the madness with it.

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The party decorations hung bright around the farmhouse lounge, their cheerfulness all out of place, and Alex wished she’d thought to rip them down before Mary’s son Paul had got there. Not that she’d really had a moment to. By the time she’d checked the gardens for herself and called the doctor for Mary, it was clear that her aunt needed her by her side. Dr. Jones had left an hour before, leaving her only minutes to ring around and hastily cancel guests before her cousin’s car pulled up the graveled drive, Paul and his friend Simon climbing out of the MG clutching bottles of champagne and wearing beaming grins that didn’t fade until they were close enough to read Alex’s taut expression.

Still, she thought, as her eyes rested on the unspun glitter ball hanging from the central oak beam, she should have pulled them down. This wasn’t the kind of birthday welcome Paul had been expecting, but, hey, when does life ever deliver what you expect?

Cursing herself for the bitterness in the thought, she 8

picked up the decanter, poured out three large brandies, and sighed. Hopefully Aunt Mary would be sleeping by now. She’d looked like she might be when Alex had poked her head inside the door a few minutes before, and the doctor had given her a shot of something that must have been pretty strong because her Aunt had calmed down pretty much the instant the needle came out of her arm. He’d left some sleeping pills just in case, but didn’t think Mary would need them. Not that night anyway.

Alex hadn’t liked the way he’d suggested that maybe she should try them herself.

As if sleeping pills could help her. Well, maybe they could, but she hadn’t liked the expression on his face when he’d suggested it. Too much kindness. Too much pity. She’d pretty much booted him out the door after that. Frozen him out would have been more like it. She smiled a little. There was still some spirit left inside her after all.

Turning her mind back to the present, she handed the two men a glass each and took a sip from her own, enjoying the burn. Paul’s face was full of worry, the lines etched into his skin making him seem older than his forty today badge declared he was. She met his gaze as she spoke.

“There was nothing there. I went and looked for myself straight away. I searched the whole garden and the orchard—I even checked the barns. Nothing.” She shrugged. “I guess a child could have run away quickly, but I’m sure I’d have seen her if she’d been there.”