D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

‘You’ve been conspicuously vague on the real reasons I’m being hunted, I notice.’

‘That will all become clear later,’ she said. ‘Come on, Davies, we haven’t got much time. I’ve got to get you somewhere safe.’

‘Like hell,’ he replied defiantly. ‘The way I see it, nowhere is safe. I’m still not convinced. How do I know you’re not doing what Muller did? Are you using me?’

‘It’s no skin off my nose if you end up in pieces,’ she said, taking out a piece of gum and ramming it into her mouth.

‘You’ve risked an awful lot to say you don’t care what happens to me.’

‘I have my reasons, and don’t flatter yourself to think it’s all about you. Either come with me or hang around here and wait for Tremain or Camael to find you. I’ll just tell Pipistrelle that I did my best.’

She went over to the door, eased it open and checked outside, the gun poised in her hand. Reluctantly he left his seat. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked as they went out into the farmyard. Rusted machinery lurked like prehistoric beasts in the long grass.

‘I have a car ready. No, not that way,’ she warned as he headed instinctively down the main driveway. ‘We have to go across the fields and into those woods over there. The main way is too obvious.’

She leapt through a line of bushes onto a bare field beyond, bright green shoots of some plant or other poking tentatively through the soil. The mud began to stick to the soles of his shoes. His feet still hurt like blazes but he wasn’t about to let her see he was in any way distressed. He hoped the puncture wounds wouldn’t go septic. They clambered up a steep incline, reaching the small wood on its summit that they’d seen from across the field. Caroline indicated with the gun to a thin thread of a path that ran through it. He was tempted to make a bolt for it, to get himself away from this strange woman, find some kind of help. Real help. But he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was, and if there was the remotest chance she had been telling the truth then he was in big trouble and perhaps she was the only one who could get him through it. With options thin on the ground he trudged blindly after her, drawn as much to her brimming confidence as much as anything. That and her cool determination, which he found reassuring and disturbing in equal amounts.

They emerged from the wood onto a narrow, track-like country road, little used, a strip of dirt and weeds running through its centre along its entire length. Ahead, pulled tight into a bank was a large black Ford, opaque windows reflecting a stormy grey sky.

‘Muller didn’t see me follow because I’ve been waiting here all along for him,’ Caroline revealed, turning to Gareth. ‘He fell like a fly onto a web.’ She nodded. ‘After me,’ she said, pointing to the car.

Gareth went in front, and as he did so the passenger door swung open. A man dressed in a dark suit emerged. Rose to his full height. It was Randall Tremain.

Shocked, Gareth faced Caroline. She had the gun aimed squarely at his chest. ‘You bitch!’ he said. ‘You mean you’ve been working for Tremain all along?’

In his anger he threw a punch at her. She didn’t flinch. His fist missed her jaw by an inch or so, his head dragged back by Tremain who delivered a swift punch into his kidneys. Another man leapt from the car and came over to hold Gareth in a painful arm-lock.

‘Where’s Muller?’ said Tremain, his voice as hard and as cold as granite.

‘You’ll find him locked in the cellar,’ said Caroline, sliding the gun into the belt of her jeans.

‘Get him in the car!’ Tremain ordered, watching as Gareth was hauled gasping to the vehicle. ‘I need to take care of a little unfinished business before we go,’ he said, sliding his hands into a pair of leather gloves.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

David Lambert-Chide regarded him from under his heavy, waxen lids, but Gareth merely scowled in reply. There were burly, black-suited men stood on either side of him, faces impassive, eyes unblinking, like grotesque bookends. Randall Tremain stood against a wall, one arm behind his back, another clutching what looked like a large leather-bound book. Gareth’s arms still throbbed from the mauling he’d received as they’d dragged him out of the car, through doors, down corridors, and finally into this room where they sat him down on a hard wooden chair. The room was a dreary, stone-walled affair, plaster peeling away, a solitary bare light bulb in the ceiling’s centre, not a single window. There were two ancient-looking oak doors, one behind him, another in front. Three chairs, put there for the occasion as far as Gareth could tell, were the only pieces of furniture. The room looked like an old scullery, laid with worn stone flags, and he could see old lead pipes snaking out of the floor near the wall and going nowhere; holes in the plaster where fixtures and fittings had once been set.

‘You can’t get away with any of this,’ Gareth growled.

Lambert-Chide waved away the two security guards and they backed off, going to stand a distance behind Gareth. He could sense their mica-cold presence at his back.

Lambert-Chide held up a glass, the amber liquid inside catching the cold light of the bulb. ‘Are you sure you won’t have one? This will be your last chance.’ He put it to his lips, never once taking his eyes off Gareth, took a gulp. ‘And I do mean your last chance. Pretty soon you’ll be on your way to the States. Not first class, I’m afraid. Sadly it will have to be by crate, but you won’t notice as you’ll be asleep the entire way.’ He raised a brow. ‘No? Your choice.’ He took his time walking over to one of the chairs, his aged, thin figure sitting carefully down, and his hand toyed with the silver head of the cane he carried. He scrutinized Gareth. ‘The likeness is the giveaway, of course,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Don’t you agree?’ he asked of Tremain who came to stand on Lambert-Chide’s right. There wasn’t a glimmer of response from Tremain.

‘Where am I?’ asked Gareth.

‘Back at Gattenby House, though that matters little to you,’ said Lambert-Chide. ‘The oldest part of the building, as it happens, and never used.’ He flicked a bony finger and Caroline came from behind Gareth, her hands stuffed inside her leather jacket pockets and her mouth still chewing on gum. ‘Well done, Caroline,’ he said. ‘Very well done.’

‘Bitch!’ said Gareth under his breath, swiveling his head round to stare at her. She stared back, unconcerned. He could not believe he fell for her lies.

‘And Muller?’ asked Lambert-Chide of no one in particular.

It was Tremain that replied. ‘Taken care of,’ he said.

‘You can’t trust anyone these days,’ Lambert-Chide noted, swigging the glass empty and holding it out for one of the guards to take away. ‘I never really trusted Muller,’ he admitted. ‘Fortunately we were informed of his intended duplicity by Caroline here. We must thank Muller, though, for getting you away from Camael alive, Gareth.’

‘This is kidnapping,’ said Gareth. ‘You can’t hope to get away with it. What’s more I’m no use to any of you. This is madness!’

The old man leant forward, both hands resting on the head of his cane. He gave a dry chuckle. ‘Get away with it? Look around you — I already have! Nobody will miss you. Nobody’s looking for you, not even the police. And believe what I say when I tell you that your value to me is immeasurable. Immense. You, Mr. Davies, are the future. My future, their future, everyone’s future,’ he gestured with his thin arm around the room. ‘And as a consequence one of the most valuable assets I shall ever possess. I say one, as there is one other.’