D. Mitchell: The King of Terrors

‘It’s all I’ll have left of her,’ he said, avoiding her gaze. He gently put the blanket over her face. ‘OK, do what you have to do and let’s get out of here before I change my mind.’

She hung back till he left the room, and she packed the satchel with a few provisions, cleaning away anything that might implicate someone else had shared the room with Erica. She took a knife from the satchel and heaved Erica’s body over, removing the blood-sodden dressing. She plunged the blade into the wound, located the bullet and scraped the tiny piece of lead out.

Finally she unscrewed the black cap of the petrol can, poured a little fuel over the blanket and onto the dry floorboards. Shouldering the satchel she lit a match, holding it briefly over Erica’s body; the flickering light made it appear as if something stirred beneath the blanket, but she knew this to be an illusion. She had to be strong for both their sakes, but Erica’s death had affected her. It brought back so many painful memories of Afghanistan. And she felt like she knew this woman.

She dropped the match casually onto the blanket and waited till the flame began to take hold. She hung about long enough to see the fire spread across the floorboards, black smoke beginning to balloon upwards to the ceiling, before closing the doors and heading out to the car. She threw the satchel into the boot. Gareth was staring vacantly out of the windscreen, his face like a ghost behind the glass, she thought. She nodded to him that it was done and silently went over to the padlocked gates. She opened them wide, checking to see if the coast was clear before dashing back to the car. She gunned the engine.

‘What are our chances?’ he asked evenly.

‘I’ve never been a gambling woman,’ she said. ‘But if we were horses in the Grand National then I wouldn’t fancy our chances at Beech’s Brook.’

‘Well, I’m going to give it my best shot, for Erica’s sake,’ he said.

‘That’s all we can both do,’ she said, reaching into her pocket for gum and finding it empty. She groaned loudly.

‘Brown,’ he said.

‘What?’

He nodded at her hair. ‘Brown would suit you better.’

‘You think so?’

‘Black just isn’t your colour,’ he said.

It was just after midnight and the night appeared to press down on the car. Visibility was compounded by the fact that there were no houses, only the barely glimpsed rolling, moor-dominated landscape, and a dense mist had fallen making it all but impossible to make out any detail save for the strip of country road lit up by the car’s headlights. As if the world outside had ceased to exist. Caroline pulled the car to the side of the road.

‘Why are we stopping?’ Gareth asked, snapping out of the drowse he’d succumbed to.

‘We’re on the edge of the village of Elldale,’ she said, taking the handgun from the glove compartment and sliding it into her jacket pocket. ‘I’m going to take it on foot from here.’

He unfastened the seatbelt. ‘I’m coming with you,’ he insisted.

‘No you’re not. It could be dangerous. If I’m not back in three quarters of an hour tops then you get the hell out of here and don’t look back. You’ll find money, ID, the addresses of a couple of safe houses I located that even Pipistrelle doesn’t know about, so you should be safe for a while. That’s all I can do for you.’ She smiled, and it actually contained a little warmth. ‘Don’t look so glum; your mother managed it for four hundred years.’

He reached out and held her arm. ‘I can’t let you go out on your own. You could get hurt.’

‘Anyone would think that you cared,’ she said, peeling his fingers away. ‘You don’t have a say in this, Davies. I’m more likely to get hurt having a bumbling amateur cramping my style. I’ll be just fine. Keep the engine running.’ She checked her watch. ‘Forty-five minutes and then drive the pedal to the floor and put as many miles as you can between this place and that screwed up little head of yours.’ She made as if to open the car door.

‘I didn’t say thank you,’ he said.

‘I wasn’t looking for it.’

‘You saved my life and you tried to save Erica’s. You put your own neck on the line for us.’

She pursed her lips nonchalantly. ‘Maybe when this is all over I’ll see a shrink. Like you say, I must be crazy. You have the gun handy?’ He patted his pocket in response. ‘And you’re sure you know how to use it now?’

‘It was a fast lesson but I’m a fast learner,’ he said.

‘That’s my little soldier,’ she said lightly. ‘Till I get back it’s the only friend you’ve got.’

With that she clambered out of the car, and he slid over to the driver’s seat. It was only a matter of moments before she was eaten up by the night mist. She didn’t look back.

The village of Elldale was a sombre scattering of cottages constructed from Derbyshire stone; it boasted only two street lamps that failed to puncture the night. Not a single light burned in any of the cottages looming darkly out of the mist, which appeared to absorb all sound. Not that there was a great deal to hear. Beyond the single road that connected the cottages and ran like an artery through the village there were only high, heather-strewn hills criss-crossed by miles of dry-stone walls.

She approached Pipistrelle’s cottage cautiously. As far as she could tell there wasn’t any sign of parked cars near it. The place was in darkness, but that wasn’t unusual given that most of the time the curtains were drawn against the sunlight. At night, sometimes, he had been known to open the curtains to let in the moonlight. She skirted the high trees that surrounded the cottage, flinching at seeing the darting, ghostly forms of bats flitting in and out of the branches. She headed for the rear of the cottage, drawing the gun and crouching low. She could smell wood smoke and came across the still-smouldering pile of ash in the centre of the garden, a wheelbarrow close by, smashed pieces of computer motherboards nearby. She guessed immediately what he’d been doing; he must have been really spooked to have been driven to destroying everything, all his books, his notes, his life’s work.

The rear door that led directly into the small kitchen was ajar. She paused beside it, ear close to the opening, listening intently. Her left hand reached out, pushed open the door very slowly, her breath held till it became painful. This doesn’t look good, she thought, glancing quickly behind her to make sure no one was sneaking up on her. But all was deathly quiet and still, the mist swirling languidly over the darkened garden.

‘Come on in,’ said a voice that made her start. A light clicked on in the kitchen and she jumped back in alarm. ‘I know you’re there, Caroline.’

She hesitated, then kicked open the door violently, rushing inside at a crouch the gun held out in two hands before her. A man was sat on a chair, his feet up on an old pine table in the centre of the room.

‘Such theatrics,’ the man observed calmly.

‘What have you done with him?’ she demanded firmly. ‘Where is Pipistrelle?’

‘He’s alive, I can tell you that much. But for how long depends upon you.’

‘He’d better be!’ she warned, moving closer, covering him with the gun.

The man held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I’m not armed,’ he admitted. ‘You can frisk me if you like.’ He gave a smirk. He had icy blue eyes that marked her as she came forward.

‘And who the hell are you?’ she asked. She noticed a mobile phone on the table.

‘I’m Gabriel.’

It was her turn to scrutinise him. He looked to be in his thirties, had all the appearance of a man who relied more on muscle that intellect, but she knew that could be deceptive.