Blood Bonds: A psychological thriller (34 page)

Then she died.

I heard the dull shot, but thought it was thunder. Her eyes widened and she stiffened.

Her face registered disbelief and she silently pleaded with me to answer the myriad questions that were coursing through her dazed mind. Then she slipped down a foot or so, grabbed instinctively at another piece of heather, which ripped out of the thin soil, and she began to slide faster. I reached out my hand as she passed me, but my fingers snagged briefly on the material of her coat as she rushed by. I called her name, over and over, watching in horror as her slender body tumbled down, rolling, rolling, her arms and legs striking out into grotesque spider-like shapes. “No!” I yelled. “Ruby!” She slithered, like my stave, to an untidy halt by the stream, head pointed towards the sky, eyes white and vacant. It was only then that I realised the full hellish meaning of this game we played.

I loosed my hold, and I too began to slide down, then, uncontrollably, I fell headlong down the slope, coming into contact with chunks of rock as I did so. But I felt no pain. Only that pain which scooped out my insides and made me hollow. I hit the ground with a numbing crunch. Winded, I looked across at Ruby’s still body, a thin sliver of blood running from her lips. The rain pounded on her eyeballs. Then a pair of boots came between us and I blinked away the rain and tears to follow the legs upwards. It was Max. In his hands he held a rifle.

I made an effort to spring to my feet but my legs buckled. “You…” I began to shout, but I could not formulate the words. I was blind and dumb with rage. I stood up, struck out wildly at the hazy figure before me. But in an instant I was beaten back by unseen hands, my world a fuzzy whorl of blacks and greys and muddy-browns.

Then something hit me on the head with a dull-sounding ‘
thunk
’. I saw flashes, briefly, huge soundless explosions of colour that blotted everything out. For a moment I was back there on the school dance floor, the hall awash with colour from the disco lights, and Noddy Holder telling me to
Get Down and Get With It
….

Ruby was walking towards me through the press of bodies, smiling at me the way she did back then. Only her chest was covered in blood, and her face smeared by streaks of dirty brown ooze. I felt my entire being gradually consumed by a thick, oily blackness that spewed into my mind and wiped her away forever.

*  *  *  *

And that’s it. That’s it all. I awoke here in my room with stitches in my head and stinking of antiseptic. And I’ve been here ever since.

Why he’s decided to keep me alive I shall never know. Maybe he couldn’t destroy me because he felt I was a part of him as much as I still feel he’s a part of me. Perhaps also there’s a shred of truth in what he thinks, that I am not really Philip Calder, but an impostor, a changeling. The more I’ve thought about it over the years the more feasible it has become. But that could be that I feel less like Philip Calder every day. Already he has become someone else, this other guy in another life.

Yeah, Max could have been right all along…

The room had obviously been purpose built. It stank of gloss paint and the glue they stick floor tiles on with.  So in spite of what Ruby thought, Max never intended to kill me straight off. He wanted me here permanently, like his mother. I don’t know why. I’ll bet I died in a boating accident, the way Ruby predicted I would. I wonder whether she died with me. Not that it matters, but I feel its kind of fitting we should die together, if only in an account given to the police. There’s a drawer somewhere in police records that houses our file, tells it how it wasn’t, with Ruby and I clinging onto a shattered boat fighting for life in a raging, churning, hostile sea, clutching each other as we sank beneath the frigid depths. Like a fairytale; like
The Little Mermaid
or something.

One thing is certain; I shall kill him when I get the chance. I haven’t seen him since that day on the hillside, though he watches me through the two-way mirror. I can
feel
him watching. I wonder if he’s grown old like I’ve grown old. I don’t see him with grey hair, middle-age spread. I see him as he was. Always. Like Connie. They’ll both live forever. Young and alive for all time.

I guess he knows my intentions. That’s why he doesn’t come near me. He fears me, which is ironic considering I sit here day after day fearing him. He knows I mean it, that one day I’ll kill him the way he’s killed me over the years. I don’t really believe in fate, but I do sense something tremendous is near. One way or another there has to be an end to all this.

All I can do now is wait. I’ve been good at that. I suppose I can be good at it for a little while longer.

I’m sorry, I cannot write any longer.

I am all run dry.

*  *  *  *

It was getting light.

He could hear a robin outside in the garden, its ‘tic-tic’ call sounding as if someone tapped two pebbles together. It was the only sound to break the uncanny silence that accompanied dawn. In a while the air would be clotted with the calls of many other birds, and the picking up of traffic noise from the road not far away. But till then it was just the robin and him.

He came to the end of the manuscript. Closed the file and stared at it on his lap. It rested heavy, both on his legs and in his mind.

Rising tiredly, he walked over to the French windows, opened them and stepped out into the chilly morning air and the grey light that covered everything like a transparent film of dust, the file under his arm. Briefly he caught sight of the robin’s flame-red chest as it flitted away to continue its ‘tic-ticking’ from deep within a laurel bush, sounding like it was deeply annoyed at being disturbed.

Miller strode to the metal bin at the bottom of the garden, and lifted the lid. He placed the manuscript on a bed of brittle leaves and twigs, scooping up a few more leaves to spread on the plastic-covered file. From his pocket he took out a box of matches, lit one, and without hesitation he held the flame to the paper. His eyes sore and tired he blinked as the first wisps of smoke began to curl languorously into the air, the fire appearing to float over and across the paper; and then in a few moments it grew fierce, like a creature enraged, and wrapped itself around the plastic file. Miller watched as the fire seemed to give a quiet gasp of satisfaction as the entire manuscript was engulfed in a shifting gauze of yellow and white.

He waited until he was satisfied it wouldn’t burn out until the entire manuscript was destroyed, reduced to ashes, and then turned and headed for the house. From the French windows he gazed at the plume of grey-blue smoke tumbling into the lifeless air, then falling to the ground where it crept across the garden like a heavy fog.

It was all a waste of time, of course, purely academic now. Carl had told him there was a copy; there were other writings that hadn’t been destroyed. But he’d only Carl’s word for that, and Miller reckoned that wasn’t worth much.

This day had to come. He felt it had been steadily creeping up on him for decades, like the stinking smoke outside that crawled across the garden, slowly, insidiously, rolling inevitably to consume him and his entire tidy little world, his false, cardboard existence.

It would have been difficult for Carl to grasp the full meaning just by reading the manuscript, so Miller was convinced there had to be something else that had given him the extra pieces of information necessary to complete this particular jigsaw. Or perhaps it had been a hunch, a gamble, and he had fallen straight into Carl’s conniving hands by failing to disguise his reactions adequately. Such people pounce on things like that. I’ll bet the little creep’s pissing himself with smugness, Miller thought icily. Wondering which bank account he’ll try to fatten. Wondering just how much he can squeeze out of the famous writer. The little shite.

Hell, it didn’t matter anyhow. Not now. Guesswork or not, Carl had hit the nail squarely on the head that night, and Miller saw his entire world just collapsing in on itself like cake dropped into a puddle. It had to happen. But this wasn’t just about him, was it? No, it went further than Gavin Miller. There was far more to it. Far more. Why the hell didn’t he see it before? He thought, squeezing his eyes tight, the smell of the smoke disquieting. If Carl is right…

It’s another of Carl’s hunches, another gamble, just another way of turning the screw that bit more, extracting that last ounce of juice from an already dried fruit. That’s all it was.

If only he could believe that.

He shook his head and fingered his tired eyes, walking into the study and closing the French windows, holding up a glass barrier to the smoke that drifted lazily over the ground and, like a wave captured in slow motion as it crashed against a cliff face, it rebounded off the glass.

He stood facing the bookcase. All of his novels were there, hardbacks as well as paperback and foreign editions. He pulled out the very first in the
Stephen de Bailleul
series for which he’d become famous the world over. Following a casual thumbing through its pages he threw it violently across the room.

“Stupid bastard!” he said. “Why did I ever – “

But of course he’d asked himself this for years and had never yet come up with the answer. With a barely repressed squeal of rage he lurched forward and scooped the rest of the books from the shelf and they tumbled to the floor. Once the shelf was empty he kicked at the books and trampled them, finally collapsing exhausted into his armchair, his chest heaving, his cheeks flushed with the exertion.

He heard a noise from beyond his study door and knew that his wife was up and getting ready for work. A glance at the clock that showed seven confirmed it and he realised that he hadn’t slept all night and felt suddenly drained of energy. She wouldn’t come into his study, she never did, not when the door was closed; she’d assume he was working at his computer as he often did early in the morning, and she was well aware of the need not to disturb his train of thought once he’d set about writing.

For a full hour he sat with his head cradled by his hand. He did not know how to approach this, though he’d spent a great chunk of his life working over in his head the different scenarios should it ever come to this. And now that it had he found nothing fitted.

Carl had assumed correctly that Stephen de Bailleul was not his own creation, and that in fact the first novel in the series wasn’t even written by him, but was largely the work of another. It did not matter that the remainder were his own entirely, because the one that everyone knew him for, the one the critics constantly said had never been bettered, was not his.

And if that got out he was completely ruined, as Carl had so rightly pointed out with relish. It was blackmail, and he knew it, but the whole point about blackmail is that you don’t want anyone to find out your dirty little secret, which is why blackmail works so well, and why he knew also that it was impossible to go to the police about it.

Even more so now that murder had crept into the equation.

He groaned and bent forward. Max, tell me this isn’t true, he thought. Tell me you didn’t do it.

And yet he was certain it all made sense, having read the manuscript. Things had come together in his mind, just as they had in Carl’s. Deep down he knew it to be true, which made it doubly important that none of this got out. He couldn’t be seen to be involved in murder.

A quiet knock came at the study door. “You OK?” he wife said. “I heard a loud noise.”

He panicked, looking about him in horror at the pile of ruined books, and he rose from his chair.

“Yeah, sure, be there in a second.”

“I’m going now.”

Opening the door he stepped out of the study and closed the door behind him, careful not to let her see inside. “Fine,” he said.

“You OK? You don’t look at all well. You’ve been working too hard.”

Kissing her lightly on the lips he said, “You worry too much.”

“Whatever, take it easy. You’re getting on a bit, you know. Have a break; your eyes look shocking.”

“Sure.”

She turned briskly to leave, grabbing her coat and briefcase as she went. “I’ll give you a call at the usual time, but don’t expect me back before seven tonight.”

Miller followed her to the door, and as she opened it to leave he grabbed her by the hand. “Ruby…” he said.

Turning, her eyes enquiring, she said, “Yes?” Then she squinted at her wristwatch. “You’ll have to be quick; I’m running a little late. What is it?”

He looked at her face, and then shrugged. “I love you, Ruby,” he said.

She gave him a hurried kiss on the cheek. “Love you too. If Raymond calls tell him tomorrow at eight for definite, and if he argues tell him it’s off altogether, that’ll shut him up. Oh, and while I’m at it, don’t forget to call Bradshaw’s about that cabinet; it should have been here a week ago.”

“I’ll always love you,” he said quietly.

“Me you too,” she said, releasing herself from his grip and waving. “I’ve really got to go now. See you later. Take an aspirin if you’ve got a migraine coming on, before it gets real bad like it does.”

She closed the door and he was left facing a blank expanse of mahogany.

*  *  *  *

“I’m trying to reach Mrs Randolf,” he said.

“She’s not here, Miller.”

“Are you sure?” he snapped at the phone. “This is very urgent; I have to talk to her now.”

“I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve told you, she left the refuge hours ago.”

“I left a message with you for her to contact me as soon as she could. Did you tell her?”

“I wasn’t aware of any message – “

“OK, forget it. Where? Where did she go, for Christ’s sake?” There was silence at the other end of the phone. Gavin Miller sucked in a calming breath, sensing the woman’s unease. “Look, I’m sorry for shouting like that – it’s urgent I speak with her. I’ve tried her home number and there’s no reply. Her mobile’s switched off. It’s been like this for days. I thought I might catch her at the refuge, that’s all. Do you know where she’s gone? I’m a close friend. I was starting to get worried…”

The woman’s tone was definitely colder. “Hang on, Mr Miller; I’ll see if I can find out for you.”

The line crackled and fizzed. Miller wiped a film of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, tapping the phone with agitated fingers. Come on! Come on, he thought. What’s keeping you? “Hello?” he said, but was greeted by further sighs and pops from the disturbed ether. “Yes?” he said when he heard the receiver being picked back up.

“Hello, Mr Miller.” A different woman’s voice. “My name’s – “

“I need to speak to Mrs Randolf,” he interjected. “Where has she gone, do you know?”

“– Kathy Roper,” she finished. “Mrs Randolf’s not here at present.”

“I know that much!” he said in exasperation. “I just need to find out where she’s gone, that’s all. What is it with you people?”

“She was here briefly this morning,” the woman continued calmly, “and she did mention to me about going to Overton Hall. I’m informed she has a very close relative there.”

He hung up.

*  *  *  *

The country roads were too narrow and snaked around too much for him to get up any real speed. Once or twice he’d almost found himself in a ditch or piling into the bonnet of an oncoming car, which had unnerved him considerably, but strangely hadn’t reduced his sense of urgency that translated itself into a heavy foot on the accelerator pedal. And now he was behind a tractor that took up the entire road, mud flicking up from its massive tyres as it bounced along. Miller cursed, rapping the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. But there was no way to go but forward. No side roads, no nothing. He picked up his mobile in desperation, but still there was no response from her. Eventually the tractor signalled right and veered into a field, and with a gasp of relief Gavin Miller tossed the mobile onto the passenger seat and stepped on the gas as much as he could.

He turned the car thankfully into the long drive of Overton Hall, the huge ornate building crouching against a backdrop of trees and looking faintly macabre in the leaden light, and ignorant of the damage the sleeping policemen were doing to his suspension he took the car swiftly to the gravel car park opposite the house. Though there were a few cars there, he didn’t recognize hers amongst them, and he began to worry that this was a wild goose chase, that she’d never been here or had already left. He should have contacted the hall, stupid bastard! Hell, he just wasn’t thinking straight.

Attempting to calm himself he launched himself up the stone steps and into Overton Hall, walking over to the reception desk. He steeled himself to face Carl once more, but was greeted instead by a young woman whose face he’d never seen. She smiled but eyed him cautiously.

“Can I help you?”

“Is Carl about?” he asked flatly. He realised he must look more than a little bedraggled, and ran combing fingers ineffectually through his hair.

“Mr Douglas hasn’t come in today. We haven’t heard from him. I think he must be ill. Can I be of assistance?”

“Is Mrs Randolf here?”

“And what’s the name, sir?”

“Is she here?” His voice rose in pitch and the woman stiffened.

“Hello there, Mr Miller!” came a familiar voice from behind. “How are you?”

“Shirley!” Miller said, relieved he didn’t have to fight this one. “Yes, fine, I’m fine, thank you. Is Mrs Randolf here?”

“Certainly. Do you want to go through and see her? She’s – “

“Yes,” he interrupted, “I’d like that. Thank you, I’ll see myself through.”

The nurse smiled warmly and broadly, nodding eagerly. “By all means. You know the way. I think she’s going to take him for a little walk around the grounds. It’s not a bad day, now that the Sun’s coming out.”

Miller set off down the corridor and then paused. “What time’s Carl due in?” he asked.