Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) (24 page)

“What’s the problem?” the man complained. “You can’t stop here. Get moving.”

Tom opened his eyes and slowly, he turned to face the man. “Listen, I need to get to the hospital. My head—I need to see a doctor. I need an ambulance. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to.”

The man’s face hardened. He squared his shoulders. He’d been using the baseball bat like a walking stick, pressing it against the ground, but now he raised it to waist height. “Yeah?” he sneered. “Is that what my son said? And how about your other victims? Did they beg for mercy when you beat them?”

Tom’s scalp suddenly prickled with cold sweat. The ground swayed beneath his feet. He gripped the tree trunk so tightly, it was a wonder the rotten wood didn’t split apart.

“Thirteen,” the man said.

“What? I don’t—”

But the man didn’t let him finish. “You don’t know?” The man was incredulous. “How? How could you not know what I’m talking about?”

Tom looked at the ground.

“Thirteen,” the man said, “is the number of people you’ve attacked. Or at least that was how many you wanted to own up to.” The man took a step closer to Tom. “I was there—at your trial. And that’s what they said:
thirteen similar offences to be taken into account
.”

“I didn’t do all those,” Tom mumbled. “It’s just what they tell you to say.”

The man snorted.

Tom looked up at him. “They tell you—own up to such and such and we’ll go easy on you.” He shook his head. “And I went along with it. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Oh please,” the man said. “Don’t even try to tell me you’re innocent.”

“No. I’d never say that. I know what I did. I live with it every day.”

“And do you think I don’t?” the man said. “Every day I face the consequences of what you’ve done. And let me tell you, it doesn’t get any easier. It gets harder and harder, and harder, every single day.”

Tom sniffed. He closed his eyes, and memories of the dark days of his trial flooded his mind: the loneliness, the fear and confusion, his sorry attempt to brazen the whole thing out. Through it all, there’d been a man in the public gallery: always sitting at the front, his impassive stare fixed on Tom. The cold patience of the man’s watchful eye had unnerved Tom more than raw anger could ever have done. Of course, Tom had glanced at him, had even guessed the man was the boy’s father, but he hadn’t been able to meet his gaze. He’d never acknowledged the man’s presence, never shown him any hint of apology or remorse.
Would it have helped
?
Would it have made any difference?

Tom opened his eyes and studied the man’s face carefully. Yes. Back then, the man had been neatly dressed, well-groomed and clean-cut. Now, his hair was a straggly mess, the line of his jaw was hidden by his scruffy grey stubble, his eyes were red-rimmed and his face was puffy and pale. But the cold, calm look in his eyes was unmistakeable. Why hadn’t he recognised him straightaway? How could he have been so stupid?

The man saw the recognition in Tom’s eyes. “Finally. It took you long enough.”

“You
were
there. I should’ve known.”

“Huh.” The man gave Tom a look of pure contempt. “I guess I didn’t make much of an impression. But then, you were concentrating on not giving anything away, on not incriminating yourself. So it wasn’t much of a trial, was it?”

Tom shook his head sadly.

“Is that it? Can’t you say anything? Even now?” The man looked away for a moment and took a deep breath. When he turned back, his face was flushed with barely contained rage. He pointed a finger at Tom’s face. “It was all your fault,” he snarled. “If you had come clean, if you’d told the police what you knew, then the whole damned trial wouldn’t have fallen apart. I’d have known what happened to my son. Can’t you understand that? Can’t you see what you’ve done?”

Tom put a hand over his eyes and rubbed furiously, hardly feeling the pain that scorched across his forehead. “No,” he mumbled. “No, it wasn’t like that.”

“Don’t you dare,” the man roared. “Don’t you dare tell me how it was. You…you killed my son. And I had to sit there and watch you get away with it.”

Tom let go of the tree so he could cover his face with his hands, and this time, when his knee complained, he let it give way. He sank to the ground, landing heavily on his backside, and hung his head, burying his face in his hands. “I didn’t,” he whined. “I didn’t do it.”

But the man wasn’t listening. “Do you know what he is now—my only son?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “A
missing person
. That’s all.” The man shook his head in disbelief. “But we both know that’s not right don’t we? We both know he’s dead. But I can’t lay him to rest. I can’t…I can’t even say goodbye. Do you understand what that’s like? Do you?”

Tom kept his fingers clamped tight to his face. His shoulders shook and he let out a pathetic sob.

The man checked his wristwatch. “I haven’t got time for this,” he said, his voice hard. “Take your hands off your face.”

“No. Leave me alone.”

The man raised the baseball bat, holding it with both hands. “I said, take your hands off your face. Now. Or I’ll break both your arms.”

Something in the man’s voice made Tom believe him. Slowly, he lowered his hands, but he couldn’t look up, couldn’t face his persecutor.

The man nodded, satisfied. “I meant it when I said you’d taken everything from me.” He hesitated, struggling to keep his voice calm. “Since you…since you did what you did, I have nothing.
Nothing
. Not even a moment’s peace. You stole that from me. You took everything.”

Tom sniffed. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. It wasn’t easy, but he raised his head and looked up at the man. He looked him in the eye, and in that moment, he knew it was all over.
There’s no point in arguing
. There would be no point in pleading or explaining about his rehab from the drugs, his good behaviour, his mentoring work. It would just be a waste of breath. He sighed. It was time to give up, to give in. “Go on then,” he said. “Get it over with.”

The man twisted the baseball bat in his hands. His nostrils flared as he took a breath. “Is that what you think? This is just me getting revenge?”

Tom nodded slowly. “Just get on with it.”

The man grimaced. “You moronic little thug,” he spat. “That’s not what this is about.” He hesitated, then lowered the baseball bat. “Yes—it eats away at me that you got away with what you did,” he snarled. “But I can live with that. It happens. People get away with crimes all the time. But what I really cannot tolerate, not for one more minute, is not knowing what happened to my son. I need to know
where
he is. I
need
to lay him to rest.”

For a moment, Tom’s lips moved wordlessly.
I’ve got to say it
.
I’ve just got to get the words out
. He ran his tongue over his dry lips. “I don’t know,” he said. His vision blurred and he blinked away a tear. “I really don’t. I don’t know where he is.”

The man’s snorted in contempt. “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that do you?”

“It’s the truth.”

“No,” the man said. “No, it isn’t. It’s a pathetic lie.”

Tom held out his hands. “Listen to me. I don’t know what happened.”

The man shook his head. “I don’t understand how you can live with your lies, but I can’t tolerate it—not for one second longer.” He paused. And when he spoke again, his voice was a venomous whisper. “I can’t live like this, so now, I’m going to do something about it.” Without warning, he swung the baseball bat toward Tom’s head.

Tom didn’t have time to duck. He closed his eyes and flinched as the bat slammed into the rotten tree, just millimetres from the top of his head. Chunks of mouldering bark rained down on his hair, his face, his shoulders. Something cold and wet fell down the back of his neck. “Christ,” he hissed. “You could’ve killed me.”

“Yes. But I didn’t.”

Tom took a breath, felt it shake his chest. For a moment, he remembered his breathing classes, and he almost laughed. They were no use to him now. His ribs burned with every breath.

“Come on,” the man said. “On your feet.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “That depends—on how helpful you are.”

Tom tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. “All right.” He hung his head. “What do you want to know?”

The man allowed the ghost of a grim smile to flit across his face.
At last
. He ran his tongue over his lower lip. “It
was
in here wasn’t it? I’m right aren’t I? This is where it happened.”

Tom nodded, but he didn’t speak, didn’t look up.

“I
knew
it,” the man said. “I told the police but they wouldn’t listen. They said there wasn’t any evidence, but that was because they didn’t even
look
properly.”

Tom raised his head. “How did you know? I never told anybody.”

The man waved the question away. “It was obvious. I knew you’d both been in here before. My son had been in here with his friend and the old man, Mr. Drew, he recognised you. He said he’d seen you around here lots of times.” He paused. “But no one saw you that last time did they?”

“No,” Tom said. “No one.”

The man took a breath, exhaled loudly. “This is it,” he murmured. “I’m finally going to find my boy.” He pulled himself up to his full height. “Come on, get on your feet. You’re going to show me. You’re going to show me
exactly
where it happened. And you’re going to show me right now.”

Tom sighed. “And if I show you, you’ll let me go? You’ll get me an ambulance or something?”

The man nodded, but his face gave nothing away.

You bastard
, Tom thought.
You’ll probably just leave me here
. He couldn’t trust this man, not for one second. But maybe, if he went along with his mad idea, there might be a way out of this mess. It was a slim chance, but it was the only one he had. “All right. I’ll try.” He pushed himself up to his feet, wincing with every movement, then he stood, swaying a little, and looked the man in the eye. “Listen,” he said. “I really don’t think this is going to help. Not in the way you want.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the man said. “Now get moving.” He stood still and watched Tom take his first few unsteady steps, and then he followed on behind. “Hold on, son,” he whispered. “Hold on. I’m coming to get you.”

Chapter 22

3650 BC

THE LEADER PULLED MY ARMS out in front of me and tied a length of rough rope around my wrists. I grunted when he pulled the rope tight, but he didn’t take any notice. He just finished his knots and handed the rope to the teenager. Then, without exchanging a word, they set off into the forest, the teenager leading me along.

At first, the boy was hesitant, scarcely pulling on the rope at all, and he kept glancing back over his shoulder to check on me. He looked uncertain, nervous, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening.
That makes two of us
, I thought bitterly.

But my captor soon tired of being my babysitter. The older men were travelling fast, loping through the forest like a pack hungry wolves. But I was weak and worn out, and I just couldn’t keep up with them. The forest floor was uneven and the undergrowth was so dense I couldn’t see where I was putting my feet. Thorns snagged at my jeans, and tangled strings of trailing ivy caught around my legs and threatened to trip me. It would have been hard enough to jog through this place at the best of times, but with my hands tied together, I had to work hard just to keep my balance.

The first time I stumbled, the teenager just glared at me, but it wasn’t long before he resorted to yanking on the rope whenever I lagged behind—and I lagged behind a lot.

When we finally stopped for a rest, I sank to the ground and rested my back against a tree trunk. I just hoped that, with my hands tied together in front of me, I’d be able to get up again. But at least it was cooler down there, among the undergrowth. I closed my eyes, took long, grateful breaths, and I tried not to think about what might happen to me.

I wasn’t allowed to rest for long. The teenager stood over me and scowled. He looked me in the eye and muttered a few words. I didn’t need to understand his language to know he was swearing at me. I shook my head and looked away. Maybe if I ignored him, he’d just leave me alone. Something rustled through the ferns and when I turned to look, the boy had wandered over to talk to the others. The rope lay slack on the ground, snaking between the ferns. Was this my chance to escape? Did he think I was so hopeless he didn’t even need to stand guard over me?

The men were a little distance away, huddled together, muttering in low voices. I kept one eye on them and pulled gently on the rope. My heart raced as the rope slipped across the forest floor, but then it went tight. I pulled harder, hoping it was snagged. But it was no good. He’d tied it to a tree. “Of course you have,” I muttered. The teenager wasn’t as stupid as he looked.

I sighed and rested my head back against the tree trunk. Despite everything, I could’ve slept, right there. I was utterly exhausted and
everything
ached. The rope chafed my wrists, my stomach cramped with hunger, and my head buzzed with a dull ache that shifted across my skull every time I moved. But my legs were the worst. My calves felt like the muscles had been ripped apart, right down to the bone. I leaned forward and, as best as I could with the damned rope around my wrists, I hitched up the right leg of my jeans. I winced. The bruises covering my shin were purple and angry. Dark red blotches showed where blood vessels had burst beneath my skin. “Bloody Robbo,” I muttered. I leaned back and shut my eyes. I pictured his foot swinging toward me, again and again. I saw his shoe slamming into my legs, my arms, as I lay curled in a ball on the ground.
The day before yesterday
, I thought.
That was just the day before yesterday.
I rubbed my eyes, tried to think of something else. Anything. But it didn’t work. The memory was too vivid; more real than the endless forest and these strange men with their bows and arrows. A sudden thought flashed across my mind:
Is all this just a weird hallucination?
Am I really lying in a hospital somewhere, with tubes and wires dangling from my comatose body?
For a split second, it made sense. But when I opened my eyes, there he was.