Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) (9 page)

Tom rubbed his chin. “I mustn’t get too negative,” he muttered. “It’s just because I’m tired.” He yawned and stretched. He might as well go to bed. A solid night’s sleep would do him the world of good.

Tom was brushing his teeth when the phone rang again. He spat into the sink and strode toward his bedroom. Maybe this time he could catch the bastards and tell them not to bother him again. But just as he went through the bedroom door and turned the light on, the ringing cut off. Tom scowled at the phone. He was tired and his mouth was full of gritty toothpaste. He just wanted to go to bed. But that second phone call really needled him. “I’ll sort them out,” he muttered. He went to the phone and tried, once more, to get the caller’s number. But once again, it had been withheld. “Bloody hell!” He replaced the handset more forcibly than usual and it bounced out from its cradle and fell onto the floor. He scooped it up and replaced it more carefully, then glared at it, defying it to ring. Maybe he should just disconnect it? But it was just a wireless extension. He’d have to go downstairs to disconnect the base unit if he wanted to be sure the phone in his bedroom wouldn’t ring. There was probably a way to turn the ringer off on the handset, but he’d never figured it out and he was damned if he was going to try now.
Anyway, what if it’s a genuine call and someone’s just having trouble getting through?

Tom ran a hand over his mouth. Perhaps someone was calling from a mobile phone and their signal kept dropping out. But who could it be? He didn’t have any close friends anymore and his family wanted nothing to do with him these days. But still, you never knew—it
could
be an important phone call. He trudged back to the bathroom and picked up his toothbrush.
Now
,
what number had I got up to?
He frowned for a moment then remembered and nodded to himself as he began to brush.
Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four
.

By the time he got into bed, Tom was a little calmer. But he couldn’t get comfortable. He twisted and turned, and the quilt cover tangled around his legs. He sighed and flipped his pillow over, allowing his face to sink into the cool softness of the other side. And he listened to his breathing, trying to slow it down.
One, two, three, four
. The numbers would soothe him to sleep. It always worked. Eventually.

But he’d barely fallen asleep when the phone rang again. Tom woke with a start.
What the bloody hell is going on?
He fumbled for the switch on his bedside lamp, squinting into the sudden glare. But the very second the light came on, the ringing stopped. Tom stared stupidly at the phone, his mouth hanging open. “Why?” he whispered. “Why? Why?
Why?
” He slumped back against the pillow. He didn’t bother to check the caller ID. There’d be no point. He was so tired now, and so stressed, he could weep. But there was no way he could sleep now. The phone would only ring again. He just knew it would. Unless he did something about it.

Groaning, he swung his legs down from the bed and pushed himself to his feet. He dragged himself across the room and padded downstairs to the lounge, switching on lights as he went. He knelt down by the phone and traced the wire back to the socket, making sure he pulled out the telephone cable and not the broadband lead.

“Now try ringing me up in the middle of the night,” he said.

He stood up and thumped his way back up the stairs, getting halfway before he realised he’d left the lounge light on. He grunted in frustration and went back down to switch it off.

By the time he got back to his bedroom, he was seething. “Bloody stupid, bloody people,” he muttered. “What’s wrong with people? What the hell do they think they’re doing?” He climbed back into bed, switched his bedside lamp off, and lay on his back, staring at the bedroom ceiling.
I’ll never get to s1eep now
.
Never
.

But he was wrong. His body was numb with exhaustion and as his arms and legs grew heavy, they seemed to sink deep into the mattress, dragging him down into the welcoming, inky blackness of oblivion. But Tom’s overtired mind refused to rest. Forbidden thoughts floated to the surface; echoes of hidden memories mingled with a confusion of almost-forgotten faces. And all through Tom’s disjointed dreams, a whispered threat lurked beneath the surface; an ever-present undercurrent of pure hatred and cold, calculating vengeance.

***

What was that?
The sudden noise woke Tom with a start. For a moment, he thought it was morning. But no—his bedroom was still far too dark. There wasn’t even a hint of daylight at his window. “What now?” he whispered. “It must be the middle of the night.” He blinked and worked his jaw to loosen the cramped muscles. And suddenly, he remembered what had woken him up. There’d been a noise—a muffled, metallic thud. In his dream, it had been a prison door, slamming in his face, condemning him to a life behind bars. Tom stared at the ceiling.
Just some idiot slamming a car door—that’s all
. It was irritating, but it wasn’t something to get in a sweat about. He reached out and turned his radio alarm clock so he could read the time. It was almost four in the morning. He groaned.
Probably a taxi
. It would be bringing someone back from a night club—someone with a few drinks inside them; clumsy, tired and excited all at the same time. He rubbed his eyes. “Thoughtless,” he muttered. “No consideration.” But he’d done the same thing himself often enough.
Back in the day
, he thought.
Back in the bad old days
. He sighed and turned his pillow over again, then lay on his side, and stared at the glowing green numbers on his radio alarm. It was 3:59. If he watched and waited, he’d see the number of minutes flip back to zero. He’d always liked that moment.
Time goes on
, he thought. And the past was gone; deleted, cancelled out.

Tom counted off the seconds in his head, but he couldn’t concentrate.
Something’s not right
. The noise of the car door slamming had been close. Too close—as if it was right outside his window. But that couldn’t be right. His immediate neighbours all had very young children. Almost every house on the street was home to a young family. It was that kind of neighbourhood. You just didn’t get rowdy night clubbers stumbling home in the small hours. And Tom would’ve known about it—he was a very light sleeper. He cast his mind back, but the only noise he could remember hearing at night was the baby crying next door. And none of his neighbours went to work so early or worked night shifts.
What’s going on?

Tom rubbed his eyes. His mind raced, conjuring up all sorts of possibilities, but then suddenly, he knew exactly what had caused the noise, and his eyes flew open. “Bloody kids!” They’d be breaking into cars, looking for a stereo to steal or a car that could be hotwired.

Tom listened. But there was nothing. He raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his brow. Like most of his neighbours, Tom had a small garage but he usually left his car out on the drive. There wasn’t much crime in this area so he’d never really worried about it. Until now. He sighed. No one would be interested in stealing his car, but his car stereo was pretty new. And there were plenty of expensive cars in the neighbourhood. He should be a good neighbour and have a look. If it turned out something had happened and he’d not done anything about it, he’d kick himself in the morning. Once again, he sat up and swung his legs out of bed. He crept over to the window and peered around the edge of the curtain.

At first, he couldn’t see anything unusual. The street was empty. The parked cars all looked undamaged. There were the usual cars parked in neighbours’ driveways and, as always, there were a few cars parked on the road, all neatly arranged nose to tail. And all empty. Except one. Tom’s heart lurched and instinctively, he put a hand on his stomach.

The man sat in the small, nondescript Renault hatchback and stared into space. Tom took a shaky breath and tried to fend off the thoughts that were scampering around his mind like frightened mice. Why should it be the same car he’d seen at work? Why should it? It wasn’t directly outside his house, it was a little way up the road. It was dark outside and he was tired and it was hard to tell the car’s colour under the orange glow of the street lights. Tom moved his head, trying to get a better angle of vision. He shouldn’t be surprised really. He’d heard a car door, and now, here was a man sitting in a car. He’d probably just dropped someone off. There could be any number of reasons why he was waiting. Maybe it was even a minicab, and the driver was waiting for his passenger. Perhaps someone was going to the airport to catch an early flight. Tom ran a hand through his hair. There was nothing to worry about. Dark-coloured hatchbacks were ten a penny. He nodded to himself. He’d wait a few minutes and the man would surely drive away.

“Get a grip, Tom,” he muttered. He sighed. He was letting himself get wound up again. It was those damned phone calls that had got him into this state. They’d left him anxious and on edge. “Come on, Tom,” he whispered. “Do your exercises.” He took a long, slow breath and held it.
One, two, three
. And that’s when it hit him.

The phone calls!
Tom’s stomach tightened. His shoulders tensed. He let his breath out in a ragged rush and gasped for air. Of course! The first phone call had stopped when he’d answered. The next one had stopped when he’d walked into his bedroom. Had he switched the light on? Yes. And the third call was the same; it had stopped ringing as soon as he’d switched his bedside lamp on. The only way someone could’ve known that, was if they could see his house. The man was out there, watching his house. And it
was
the same car he’d seen at work. It had to be. And it was the same man. He’d thought the man in the car park at work had been staring at him, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it. Now, he had no choice but to accept it.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” he growled, and as he spoke, the blood rushed to his head. This wasn’t right, and he damn well wasn’t going to stand for it. Tom pushed the curtain aside and stood close to the glass. He knew he’d be in full view, his white T-shirt clear to see by the glow of the streetlights, but he didn’t care.

The motion of the curtains must’ve caught the man’s eye, because suddenly, he jolted upright in his seat. He looked from side to side rapidly as if flustered; shocked at being spotted.

“I knew it,” Tom said. “I knew it was the same bloke.” And there was not a shred of doubt in Tom’s mind. Although he couldn’t make out the details of the man’s face, he was certain. And now Tom realised something else. When he’d first seen the man in the visitors’ car park, there’d been something familiar about him, even then.
Do I know you?
Where have I seen you before?
But it was no good. He just couldn’t place him. Tom raised his hand and pointed at the man, all the while giving him the meanest glare he could muster. “Just you stay there, pal,” he said, and his voice was low and dangerous. “I’m going to come down there and rip your bloody face off.” Tom stepped back from the window and looked around the room for a weapon.

But when he heard the sound of an engine starting outside, he rushed back to the window. The man was wrenching the steering wheel and revving the engine far too hard. The Renault lurched backward as the man tried to manoeuvre out of the tight parking space. In his rush to get away, he hadn’t even turned his headlights on. Or had he left them off on purpose so Tom wouldn’t see his number plate? Whatever the reason, the lack of headlights and reversing light was making it harder for him to get out of the space. Even with his bedroom window closed, Tom heard the dull crump as the Renault thudded into the car behind. The man twisted in his seat for a second, and then the engine roared again and the hatchback leaped forward, colliding with the car in front. Tom had seen enough. Those cars belonged to his neighbours; good, honest, working men and women. And this maniac, this bloody lunatic was wrecking their precious cars.
Who the hell does this psycho think he is?

A burst of red hot adrenaline flushed through Tom’s body. It exploded into his mind like a percussion grenade. And then he was pounding down the stairs. In the hallway he reached in among the pile of shoes and found what he was looking for. The cool, smooth metal of the baseball bat felt good as he wrapped his fingers around the handle. Then he turned and raced to the front door, yanking it open hard enough to almost tear it from its hinges. He ran on, into the street, hardly noticing the chill of the cold ground against his bare feet.

The Renault was still there, its engine revving wildly as the driver tried to manoeuvre it out of the tight space. Without hesitation, Tom ran toward it. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a few upstairs lights flicking into life in the neighbouring houses. Even now, people would be dragging themselves out of bed, or hunkering down beneath the bedclothes, knowing something bad was happening and wishing it would all just go away. Either way, Tom didn’t care.
Let them watch
.

He slowed his pace as he neared the Renault. A harsh screech echoed across the street as one of the Renault’s wheel rims grated against the curb, and the car shuddered to a halt, one of its back wheels jammed against the concrete. A hard smile played across Tom’s lips. Now the driver wouldn’t be able to reverse. He was a sitting duck. And Tom was going to sort the bastard out once and for all. He stalked toward the car, the baseball bat held in front of him with both hands. He could see the driver clearly now, could see the blind panic on the man’s pale face.

The driver glanced back and then revved the Renault’s engine as hard as he could. The car whined in protest, and then suddenly it was moving, shuddering backward as the jammed wheel finally managed to mount the curb. The Renault crunched into the Ford Focus behind it, but the driver didn’t even flinch. He finally had the space he needed to escape, and in the glow of the streetlight, Tom saw the man’s mouth twist in triumphant glee. The Renault lurched forward. Metal scraped against metal as the car forced its way past the Audi in front. The Audi’s tail light cracked open, showering splinters of plastic onto the road. And now the Renault was free. It shot forward, racing toward Tom, still without its lights on.