Trespass: A Tale of Mystery and Suspense Across Time (The Darkeningstone Book 1) (26 page)

2010

BOB DREW
STOOD IN FRONT
of the War Memorial and quietly lost track of the time. He didn’t go into town much anymore. Not since they’d changed the bus route. Even so, he was quick to find the familiar name among the long list of the dead:
V. C. CORBETT (Sgt.)
. The effect was always the same on Bob. Part of him wanted to smile at the memory of Vincent, and part of him wanted to weep. Checking no one was looking, he pulled out a clean cotton handkerchief and wiped his eyes, blew his nose. He suddenly felt very weary. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come. He’d have to go back home soon anyway. He didn’t like to leave Frank for long on his own in the house, and Frank liked it even less. There was a bench nearby. Bob’s knees were starting to complain, so he walked over to it and sat down, slowly. He could just about read the names from there, which somehow made him feel as though Vincent was nearby. And then he began his ritual.

His hands shook a little as he took the envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. He unfolded the letter. The paper was thin, creased and becoming fragile.
I don’t know why I bring it with me
, he thought.
I know it off by heart anyway
. Still, the routine was comforting, as the letter had given him comfort all those years ago. He began to read.

Dear Bob,

I hope you’re feeling better, and I hope this letter will help. I don’t know exactly what happened to you in the quarry, but I want you to know that you’re not the only one.

It was short and to the point. It told the story from Vincent’s point of view. It explained how Vincent had found Bob on the ledge and looked after him. It told him about the mystery of the missing tools. And it finished:

I’ve always been hard on you, Bob. I thought it was for your own good. But now, I wonder. There’s some hard times coming, but you’re a young man, and you have your whole life ahead of you. Keep your head down, and look after yourself.

Vincent

That letter had made Bob feel he had a friend, made him feel worthwhile. It had snapped him out of his low mood. And he’d written a reply to Vincent. It had been a relief to have someone who would listen, someone who would believe him. He’d written down everything he’d seen, and immediately he’d felt better. The memory of that awful day in the quarry was still there, but now he’d shared the load with Vincent. And Vincent’s shoulders were broad enough to take it.

Bob managed a sad smile. In many ways Vincent had been a stronger influence on him than his own father. Vincent had always been strict with him, but that was just his way. And it was only because he’d expected a lot from him. At the time, Bob hadn’t appreciated it. But later he understood what Vincent had tried to teach him: to take a pride in his work and in himself.

If it wasn’t for you
, he thought,
I’d never have finished my apprenticeship, never become a stonemason, never amounted to anything
. Bob sighed. If only Vincent had lived to see it. He would’ve been proud. And it was a shame he wasn’t here now to offer some advice. Of course, if he’d lived through the war, he’d be very old by now. But even so, Bob was sure his old friend would’ve known what to do about those youngsters.

Tell me
, he thought,
tell me this is the end of it. Tell me people will finally stay away from that damned thing
. He could only hope. Whatever the boy had seen, he’d been scared. The poor lad, he’d had a rough time of it, what with the ledge, that thug, and then the trouble with the police. Surely enough to put him off the quarry for life. He’d seemed a decent sort of lad, and polite. He didn’t look like the sort who’d go looking for trouble. He’d just got himself into the wrong place at the wrong time.
Just like me
, he thought,
all those years ago
.

Bob put the letter away carefully and stood up, leaning on the bench’s arm rest for support. He felt better. Vincent was there when he needed him, if only in spirit. It would be all right. The police were finally listening to him, and they’d assured him they would catch those louts. And that boy wouldn’t try to get into the quarry again, and even if he did, Bob had taken certain steps to keep him out. Bob turned to walk back to the bus stop. That boy had learned his lesson. He wouldn’t see him again.

2010

I W
ANTED
TO RUN
ALL THE WAY
to the quarry, get it over with. But I daren’t. I already felt conspicuous, just by walking down the street on a school day. I’d entered the parallel world you only see when you’re off school. A world of quiet streets with no children over the age of five. A world of elderly ladies with shopping bags on wheels and mums with pushchairs in front and toddlers in tow. I stood out like a sore thumb. I was sure I was being watched from behind every laced curtain. What if someone saw me—a neighbour, one of Mum’s friends? What would I say?

Then I saw it. The police car cruised toward me. I kept walking, tried not to stare, tried not to stumble. They were looking for me, heading to my house, coming to take me in. But no. They sailed past without a glance in my direction. I looked back over my shoulder. They’d driven past my house, they hadn’t even slowed down. I kept walking. Breathe, I told myself. Breathe and calm down, or you’re going to lose your nerve.

Soon I reached the public footpath, and I set off along the dusty gravel. There was no one in sight, no one behind me. I breathed a sigh of relief. At least there was no sign of the Brewers. Of course they wouldn’t be that stupid. They knew the police had discovered their hiding place. It wasn’t safe for them anymore. And even if they were looking for me, they’d expect me to be at school.

There was one other person who might come along and cause trouble—Mr Drew. But he was old and slow, and I would see him coming and recognise him easily enough.
He couldn’t cause me much of a problem
, I thought. But I was wrong about that.

I made it to the hole in the fence without seeing a soul. But then I stopped, stared stupidly at the fence. It had been repaired. Fresh boards had been laid horizontally across the hole, with neat rows of shiny, new, heavy-duty nails along their edges. And that’s when I knew I’d been wrong about Mr Drew. He’d beaten me. Those nails had to have been his handiwork. The local council would never have been so prompt. And Mr Drew was the kind of man who had a shed full of nails and screws—all in clearly labelled jam jars.

I kicked at the new boards. Maybe I could prise them off with the hammer and chisel. But they were sturdy and securely nailed. Mr Drew had done a good job, and it would be slow and noisy to undo it. I had a simple choice: either I gave up and went home, or I climbed over the fence. After all, I’d climbed it before. But back then I hadn’t been covered in bruises. Was it worth the pain? Was it worth it to have a chance of seeing Cally? A chance to find out what had happened to me?

I gritted my teeth and jumped up to reach the top of the fence. My arms burned as they took my weight.
Best to be quick
, I thought.
Get it over with
. I heaved myself up, gasping at the pain. But I was there, sitting on the top, looking down into the drop on the far side. “Damn,” I muttered. “How am I going to get back out?” I shuffled around, holding onto the top of the fence.
I’ll find a way
, I thought.
And if I find Cally, she’ll show me the path she uses
.

This was it—the point of no return. I twisted around, and, as slowly as I could, I lowered myself down into the quarry. My arms shook. I tried to keep my grip on the fence, tried to look for a safe landing spot. But it was no use, I couldn’t hold on any longer. I let myself fall.

The moment my feet hit the ground, the pain screamed through my tortured legs, surged through me. My legs buckled, and I collapsed, landing heavily on my backside. I pulled my legs to my chest, wrapped my arms around them and hugged them. I shut my eyes, fought back a sob, tried to breathe slowly. I don’t know how long I stayed there, squatting among the dead leaves. I only knew I couldn’t move—not yet.

Gradually, the pain faded. I opened my eyes.
The worst part is over
, I thought.
I’m here now. I’ve done it
. I stood as carefully as I could, leaning on the fence for support. I could’ve run into trouble in the street, but now, no one could see me. For the moment, I was safe. I took a deep breath and headed across the quarry floor, toward the ledge.

* * *

At the bottom of the steps I paused, listened. No voices. Nothing. Should I call out? I looked around, nervously. It should be all right. “Hello?” I called. “Anyone up there? Cally?”

No reply. I waited for a moment. Maybe they’d be there later. I could climb up and have a look. There might be something to show the dig was still going on—trenches dug, equipment lying about. At least then I’d know if it was worth waiting. “I’ve come this far,” I said. “I can’t stop now.” I put my foot on the first step and started to climb.

The first few steps were the hardest. My leg muscles burned at every footstep. I stopped to catch my breath. “Come on,” I muttered. “Almost there.” It wasn’t true, but it got me moving again. I clambered up, focusing on the next step. One by one, I told myself, one by one.

And then I’d done it. I staggered onto the ledge, red faced and breathing hard.

“Aw hell,” I muttered. There was no sign of Cally, no sign of a dig. Everything was just as I’d left it. I put my hands on my waist, hung my head and took a few deep breaths. I smiled to myself. With the dishevelled state of my clothes, it was just as well that Cally wasn’t there after all.

I brushed myself down and looked around the ledge. I found myself staring at the mound of earth we’d hidden behind. At this distance, it looked like an ordinary grassy bank, a nice place to sit on a sunny day. But I knew what it held. I pictured the black stone platform, remembered the moment I’d reached across to grab the tools. In my mind I saw again the blinding flashes of light, relived the dizzying sensation of falling. My stomach lurched. I rubbed my eyes, but the memory was too strong. I stumbled. The ground swayed beneath my feet. I moaned, felt the burn of vomit in the back of my throat. I dropped to my knees, put my hands on the ground. I closed my eyes.
If I’ve got to throw up
, I thought,
please let it be quick
.

I didn’t hear him coming up the steps. He must’ve crept silently, knowing I was there, wanting to catch me by surprise. The first thing I heard was his voice:

“So this is where you hide away. Come back for your lesson, have you?”

Robbo.

I opened my eyes, staggered to my feet and turned. He walked casually toward me, both hands in his hoodie pocket. I stepped backward, shook my head. “No,” I whispered. “No.”

His eyes gleamed. He swaggered toward me. “Oh yes,” he said. “You’ve got to learn some respect.”

I couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t tear my eyes from his cold stare. I backed away, as fast as I could, stumbling as he closed in on me. I could hear his shoes moving through the grass, his breath whistling in his nostrils.

Suddenly, the back of my legs hit against something, and I fell, backward, my arms waving wildly. My back crashed down, and the back of my head whacked against something hard. I put my arms out to try and push myself up and felt cold stone beneath my hands.

I had fallen onto the black stone.

Robbo loomed above me, his face twisted in a vicious grin. He pulled his hand from his pocket. The knife’s blade might be the last thing I’d ever see.

I closed my eyes, pulled my legs to my chest and curled into a ball.
Why me?
I thought.
I don’t deserve this. Just let me get out of here. Let me get out of this damned place for once and for all.

It begins.

A low, throbbing hum. Louder and louder, it buzzes, crackles, distorts. It vibrates in my chest, my stomach. Still louder—a torrent, a sizzling, pounding, roaring tsunami of sound.

I open my eyes, see blurs of light. Colours glow, shift, melt into a fierce whiteness. I shout, scream for all I’m worth, but I can’t hear my own voice. I gasp for air, but something slams into my chest, stealing my breath. A terrible pressure forces me flat against the stone. I can’t move my arms, my legs, my head. And still the noise drones on, throbbing faster and faster, rising to a high, whining wail.

This is it. He’s hit me, stabbed me. This chaos is the confusion of my last moments as my life leaks away onto the cold stone.

But then the pain comes. Wrenching, pulling, clawing at me. I am the frayed rope in a tug of war, strained to breaking point: threads snapping, slowly unravelling, flying apart. I’m being ripped into pieces—skin splitting, peeling back, curling away as something deep within me explodes outwards.

And then, above me, I see it. The darkness. It spreads across the sky, swarms toward me, gorging itself on sound, devouring all light. It hurls itself at me, and I am helpless. The impact judders through me, freezes my heart, like plunging into icy water.

Silence.

The pain swirls away, drowned by the darkness. The world drops away beneath me, and I fall. I plummet through the emptiness, rolling, tumbling. There is nothing to hold on to, no way to stop. There is no escape, no end, no hope.

This is surely death.

* * *

Stars. Just stars. Real stars in the sky above me. I blinked, moved my head. I could see the moon. How long had I been here? I took a deep breath. The air was cool and fresh. I rubbed my hands over my face, flexed my fingers, stretched my arms and legs. I was all right. I was a bit dizzy, and my ears were ringing, but I was all right. How could that be?

I shifted my weight and felt the cold beneath me. I was still on the black stone. But what had happened to me? I pictured Robbo, remembered the knife. Was he still there? Was he watching me even now? I had to move, had to get myself safe.

I pushed myself up so that I was sitting on the stone. No. This wasn’t right. I swung my legs around to the stone’s edge, intending to push myself up, but my feet dangled in empty space.
What the hell?
I gripped the stone’s edge with both hands, and leaned forward. The sheer side of the dark stone fell away below me at least two metres to the moonlit grass. Slowly, I raised my head and turned to look around. My mouth hung open.

It wasn’t just the stone platform that was different. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, it was obvious that I was not on the ledge, not even in the quarry. I was on the top of a hill, a high, green hill. It was a clear, starlit night. I could see for miles. There was no sign of the town, no sign of any town. No road, wall, or even hedgerow. Only woodland and patches of scrub stretching to the horizon in every direction. I pushed my hand into my pocket, grabbed my phone. It was dead. I pressed the power button, but nothing happened. It was useless.

I remembered my backpack and slipped the straps from my shoulders. Was there anything useful in there? But even as I opened the top I recalled how I’d emptied it onto my bed before I rushed out. There was nothing inside it except the hammer and chisel. I dropped the bag to the ground.

What am I going to do?
I thought.
Shall I call for help?
I shook my head. There was no one to hear.

No one at all.