Absent Light (31 page)

“I ought to go first,” Helen said. In effect, they were entering a crime scene. Out of habit, she realised that it was important not to contaminate the point of entry, the approach path, and inevitable bloodstains on the walls. There was another reason for going ahead. She wanted to shield the girl.

“There's a light switch on the wall just inside,” the girl said.

Helen unlocked the door and felt for the switch. The light was so brilliant it hurt her eyes, making them water and squint. As the room gained more definition, she saw that she was standing in a narrow, poorly equipped kitchen with a sort of lobby tacked on housing a boiler and downstairs lavatory.

The scene in the kitchen was one of concentrated chaos. Onions and vegetables that had once hung in large nets were ripped from the walls. Preserved fruits and meats, and jars of jam and honey lay smashed upon the floor. The single drainer overflowed with dirty china. Greasy washing-up water, that looked as if it had been there for weeks, lay stagnating in the bowl. Cheap cupboards lay disembowelled, their contents spilled out onto the blood-spattered lino. On the facing wall was an old cream-coloured Rayburn. Except it wasn't cream any more. It was stained the colour of ox-liver. A slick of blood, dark and clotted, pooled on the floor in front of it. Drag-marks were clearly visible.

The girl was standing next to her. She was deathly white. Helen put an arm around the girl's shoulder, and gently guided her through to the adjoining room, a sort of parlour with a door at the end, which was open, revealing a set of stairs. The room must have been cluttered and cosy once, Helen thought, the place where the old woman spent most of her quiet life. Before Ryan crashed in and snuffed it out.

The carpet was covered in cigarette burns. Discarded beer bottles and bits of rotting food littered the hearth. Some effort had been made to light a fire. Blankets strewn near a chair suggested that Ryan had slept downstairs.

The phone rested on a small dining table pushed back against the wall. Helen seized on it, the words nine, nine, nine playing a soundtrack in the back of her brain. Picking up the receiver, she punched in the emergency number and waited. Nothing. No reassuring dialling tone. She stood there blankly. Punched in the number again, cursing, until the painful truth slowly dawned on her: there was no line.

The obvious thing to do would be to stay where they were. They had shelter. There was food and water, sanitation. But what if no rescue came? What if, instead, Ryan returned?

She looked back across the room, wondered how to break the news, but the girl was gone. Helen crossed to the bottom of the stairs, called up. She could hear the sound of running water. She took the stairs two at a time. A door ahead of her was closed. She tapped on it.

“Go away.”

“Siena, what are you doing?”

“I'm taking a bath.”

“No, you mustn't do that.” She tried to open the door but it wouldn't budge.

“I
must
,” the girl cried, shrill.

“It's not a good idea. Besides, there's no time. The phone's dead. We need to get out of here.” She glanced at her watch. It was twenty to two.

“I'm not listening.”

“Look, Siena, I understand the reason, truly I do, but…”

“You don't understand anything,” the girl screamed back, “how could you?”

Helen retreated. Shaken, she drank glass after glass of water. The girl was right. She had no right to preach. No right at all. There's an ancient saying that warns that those who avert their eyes from evil commit the worst of sins. While Adam wasn't evil, Jacks certainly was. She was no philosopher, no believer, but she understood the message.

She gingerly examined her hand. The gash was across the fleshy part of her thumb. It was deep and open and needed stitches. Racing back upstairs, she found a clean pillowcase in one of the bedrooms and, ripping it into strips, bandaged it as tightly as she could. She also found several sweaters, two of which she put on underneath her jacket, and a pair of bedsocks that smelt of mothballs to replace the ones she'd been forced to use as a temporary dressing. In a worse case scenario, hypothermia, coupled with blood-loss, could prove life threatening. She tried not to think about it. A frantic search for a torch and compass yielded nothing. She needed the girl's co-operation. It didn't appear as if she was going to get it. She didn't blame her.

She went back downstairs and crossed over into the downstairs lavatory. She felt acutely aware of her physical state, her body odour, the smell of pee on her clothes. The dirt. The fear. Mentally, she was in conflict: the pressing need to flee against an overpowering exhaustion. Even the short time in their temporary refuge had the effect of switching off her flight or fight response. She felt drained, sedated with unhappiness, as if she could sleep for a week. With her good hand, she splashed water over her face, hoping it would sharpen her wits.

After a cursory exploration, she found two packets of dried soup and, taking the kettle into the living room, boiled it in there, away from the carnage. She filled two mugs and put the rest in an old thermos flask that, in spite of rinsing, retained a sour, tainted smell. There was no bread, no butter, no milk or cheese but there were dry crackers and cereal, and one tin of baked beans and one tin of salmon. She opened both, stuffed the crackers and cereal into a plastic supermarket bag with the flask, and listened to the girl thumping around upstairs. Minutes later, she appeared. She looked scrubbed but brittle. She'd changed into thick corduroy trousers. Her cleanliness appeared in direct disproportion to her manner.

“Bon appetit,” Helen said, handing her a spoon.

“Not hungry.”

“You must be.”

The girl shook her head, twitched away from her. There was a manic look in her green eyes. She moved as if she had Tourette's syndrome. This was bad, Helen thought, very bad.

“The soup's hot. It will warm you up. Be quick,” she said lightly. “We need to get moving.”

“I'm not going.”

“You can't stay here,” Helen said, open-jawed.

“Why not?”

“He might come back.”

“This is my home.”

“It's not safe.”

“And you think out there is?” the girl suddenly yelled, her voice hitting a high note of panic. “I thought I was safe with my mother. I thought I was safe with my friends. I thought I was safe here. And look what happened,” she screeched. Her shoulders pumped up and down. The heels of her palms pressed into her eyes. Helen stretched out her arms to touch her. Sensing it, the girl flinched away. Her mouth opened and closed as though she were having an asthma attack. The noises pouring from her mouth were unintelligible. Helen rushed to her side and put her arms around her, feeling the weight of the girl's terror and sorrow. The girl struggled and fought, but Helen held her firm, receiving the blows.

“You're safe with me,” Helen told her over and over again, willing her to believe it. “I won't leave you. I'll look after you. I'll get you out of here. I promise.”

But the girl was inconsolable. She howled and scratched and sobbed and shook.

After a time the fight seemed to go out of her, the crying grew less intense. Helen stroked the girl's hair, wiped her reddened eyes, her nose, coaxed her to eat and drink. It was after two in the morning. The time her father collected the call from Ryan.

Time to get out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

B
LUNDERING OFF IN THE
wrong direction could kill them, so could the night. To minimise the risk, Helen found hats and thick woollen scarves and gloves. The girl sat sullen.

They carried a limited amount of water as well as raw supplies. Before they left, Helen scribbled their names on a piece of paper and left it by the telephone so that the police would know they'd been there. She also secreted a thin-bladed kitchen knife in the pocket of her coat.

The question was, which way to go? After some attempt to humour her, Helen discovered that the girl seemed to think that, should Ryan escape, he'd return along the most direct route from the main road. For this reason, the girl suggested another way.

“Is it longer?” Helen said, worried.

“Yes.”

“Is there a road?”

“We can follow the river.”

Follow the river? Helen thought in alarm. “You know it well?” she asked urgently.

“Well enough,” was the clipped reply.

It felt as if the moor had its own unique intemperate weather system. The cold was more bitter, the wind more cruel. It bayed at them. The starlit sky, that only minutes before looked beautiful, seemed hostile and glittering with malice.

To start with, they followed the narrow track from the cottage. It was rough and stony and led steeply downhill, swiftly reducing their gait to a slow shuffle. Helen told herself that it didn't matter. Better to make slow, steady progress than go at it like a bullet from a gun and further exhaust themselves.

She tried hard not to think of the wilderness surrounding them. In sunshine, it might seem like a rare jewel. It might look benign and beautiful, but moors, by their very nature, were lonely, desolate wastelands, steeped in dark secrets. They were burial grounds for the dead. Synonymous with Brady and Hindley, and, nearer to her own experience, the Cannock Chase murderer, they echoed with a colossal unnameable fear.

They moved forward, stopped, listened, and keening their ears for sound of another, increased the pace where they could. After a while the land seemed to flatten out though the ground itself was rough and partially sheathed in a thin layer of ice.

Helen felt the wind battering against her face and sensed the bleak openness of their surroundings. She couldn't see the landscape, but she could visualise the desolation, the unforgiving terrain, the utter loneliness. She imagined deep gulleys and fast flowing rivers, rocky peaks and dark wooded gorges. She thought of treacherous tracts of land where the water-logged earth became bog. The girl spoke of a river, but Helen could hear and smell nothing other than peat.

“It's this way,” the girl said.

“You sure?”

“Think so, yes.”

Helen followed. Her eyes were slowly growing more accustomed to the lack of light. She discovered that, although the night is never completely dark or quiet, it is misleading. What appeared solid could prove insubstantial. A faint outline could be a jagged rock or wild pony. A sound could be no more threatening than the wind chasing through the ferns or ice-strewn wastes. It was easy to feel lost and disorientated. And dangerous.

They must have been walking for forty minutes. Her night vision was better now, more distilled, but the going was agonisingly slow. The ground felt barren and uncultivated. The grass, too, was stubby and unforgiving. She kept bumping into bracken and gorse and tiny hillocks. Neither of them had proper footwear and it was easy to stumble, easy to slip or wrench an ankle. Helen's only consolation was that, if Ryan returned, he would stick to the formal tracks. He'd definitely avoid the marshier terrain enclosing the river.

She tried to keep talking, to bolster their spirits, inspire with confidence. “Try swinging your arms.”

“Why?”

“Helps maintain an even pace. And, if you take a tumble, you've got a better chance of saving yourself.”

“If you say so,” the girl replied sulkily.

“You feeling all right?”

“What do you think?”

Helen curbed a less tolerant response. “Want some water?”

“No thanks.”

“No light-headedness?”

“Too cold for that.”

“Feet holding out?”

“Stop bloody fussing.”

There was a large shape before them. Thinking it was some form of habitation, Helen briefly switched on her tiny torch. The light was poor, signalling that the batteries were running out.

“An old tinner's hut,” the girl informed her.

“They used to mine here?”

“It was the richest source of tin in Europe, so Gran said. Back a long time ago. Best tread carefully.”

“Why?”

“Open shafts.”

“You're not inspiring me with confidence,” Helen laughed, trying not to sound worried.

“It's a good sign,” the girl assured her.

“How do you work that out?”

“It means the river's close by.”

They'd travelled no more than a quarter of a mile before they blundered into it.

“See those lights,” Helen said. They were standing side-by-side. The weather had changed. The wind had dropped to light icy gusts. Patchy freezing fog drifted temperamentally across their path. She stood mute, puzzled by the red glow. They weren't tiny fires – too high up – they looked friendly, like leading lights guiding a boat into harbour.

“Look, there's something below them,” the girl said, “a flag or…”

“Christ,” Helen screamed. There was the most enormous bang, like the sound of a volcano erupting, or massive nuclear explosion. The sky lit up and seemed to shake. “Get down, get down,” she yelled, throwing herself at the frozen earth, pulling the girl underneath her.

Flares of light shot into the sky, turning it white. The ground, which had been black and unseen, suddenly flashed and writhed with deadly energy. Gunfire turned night into day. They lay, paralysed with fear, not daring to move, trying not to breathe while a vast armoured firework display crashed around their heads.

Helen shut her eyes tight, tried to still her trembling limbs, wondering what they had stumbled into. Military manoeuvres, by the sound of it. But, surely, it wasn't possible?

The air burnt with the smell of cordite. The night crackled with the sound of machine-gun and tracer fire. It was like being caught in the biggest thunderstorm imaginable. Right over them. Every so often, the ground lit up, and she was certain they were going to be blown to pieces.

There was no let-up. No time to recover or calm the nerves. She made the mistake of glancing up once. The sky looked like a great illuminated spider's web.

Her heart clamoured. Sweat gathered on her brow. Her hand throbbed and burnt with the pain of injury. She felt quite dizzy with fear. Added to this, she thought of ponies bolting, of being crushed. She tried not to think of the damage one stray bullet could do.

She wondered if they should try and wriggle forwards, using their elbows to crawl, keeping their stomachs and rears firmly down, their movements small, but she didn't know which way to go, which would be safe. Surely to God, she screamed inside, the area couldn't be mined. Wouldn't be allowed. Would it?

Flares arced over their heads, bursting all around them, parachuting through the sky. They must have chanced upon some kind of firing line, she judged, maybe a place where the SAS practised. The moor was probably crawling with soldiers, she thought, but, scarily, she couldn't glimpse any. They all seemed to have melted into the background. She had a mad idea of giving themselves up, surrendering, but they'd be cut down before their hands had left their sides. And this wasn't war, she reminded herself. Just felt like it.

Waiting was purgatory. Hoping was worse. They seemed to be pinned down in a kind of hollow. The chill night air settled in it, forcing the heat to evaporate from their bodies. In spite of being welded together, Helen felt unutterably cold. She wondered if, at first light, the noise would stop. She glanced at her watch. It was almost five in the morning. They must have lain there for the best part of two hours.

The noise was dying. It was less repetitive, more sporadic. Still they didn't move. In the waiting, Helen allowed her mind to leap. She remembered those she cared about and, most oddly, those she didn't. She recalled forgotten faces, strangers whom she'd only ever met in death. But more than these, she thought of the girl concealed beneath her.

Thought of redemption.

The silence was more profound. Slowly and with great care, they stiffly picked themselves up, looking at each other in bewilderment, amazed to be alive. Then they started off again, slowly, moving forward like good and faithful friends. After a short time, Helen heard the river, smelt the water and vegetation. The earth was softer underfoot, less arduous. This was their route to safety, she thought, their pass to freedom, but the mist, which had been patchy, was growing in density and descending with alarming speed.

After a while, she called a halt. Squatting on the ground, they had a small picnic of crackers and soup and water.

“You reckon we're heading in the right direction?” Helen asked.

“Hard to tell. There should be a tor up ahead and then a narrow road.”

“A tor?”

“A rocky peak.”

“How far?”

“Not sure,” the girl said, chewing her chapped lip.

Completely lost, Helen thought, with dread. She glanced at her watch again. It had stopped at five in the morning. She ditched the bag and flask, hung onto the water. “We'd better start moving again.”

“Helen.”

“Yes?”

“I've remembered.”

“What?”

“My name is Ayshea Stone.”

“Ayshea,” Helen said, trying it out.

“It means life,” the girl said.

The climb was steeper now, more rugged. It was difficult to hear the river. Fog muffled the sound. Visibility was down to a few yards. Everything was indistinguishable. Helen hoped the mist would lift with the same fickleness it had arrived. With the light changing, she wanted to be able to see the clefts and gorges, the steep-sided quarries, to know her adversary.

They trudged on, skirting what appeared to be a copse. The ground crackled and Helen could tell, from the sound of Ayshea's tread, that she was limping.

“What's wrong?”

“Blister.”

“Better have a look at it.” Given the conditions, Helen feared it could turn into a festering sore.

She took the girl's foot gently, eased off the shoe, the thin socks. She had a small foot, Helen noticed, no more than a size four. The skin had almost completely rubbed off the back of the heel, revealing a red and swollen area. It must have hurt for some time.

“Here, I've got a tissue,” Helen said, cushioning it, putting the sock and shoe back on.

They both stood up, both heard the sound, both turned. Ayshea's face broke into a radiant smile. Helen shook her head. “Wait,” she said.

“But if we flag them down, they can help us.”

“Just wait,” Helen said meaningfully.

“They'll drive past,” Ayshea flared with anger.

She gripped the girl's thin shoulder, squeezed it. “What sort of a fruit-case is out driving at this time?”

“You think it's him,” Ayshea gasped, eyes wide.

I don't know, she thought, but she was taking no chances. She pulled the girl back towards the trees, hoping that the combination of fog and woodland would camouflage them.

“But what if?” Ayshea hissed, squatting down next to Helen.

“Quiet.”

They both heard it now. The sound of an engine running, a car door opening and closing, footsteps. She heard someone whistle, high and shrill, as if calling a dog to heel.

“It's all right,” Ayshea whispered.

Helen shook her head, pressed a finger to her lips.

“You can come out,” Ryan's voice pierced the stillness. “I've got what I want. You're free to go. No hard feelin's.”

Ayshea's eyes lit up. Terrified she was going to call out, or struggle free Helen clapped a hand over the girl's mouth. As she listened to the crackle of heel on wood, questions pummelled her mind. What had gone wrong? How had he evaded the police? How could they have missed him? Crucially, how did Ryan know to come looking for them here?

He called again. Loud in the stillness. He was closer. She felt distilled with terror. Now she knew what it was to be hunted. Her heart was beating so loud she feared he'd hear.

“I know one of you's hurt, blood on the ground, see.”

Shit, Helen thought, staring at Ayshea.

Again the whistle. More footsteps. They stayed absolutely quiet, absolutely still. He was speaking again but the words were swallowed by the wind. He was further away, Helen thought, hoping for it, praying even though she didn't believe. Eventually, the swish of a car door opening and slamming signalled his departure. Relief trickled out of her at the sound of the engine revving, and the vehicle bouncing away over the roughened ground.

Helen released her grip. She felt spent, giddy. Blood had squirted through the makeshift bandage. Some of it was on the girl's mouth.

Ayshea's face crumpled with disappointment. “He said we could go.”

You have a lot to learn about trust, Helen thought. “He hasn't gone. He uses smoke and mirrors. He's playing games. And he knows the moors a lot better than we think.”

“Will he be back?” the girl's lip quivered. A tear slipped down her face.

What could she say? If you want to understand the photographer, look at the photo. If you want to understand the director, look at his films. If you want to understand the killer, look at the crime. Of course, he'd be back.