Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) (21 page)

Gemma took hold of Cally’s arm. “Come on. We’re off.”

Cally stared at her friend. Had she lost her mind? Did she really want to be a part of this baying mob?

“Excuse me, ladies.” A man’s voice cut into her thoughts. Cally turned. A middle-aged man stood, smiling apologetically and holding two take-out cups from Starbucks. “Excuse me,” he said again. “I just need to squeeze past. My wife won’t forgive me if her cappuccino goes cold.”

“Oh sure,” Cally said. She stepped back and watched the man pick his way through the crowd.
So ordinary
.
So normal
. A minute ago, had that mild-mannered man raised his voice and chanted along with everyone else?

Cally took a deep breath and exhaled.
This is all a bit weird
. Perhaps this was the moment to make her excuses and leave. But it wouldn’t be easy. It felt wrong to walk away when everyone else seemed so committed.
And I’d be letting Gemma down
.

She looked around. At least the pressure of the crowd was easing. Those who’d had the sense to stay at the back of the crowd would already be funnelling out through the gates and onto the street. A few protesters raised their printed placards, or waved their homemade banners, eager to be off. A few were still chanting, “No more cuts!” and somewhere in the distance, a group was singing, though Cally couldn’t make out the words.

She glanced at Gemma. Her friend was excited, energised. She was in her element.
I should stay
, Cally decided.
It’s only a few hours of my time
—
I owe her that much
. She raised her eyebrows and gave Gemma a little smile. “Wow. That was intense.”

“Yeah,” Gemma said. “You get used to it.”

Cally nodded. So far, the protest wasn’t an experience she planned to repeat. Ever. But there was no need to say that to Gemma. Instead, Cally looked down, rifling through the flyers she’d been given, looking for something to distract her from the prospect of the long march ahead. She scanned the bold headings, but there was nothing to lighten her mood.
More doom and gloom
. Why didn’t these people just get on with their lives? Why did they have to complain about everything?

“Do you know him?” Gemma asked.

“What? Who?” Cally looked up and Gemma nodded toward a man in the distance.

“Him. The guy in the beige jacket.”

Cally knew exactly who she meant. Most people were wearing T-shirts or hoodies. Smart jackets were few and far between, and this man stood out. He looked uncomfortable, out of place. “No. I don’t know him. He looks lost. Probably looking for the cathedral and got caught up in the crowd.”

“I’m not so sure. A minute ago he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

“Really?” Cally gave the man another look—properly this time.
Not bad
. He was a few years older than her, but he was slim and looked like he kept himself fit. He stood straight. And he had nice, square shoulders. She liked that.

Suddenly, he turned his head toward her. Cally looked away, but it was too late. He’d definitely caught her looking at him. “Oh god,” she muttered.

“I saw that look,” Gemma said. “Like them smart and clean cut, do you?”

Cally smiled. “Well, there’s no harm in a man knowing what the soap is for and remembering to change his underwear every day.”

Gemma cackled and tilted her head toward a nearby gaggle of male students. “Try telling that to this lot.”

“Besides,” Cally added, “he’s not squeaky clean—he’s got a bit of designer stubble.”

“Oh well, that makes all the difference.” Gemma snorted. “He looks like a bit of a mummy’s boy to me, but hey, whatever gets you through the night.” Gemma gave the man a wave. “Hey, mate,” she called. “Over here.”

“No,” Cally hissed. She glanced across at the man, hoping he’d choose to ignore Gemma and walk away. But no. He was already pointing at his own chest and mouthing the word, “
Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Gemma called. “Come over here for a minute will you?”

The man started walking toward them, a pained expression on his face.

Cally gave Gemma a tight smile. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Just saying hello, that’s all. The poor bloke looks shy, and I
know
you are.”

“He could be anybody.”

“Yeah. And he could be somebody. Look, just say hello. If he turns out to be a jerk, I’ll get rid of him. OK?”

Cally straightened her hair. “I haven’t exactly got much choice, have I?”

“You got that right,” Gemma said in an undertone. She turned to greet the man. “Hi. We were just wondering—where do we know you from?”

Chapter 19

2014

TOM EASED THE ASTRA along the track, taking it as slowly and quietly as the gravel would allow. He leaned forward, peering through the windscreen. Ahead, the track curved around a bend. Tom could see faint wisps of dust still hanging in the air in the Renault’s wake.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Where are you?”

He’d know soon enough. Around the corner, the track straightened out for a while then ended at the edge of the playing field. The field was surrounded by a chain-link fence more than two metres high and held with steel posts. The only entrance was a narrow metal gate designed for pedestrians. Was the man planning to escape on foot? Tom shook his head. It didn’t make sense. He pictured the middle-aged man, shambling across the football field. Yes, there was a road on the other side of the playing field, but the man would never make it that far; Tom would catch him in seconds. But then, nothing this man had done so far had made any sort of sense. Why should he start behaving normally now?

There must be something else
—
something I’ve missed
. But in that moment, Tom rounded the corner, and there was no more need to speculate. Just a little way up the track, the hatchback was stationary. The driver was still inside, still sitting behind the wheel. Tom braked, bringing the Astra to a halt. As his tyres bit into the gravel, a cloud of fine, white dust breezed forward.

Tom put the handbrake on and knocked the car out of gear, but he left the engine running. He stared at the hatchback. Though the Renault’s rear window was coated in grime, Tom could see the driver well enough. The man sat stock still, his head tilted toward his rear view mirror.
He’s watching me. He’s waiting to see what I’m going to do.

Tom’s lip curled in a sneer. “You’ll find out in a minute mate. And then you’ll wish you’d never played this game.” Keeping his eyes on the driver, Tom unfastened his safety belt and slid the strap back into its housing. For a moment, he hesitated, his hand on the door catch. This really was a turning point. Once he stepped from the car, he’d move fast. He wouldn’t give the other man a chance. Tom flared his nostrils and took a long, slow breath. This wouldn’t take long, and afterward, with this insanity over, his life could eventually get back to normal.
And that makes it all worthwhile
. Tom set his mouth in a determined line, his eyes narrowed in an unspoken threat, and slowly, he released the catch and pushed his door open. He slid across his seat and glanced down as he placed a foot on the track.

The Renault’s engine roared. Tom froze.
What the hell?
For a split second, the old hatchback’s wheels spun on the gravel, then suddenly, they found their grip and the Renault lurched backward. Tom gaped as the hatchback accelerated directly toward him and a jolt of fear stabbed into the pit of his stomach. If he tried to jump from the car, the driver would mow him down, crush him beneath his wheels. If he stayed inside the car, he had another option. Tom threw himself back against the seat, leaving the door open. He pressed the clutch and put the car into reverse. Thank God he’d left the engine running. He revved the engine and released the handbrake. It was the worst thing he could’ve done.

The battered blue hatchback was travelling as fast as it could in reverse, and when it collided with Tom’s car, the dull boom of the impact quickly gave way to the shuddering scream of crumpling metal. The Astra’s airbags deployed, but thanks to Tom’s futile attempt to escape, there was nothing to stop the car from being pushed backward. Tom jerked forward as the Astra lurched beneath him. Without his seatbelt, his head and upper body hit the airbag hard, and at the wrong angle. His body twisted toward the centre of the car, and the side of his head slid across the airbag and slammed into the dashboard. Something crunched in his neck. A burst of pure, white pain flooded through his mind and he fell, slumping onto the floor. The gear stick rammed against the side of his chest, and his head thumped hard onto the car floor. But it didn’t matter, because all this was happening to someone else, someone far away. Tom couldn’t do anything about it. Everything was fading away now, dissolving into inky blackness, but that was all right too, because now the car wasn’t moving anymore, and he didn’t have to worry about anything. He could let it all go. At last, he could get some sleep.

The middle-aged man turned to look over his shoulder. Good. He’d pushed the Astra back as far as the bend in the track, and the car had come to rest partway up the bank of earth that ran alongside the track. At the bend, the track was wider, and with the Astra partly on the bank, the track was clear enough; he could just about squeeze his car through the gap.
I should be able to get away
, he decided.
That’s if, when this over, I’m in a fit state to do anything.

He glanced at the mess he’d made of the Astra. It wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. And that, too, was good. He waited for a moment.
No sign of the driver
.
He must’ve been shaken up pretty badly
. But that was nothing. Nothing to what was going to happen.

The man took a breath and blew it out. So far, so good. He made sure his handbrake was on then turned the Renault’s engine off. No point wasting petrol. He’d have to leave the car there for quite a while.

He looked down to the passenger seat for his weapon, but in the crash, it had rolled into the footwell. He tutted to himself. He should’ve thought of that, and secured it properly.
A little detail like that could cause the whole plan to unravel
. He leaned across and reached down, wrapping his fingers around the smooth metal. He lifted the baseball bat and gave a grim smile. It was a horrible, thuggish thing, but there was a certain justice about using the man’s own weapon against him.

He checked his rear view mirror. The track was deserted, but although he wasn’t expecting anyone to come along at this time of day, it was time to get moving. He opened his car door and swung his legs to the ground.

Tom’s mind was adrift. In one moment, his world throbbed with pain and confusion; in the next, a savage, muddled darkness swirled through his mind, blotting out his thoughts, slowing down every sensation. In some strange, disconnected way, he knew where he was and what had happened. But he couldn’t so much as lift a finger to help himself. He could barely even flutter an eyelid.

But then, there was a noise—a regular sound he recognised. It was the sound of footsteps on gravel.
Someone’s coming
.
They’ll help me
.
Or maybe, they’ll send for help
. An ambulance. That was what he needed. An ambulance sounded good.

The footsteps were close now. Very close. When they stopped, Tom managed to open his eyes. Just a little. A dark shape loomed above him. Somebody, a man, leaned into the car and looked down at him.

Tom tried to swallow. “Help,” he whispered. “Help me.”

The dark shape disappeared.

Tom rolled his tongue around his mouth, but it felt heavy, as if he’d had too much to drink. He needed to explain, to get some help. He tried to turn his head but something clicked and grated in his neck, and a jolt of pain shuddered down his spine.
Oh god! Please don’t let me be paralysed
. Not that. Anything but that.

The man ducked his head to peer inside the Astra. Tom was in a bad way—worse than expected. But he was already trying to talk. He’d live. Now, he just had to get him out of the car. The man retreated for a moment. He stood up straight and ran a hand over his face. He hadn’t expected Tom to go sideways like this. Would it be all right to move him? Would it be safe? He chewed his lip and looked up and down the track. What choice did he have? He had to get Tom moving. He put the baseball bat on the ground next to the front wheel and bent over to get his upper body inside the car.

Tom lay on his side, crumpled on the car floor. One leg stuck out of the car door, the other was folded underneath him. If the man took hold of an arm and a leg, he could probably lift him clear of the car without too much difficulty. Tom was wiry, almost skinny. He wouldn’t weigh too much.

The man bent to his task, but in the confines of the car, he struggled to get a good grip. Tom moaned and the man withdrew his hands, recoiling in horror from the weight and warmth of Tom’s body. For a moment, a wave of guilt washed over him.
I did this
.
I did this to him
. The man shook his head. This was harder than he’d expected it to be, and it worried him that Tom’s face was so pale. What if he’d suffered some kind of internal injury? What if he died? The man took a deep, steadying breath. It was too late to fret now. He had no choice but to proceed with his plan. He had to assume Tom would be all right. The crash had just shaken him up, that was all, and a few bruises were nothing—
nothing
compared to what Tom had done. He
deserved
this.