The Immaculate (36 page)

Bursting in through the front door, Jack was confronted by gloom and silence. He stood for a moment, bent almost double, rasping breath scorching his lungs, sweat bathing his body. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it over the carved wooden acorn at the foot of the stairs. Sucking in a deep breath he yelled, “Dad, I'm here!” The instant his foot touched the first step the phone began to ring.

“Hello?” Jack gasped into the receiver. “Is that you, Dad?”

The voice snarled only six words at him: “I'm coming for you, you bastard,” before the connection was abruptly broken.

Despite the brevity of the message, Jack recognised the voice immediately. So Tracey Bates and her father had decided to play out this idiotic game to its bitter end, and it didn't look as though they were going to rely on the police to make their final moves for them. Jack replaced the receiver gently, went through to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. His hand shook as he drank it. He leaned on the sink and looked out at the cobbled backyard, trying to get his head together.

Obviously his father had wanted him to know of Bates' intentions, which was why he'd led him back to the house. Jack decided he mustn't let the advantage slip. He must work out the course of action that would ensure him the best chance of impunity. If he went to the police he'd have to explain about last night, which might backfire on him, especially if Tracey Bates contested his version of events. No, the best thing to do, especially since it looked as though the Bates's were interested only in their own brand of vigilante justice, was to get in touch with Gail and then get the hell out of Beckford as quickly as possible.

He went back into the hall and picked up the phone, praying that he would be able to get through to her. Fifteen minutes later he put the phone down for the sixth or seventh time, his options exhausted, his prayers unanswered. After trying her flat again on the off chance, and then leaving a message on his own answering machine in case she happened by, he had attempted to track her down via various education channels, all without success. He knew she was teaching in Lewisham, but the people he spoke to either couldn't or wouldn't help him. Jack suspected that after finishing work she would make straight for the station. Frustration flaring into anger, he punched the wall, denting it, bruising his hand. “Thank you, God,” he muttered savagely. “Thank you so bloody much.”

So that was it then. He had no choice. He had to stay in Beckford until Gail arrived. The only option now was to meet her off the train and then get straight on to another one going to, say, Leeds or Bradford. Picking up the receiver again, he dialed the number for travel information.

Five minutes later he was beginning to feel as though there were a conspiracy against him. If Gail was teaching until noon, there was only one train she could catch to Beckford, and that was the connecting train from Wake-field, which arrived at 6:52
P.M.
That was all very well, but the last train
from
Beckford, going in the opposite direction, departed at eleven minutes past six.

“You're joking,” Jack said upon hearing this information.

“Nope,” replied the voice at the other end, almost smugly. “18:11 to Leeds, calling at—”

“Aren't there any local trains?”

Acidly, nonplussed at being interrupted, the voice said, “No, there aren't, I've told you. You'll have to leave a bit earlier, that's all.”

“I can't,” said Jack through gritted teeth. “I'm meeting someone off the 18:52 from London.”

“Looks like you're stuck there then, doesn't it?” the voice said with not inconsiderable satisfaction.

“Hang on,” said Jack. “What about that train, the 18:52? Surely that goes on somewhere?”

The voice sighed, then said, “18:52, Beckford to Manchester-Piccadilly. Arriving in Manchester at 20:08.”

That was it then. When Gail arrived he would jump on the train and they would spend the night in Manchester. There were good hotels there, good restaurants. They could leave Patty Bates and his poisonous daughter far behind.

Throughout the rest of the afternoon he felt on edge, flying to the window each time he heard the slightest sound from outside. He washed some clothes by hand in the kitchen sink, not trusting the battered, rust-streaked washing machine in the corner of the kitchen. He kept the carving knife from the kitchen drawer and the poker from beside the fireplace close to hand at all times. If Patty Bates and his chums came to call he wanted to be as ready for them as he could be.

He was only able to gain peace of mind from reading more of his father's stories. He read six of them over a ninety minute period; the experience was like communing with some greater force and thus being calmed by it. However, the instant he put the notebooks aside his nerves began jangling again. Although it was after six, time to go and meet Gail's train, he felt an urge to pick the notebooks up again immediately, lose himself in them afresh. He made himself pile the notebooks up beside the settee, put on his jacket, walk out of the room and then out of the house. He had thrown some overnight things in a bag earlier and he carried this with him. As soon as Gail stepped off the train, Jack intended to usher her straight back onto it again.

Walking the streets was nerve-racking; at every turn, Jack expected to meet Patty Bates heading a lynch mob. However, at first everything was quiet. The shops were closed, and there were only a few people around, walking dogs or strolling home from work. Jack was opposite a butcher's shop, a red-and-white plastic sign boasting of
MEAT AT ITS BEST
, when he heard the sound of engines.

Dread rising in him, he looked for somewhere to hide. Between the butcher's shop and the haberdashery next door was a narrow alley, red brick walls sliding into an envelope of shadow. Jack plunged down it, realising that if he'd been spotted he'd effectively stepped into a trap of his own making. He flattened himself against the wall, looking out at the strip of road as the sound of the bikes grew louder.

Just before it reached a crescendo, Jack was almost overcome by claustrophobia. He felt certain that the bikers
had
seen him, that they would surround the alley entrance if he didn't run, and he was bracing himself to do so when he realised he was too late. The section of street he could see was predominantly pale grey, almost milky with sunshine. Jack was taking a step toward it when all at once it became flooded with roaring metal and scuffed black leather. Pressing himself back into the shadows, Jack watched as the bikes thundered past like a herd of buffalo. To his relief they didn't stop, but what was disturbing was the fact that there were an awful lot more of them than usual.

There were dozens of them, in fact, riding in a convoy that seemed to go on forever. A posse, Jack thought. It's a fucking posse! He waited in the alley, time dribbling away, as the bikes sped past, heading in the direction of—among other places, admittedly—the Seven Stars.

By the time he emerged from the alley he had lost almost ten minutes. He had previously had almost quarter of an hour to undertake what would ordinarily have been a six or seven minute walk. Now, glancing at his watch, he saw that Gail's train was due in four minutes.

He began to run, looking this way and that, ears straining for the faint sound of engines. Adrenaline was rushing through him; he was not merely agitated now, he was downright scared. But could all those bikers really be there solely for him? What were they going to do? Take the law into their own hands? String him up on some spurious charge?

It was exactly 16:52 when he turned left onto the hundred-yard incline that led to the train station. He hurried across the tiny lot, which had room for no more than thirty cars, hoping that Gail's train would be late, thankful that he hadn't yet heard it approaching. He was sweating profusely and his stomach felt hard and tight with tension. His arm was aching from holding his overnight bag away from his body as he ran.

The station building was squat and flat-roofed, built of local stone. A pair of begrimed glass doors constituted the only entrance. As Jack ran toward them they opened and a figure stepped out, carrying a carpet bag. Jack's stomach turned over.

“Jack!” Gail yelled, grinning, eyes sparkling. “Hi!”

The strength drained out of him. He raised a hand in weary greeting and trudged across to her.

She saw the look on his face and her grin lost its lustre. “Jack, what's wrong?”

“We've got to get out of here,” he said.

An hour later, despite their efforts, they were back at the house, drinking coffee. Leaving Beckford had proved to be far more difficult than Jack had imagined. First of all, there were no taxis, which, considering the size of the village, was neither surprising nor particularly ominous. What
was
ominous, however, was that neither of them could get so much as the glimmer of a signal on their mobiles (“All these hills,” Gail said) and every single phone box that the two of them came across had been vandalised. Jack did not think he was being paranoid in assuming that the damage had been caused by Patty Bates' biker friends. The thought that Patty was going to such lengths to keep him here, was actually planning his moves like a combat tactician, was not a comforting one. A number of alternatives occured to Jack: he could go to the police and tell them everything, he could phone for a taxi from his aunt's house, he could phone for a taxi from a pub. As he still did not fancy explaining the situation to the police, nor did he want his aunt involved, he decided on the pub option. He led Gail along back alleys and side streets, avoiding the main roads, pleased with his ability to remember his way around. Gail was scared and bewildered and more than a little bad-tempered, but for the moment she had stopped firing questions at him.

They quickly found that all the pubs had been covered, bikes cruising up and down outside or parked on the forecourts. Desperate, Jack decided to go to the police after all, but there were bikes outside Beckford's small station, too, and no sign of a policeman anywhere. By this time, though he was trying not to show it, Jack was really scared. It reminded him of that John Carpenter film,
Assault on Precinct 13.
He smiled at Gail and said, “Thwarted again,” hoping his voice did not betray the extent of his anxiety.

In truth, his thoughts felt shredded. He tried to draw them together, to think. Only by remaining calm could he hope to outmanoeuvre Bates and his army. Would all the bikers know what he looked like? Presumably. His face had been on enough book jackets.

He could think of only one option and it was a very risky one indeed. They could go back to the house, call a taxi from there. If the place was already being guarded, they would have to try and find a way to sneak in via the woods at the back. At the moment, the bikers were simply covering his retreats, cutting off his options. Jack had to make use of this time, this hiatus, as best he could.

For a while everything went well, and he actually began to feel a little more optimistic. They arrived back at the house safely to find it quiet and unoccupied. They phoned for a taxi from outside Beckford (Jack was relieved to hear the dial tone when he picked up the receiver; he was afraid the lines might have been cut), and were told that it would be with them within the next half-hour or so. There was nothing to do then but sit tight and wait. Jack made coffee, and as he and Gail drank it he told her everything.

Afterwards she had been quiet for a while, gazing out the window at the approaching twilight. Jack felt tense, as though awaiting her verdict on a crime he had committed. Finally she had stirred, turned to him and murmured, “It's okay, Jack. Don't worry, we'll be all right.” She had held out her arms to him and they had embraced. Over Gail's shoulder Jack could see the kitchen clock, counting out the seconds. He urged it to go faster, faster.

“I love you,” he said, mouth against her neck, and then, “I'm sorry.”

She pulled back from him so she could look into his face. “What are you sorry for?”

He waved a hand vaguely. “For . . . all this. This mess. For dragging you into it.”

She leaned forward and kissed him softly on the forehead. Gently, she said, “None of this is your fault, Jack. It's this place, isn't it? Beckford.”

“What do you mean?” he said, surprised.

“I mean . . . it's a bad place for you, isn't it? There's still a lot of poison here, a lot of stuff that has to come out.”

Jack was surprised by her perception; it was as though she had verbalised something of which, until now, he had been unaware. “Well . . . yeah,” he said, “I suppose you're right. I thought when I found my dad's stories, when I had finally made my peace with that side of things, that everything would be okay, that it would all settle down. But it hasn't. It's only stirred things up more, made the hate and the anger blossom somewhere else.” He wrinkled his nose. “Does that make any sense to you?”

Gail nodded. “It makes more sense than you think.”

They were silent for a few minutes. Jack finished his coffee and glanced up again at the rapidly darkening sky outside the window.

“These last few days have been . . . strange,” he said. “You know, I'm almost beginning to wonder whether this whole business with my father has just taken place in my imagination. I mean . . . ghosts? Hauntings? There are times when I accept it as completely natural, and then at other times I find that I'm looking for reasonable explanations. It's like . . . like there are two separate trains of thought both trying to occupy the same track. I don't think I've been thinking quite straight since I've been here; my thought processes have kind of . . . gone off at funny angles. Take my father's stories for example. Reading them has been like . . . like an epiphany almost for me.” He shook his head. “I don't know. Even now I'm not making much sense. It's like my thoughts are all jumbled up, as if they're rattling around loose and need putting back into their proper compartments.”