Better Left Buried (23 page)

I start crying again and he grips my arms and shakes me hard before pulling me forwards, bringing my face so close to his I can feel his breath on my skin as he speaks.

“I didn't shoot him, okay? I knocked him out, then I shot his tyre. So they couldn't follow us.”

“They?” I stare at him, eyes mad with fear and my stomach iced in dread.

Jack releases me and runs both hands through his hair as he glances through the trees. “Yes, Sarah.
They
. There'll be another one around here somewhere.”

“How did you manage…?” I can't actually say it.

“I got lucky,” he says, rubbing his chin. “He didn't see me coming.” He looks round us again. “But let's not push our luck. We have to get out of here. Fast.”

He pulls something from his jeans. The gun. Swiftly he removes the bullets and lobs it into the forest.

I watch, bewildered. “But won't we need—?”

“It's not mine,” he barks. “Mine's here.” He opens his jacket so I can see the handle sticking out of the inside pocket, then turns and strides back towards the car. I stand there. Hesitating. Is he telling the truth? How do I know whether to believe him?

And that man. Shouldn't we go back and check he's all right?

Don't be ridiculous,
says a clear voice in my head. And suddenly I'm running. Running back to the car.

I jump in beside Jack and we speed away.

We sit in silence for maybe twenty miles. I'm shaking as I stare out the window, neck craned to the side so I can't see Jack, not even out of the corner of my eye.

“Sarah.” His voice heavy and stern. “Listen to me. I know you think I'm bad, and I am bad, it's true. But I'm not
that
bad, okay?”

I bite my lip. Lizzie's words ring in my ears.
He's bad news… Stay away from him.

“Do you hear me, Sarah? I didn't kill him, though it would probably have been better for us if I had. He's not dead. I just gave him a bang on the head. I had to.”

“Who was it?” I ask. “Tommy Crace?”

Jack shakes his head. “One of his sidekicks, Evan.”

I close my eyes, but he grips my face with his left hand and forces me to look at him. “You still don't trust me, do you?”

I blink.

“Do you?” he says, almost aggressively. Accusingly. “I come with you, all this way, and you still don't trust me.”

A tear rolls down my cheek and I wipe it away fiercely with the heel of my hand. “What choice do I have?”

Jack thumps his fist against the top of the dashboard then lapses back into silence. Neither of us speaks for ten minutes as we carry on hurtling north.

“We should go home,” he says suddenly. “They know where we're going. They've got it all worked out.”

I turn my head and he looks towards me. “Are you listening? We should go back. It's too risky.”

“And then what?” My voice sounds croaky and ridiculously quiet, like a child.

Jack raises his hand and rubs his forehead, the other gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are turning white.

“I don't know. I'll talk to them. I'll sort something out. But we can't go there, Sarah, they'll find us.”

“But you stopped them,” I say.

Jack sighs. “Not for long, Chicory. Not for long.”

I stare back out the window, squeezing my eyes shut. My hand goes up to the amethyst I'm still wearing around my neck, the gift from Mum and Dad. I twist it in my fingers and come to a decision. I won't run. I won't spend the rest of my life feeling this afraid.

I'm going to see this through to the end.

“No.” I open my eyes and fix them on the road ahead, my voice louder and clearer now. “No, we're not turning back. We're going on.”

It's nearly dark and we're lost. I thought I remembered the way, but now it comes to it, I find I haven't a clue.

I peer again at the little map we bought in the garage ten miles back, trying to work out where to go. Turn left off the main road, then take the next right through the village and follow the lane down towards the lake. I remember a dirt track that ran parallel to the water for a mile or so, before branching off at a farm. I'm pretty sure Gran's summer house is over on the left, through a copse of birch trees.

But somewhere we must have gone wrong, and now we're lost amongst the endless pines. Even the satnav is defeated, its little yellow arrow meandering around in an off-road oblivion.

“Do you recognize anything yet?”

I glance at Jack. He looks edgy and alert despite the lack of sleep, still regularly checking his mirror. I can feel irritation radiating off him like heat.

I chew my bottom lip and gaze ahead, willing myself to see some kind of landmark. Anything. But it's just mile after mile after mile of forest, with barely any other cars on the road now – not even a Volvo. And all these country lanes look the same, flanked with trees and boulders and the occasional house.

“Trees, rock, sky,” mutters Jack, his voice full of bitterness and fatigue.

I'm close to tears as he stops and turns around, heading in the direction we came. “Let's go back to town and give it another try from there.”

I nod.

It's barely past seven but already the light is dwindling. I wonder if we could find a cheap hotel, or whether we'll end up sleeping in the car again. I wipe my eyes. I'm so tired. I just want to be at home, tucked up in my own bed. Far away from all this.

Jack was right. This whole trip was a bad idea. A really bad idea.

But there's no going back now.

“There!”

I point to a small track turning off the road. Right beside it is one of those metal mailboxes with a couple of name tags underneath and a painting of a red cockerel on the side.

“This way! I remember this!” I nod at the mailbox. I was looking the other way before and must have missed it.

“You sure?” Jack slows to a halt, eyeing the track dubiously.

“I think so,” I say. Praying I'm right.

“Okay.”

He pulls on the steering wheel and bumps the car down the track. Within minutes we're passing the neighbouring farm and idling along the left-hand fork.

A few seconds later I spot the summer house, a glimpse of dark crimson between the trees. I point it out to Jack, but he drives right past.

“Where are you going?” I ask, bewildered.

Jack doesn't reply, only carries on another hundred yards until the track runs out, then turns into the trees and parks the car as deep into the woods as he can get.

Hiding it, I realize, with a jolt of fear.

He kills the ignition and we sit there for a while, the engine ticking and grumbling as it starts to cool. Hard to believe it was so warm when we left home; here the evening air is taking on an icy chill even though it's barely autumn.

“You got a key?” asks Jack.

I shake my head. “It's not usually locked. But anyhow, I know where the spare is kept.”

We grab our bags out the boot and walk up to the house. It's exactly as I remember – a plain red box with a large raised porch and windows either side of the door. A single chimney for the wood stove. I push open the gate to the picket fence surrounding the garden, though now there's only grass inside, along with a few cherry and apple trees.

“Who looks after this place?” Jack asks.

“The farmer up the road. He rents it out occasionally and keeps the income.”

I climb the steps onto the wooden porch and turn the door handle. Locked.

I bend over and fumble around the door frame in the twilight, searching for the key. Nothing. Shit.

I walk right round the house, checking all the obvious places someone might hide it, while Jack glances nervously around us. “We have to get in fast.”

“The farmer will have a key. I'll go and fetch it.”

“No!” he snaps.

I look at him in surprise.

“It's better no one knows we're here.”

“But he wouldn't tell any—”

“Better for him too.”

I swallow. “Okay. So…any ideas?”

Jack stalks around the house again, sizing up the windows.

“I suppose we could try to smash one,” I say reluctantly. “But it wouldn't be easy. They're triple-glazed.”

He shakes his head. “Too noisy.”

Returning to the front door, he examines the lock. It's a Yale one that takes a small, flat key.

Jack pulls his wallet out of his pocket and removes a plastic card, the kind you get from shops for collecting loyalty points. Holding down the handle, he slides it in the gap between the lock and the door. He wiggles it, keeping the pressure on the handle, then bends the card back hard towards the middle of the door. I'm thinking it's about to snap in two when there's a faint click and the door swings open.

“What the hell…?” I gasp. He made it look so simple.
Like he's had some practice,
says a voice in my head.

Jack smiles as if he heard. “Yeah, Chicory. Easy once you know how.”

The summer house has a damp, musty smell, like no one has been in here for years, not just a few months.

I walk into the living room and dump my bag on the floor. Reach out to switch on the light, praying the electricity has been left on.

“Don't!” Jack almost shouts. I snatch back my hand as if stung.

My eyes slowly adjust to the dimness. The place looks so empty. A pair of old high-back armchairs round the little coffee table, two wooden benches and a dining table taking up the rest of the space in the living area.

I peer into the bathroom downstairs. The reek of damp is stronger in here and I notice a small pool of water near the shower. Something must be leaking. In the kitchen, however, everything seems okay. There's nothing on any of the work surfaces, only a large aluminium kettle sitting on the stove. I walk over and turn on the tap; water gushes out, ice cold to the touch.

Moving back into the hallway, I stand at the bottom of the stairs, gazing up into the gloom. Hesitating, though I know I have to face it.

This is something I can't put off any longer.

I climb up to the landing, glancing in the double bedroom at the empty bed before turning round. The door to the smaller room is shut. I hover there for a moment, then force myself to walk over and twist the handle. A small groan from the hinges and I step inside.

Both the mattresses are bare, apart from a couple of pillows stacked upright against each headboard. The curtains are open and there's nothing in the tiny room except the two single beds either side of a pine chest of drawers.

I take another step in, my legs trembling.
Which one did Max…?
I can't finish the thought. I don't want to go there, though now I'm standing here in the room in which he died, I realize this is why I had to come.

Max.
Oh god
.

An image of my brother and me sleeping in here, under those old flowery eiderdowns that smelled of dust and cut grass. I close my eyes and give a little whelp of pain. Grief floods through me, washing my breath away, leaving me shaking and sobbing. A fierce ache in my heart sweeps all my fear aside as I yearn for his presence. Find only his absence.

Max. I'll never see his face, hear his voice again. It's unbelievable. Unimaginable.

Unbearable.

I sink onto the mattress of the nearest bed and bury my face into the scratchy feather pillow and let out a long, low wail.

Seconds later I feel a hand on my head. Sense Jack kneeling on the floor beside me, caressing my hair. He doesn't speak, simply keeps up the rhythmic stroking and slowly, eventually, my breathing slows to normal and the choking sobs subside.

I sit up, wiping my face with the back of my hand. Realize I'm shivering. I can barely make out Jack's features in the darkness.

He stands and goes out into the hallway. I hear him open the door to the airing cupboard and he returns with a blanket and an old bedspread. Leaning over, he pulls the boots off my feet and I sink back onto the bed.

It's too early to sleep,
I think, as he drapes the blanket over me, but barely has the thought taken root than I'm sinking down into oblivion.

In my dream I'm fleeing from something. Something so nameless and dreadful that my mind refuses to give it shape. I'm with Max. He's running beside me and we're moments away from making it to safety when he stumbles and falls.

“Go on, Sarah,” his voice cries out after me. “Don't look back.”

But I stop. I can't leave my brother behind. Can't leave him here all alone.

I look back. But he's gone and I cry out and wake from the dream with a gasp, my heart racing, Max's voice still echoing in my head. I'm sweating beneath the blankets, though the air around me is sharp and cold. The room is completely dark. For a few seconds I have no clue where I am.

Then I remember, and turn towards the window. The curtains must be closed because I can't see anything. No moon, no stars. I lie there, waiting for my heart rate to diminish and my dream to die away, ears alert for any sound.

Jack must be in the next room, sleeping in my parents' bed. I consider getting up to find him, but my limbs feel huge and heavy, as if bits of me are still asleep.

I lay my head back on the pillow, willing myself to drift off again. Then I hear it. A noise like a large twig snapping. Near the house.

I sit up with a start, listening, my heart revving up again like an engine thrust straight into top gear. Hard to make out anything above its insistent thump.

But there it is again. Louder this time. More of a definite crack.

“Jack?” My voice emerges small and shaky.

“Shhhh…” I hear him moving across the hallway to the stairs, almost soundlessly, as if he's sliding in his socks. A slight creak as he sets his weight on the first stair.