Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (54 page)

I turn to him. "If you try to trick me..." I say, forcing myself to hold back the tears.

"I won't," he replies. "Believe me, I've been where you are. I've watched as an innocent child is drawn into Patrick's world. I couldn't stop it last time, but I'll stop it
this
time." He fixes me with a determined stare. "I couldn't stop him on my own. You can't stop him without help. Together, though, we have a chance." He looks back at the broken statue. "We don't have long," he says finally. "You need to find your friend and work out what Patrick told her. Do that, and I'll be able to defeat Patrick, and your daughter will be returned to you."

I nod. "All I care about is Abigail," I say.

"Not Patrick?"

"Not Patrick," I reply. "Not even myself. Just her."

"Prove it," Nimrod says.

I start to walk away, but then I pause and turn back to face Nimrod. "Is he dead?" I look down at the broken statue. "Is Patrick gone forever?"

Nimrod stares at me. "We don't have much time," he says. "Get me what I want, and I'll deliver what
you
want. That's the only deal on offer right now."

I hurry away, heading back to town. Even though this feels wrong, and even though I don't really trust Nimrod, I can't help but be overwhelmed by a desire to finally get Abigail and make sure she's safe. Safe from Patrick. Safe from Nimrod. Safe from everyone. And if that means I have to hurt Patrick, and even Shelley, then I guess it's a price I'm willing to pay. From now on, the only person I care about is my daughter.

Nimrod

London - 1942.

He was here again tonight. As soon as my father left the house via the front door, I heard the back door open. I listened as his footsteps moved through the house toward the room in which my mother sat sewing. Finally I heard my mother acknowledge his arrival.

He never speaks.

I'm supposed to be asleep, but instead I'm standing at my bedroom door, listening. Since the bombs started to fall a few months ago, I haven't been able to sleep very well. It was my ninth birthday yesterday, but we couldn't even afford a cake. My father told me that money is too tight, and my mother reminded me that our wartime rations don't stretch far enough for her to be able to 'waste' money on food that isn't absolutely necessary. It's okay. I know how things work. After all, we're at war.

Once my mother has been talking for a few minutes, I decide it's safe to venture downstairs. As far as my mother is aware, I don't even know about his visits.

But I do.

And I hate him.

I hate my mother too.

And my father.

And the war.

I hate everyone and everything.

As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear a distant humming sound. German bombers passing over the city. They'll unload their payload somewhere, but probably not too close to us. It's mainly the center of the city that burns, although last week a girl from my school was killed when a bomb landed squarely on her family's house. I don't know exactly how she died, but I imagine it was quick and painless. She probably slept through it. At least she won't have to suffer any longer. The rest of us must keep pushing ahead, even though I don't see how we can possibly win the war. The Germans seem so powerful, so advanced. Maybe we should surrender and spare the lives of all the soldiers? The Nazis can't be all that bad, can they?

There's a sudden boom nearby, and the house shakes. A fine sprinkling of plaster dust falls from the ceiling. I pause. Perhaps the house will fall down without a direct hit; perhaps eventually it'll just collapse due to cumulative structural problems. I listen to my mother's distant voice, fearful that the noise will have disturbed her and her visitor, but they seem to be accustomed to the carnage by now. The explosions and the fires are just like background noise these days, and my mother keeps talking. She's so used to the war, I believe the only sound that would attract her attention would be silence.

I creep toward the kitchen door. I hear my mother speaking in there, chatting away about her daily life, telling boring stories about boring people doing boring things. Sometimes she pauses, but
h
e
never fills the silences. He just sits there, listening or... Is he even listening? Or is he just letting her talk? That's what worries me. I've spied on them before, and it always seems as if he's just waiting for the right moment. What's he doing here? He looks young and strong, so why is he not away fighting in the war? Why is he free to spend his evenings lurking around the dark streets, preying on women such as my mother? What's his secret?

"That's nothing compared to Charles Senior, though," my mother is saying as I approach the door. Careful to keep out of sight, I lurk in the darkness as my mother continues. "My husband used to be such a good man. So upright and honest, you know? But these past five years, he's taken a definite turn. His character's all curled up now. I swear, sometimes..."

She keeps talking, but I stop listening. I'm peering through the crack in the door, hoping to catch sight of
him
. There's something about his face that makes me want to keep an eye on him. It's as if I expect him to one day reveal some secret. He looks as if he's in his late 20s, but the way he acts is different, like he's ancient. He never speaks, never even opens his mouth, and he seems to have an air of mystery. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but why would such a man choose to spend his evenings listening to the blatherings of my mother? I mean, I'm nine years old and even
I
can tell that my mother's an idiot. My father knows it too. So why does this strange man keep coming to our house?

I peer further into the room, but I still can't see him. He must be back against the wall, perhaps looking out the window. He always seems to be waiting for something when he comes, and I can't help but wonder if one day he'll simply run out the door and never come to visit again. One day, I shall have to ask my mother who he is, and how she came to know him, and why he is here. For now, though, I must merely wait and wonder. And yet... As I peer even further into the room, I come to a startling realization: he's not there!

I turn around just in time to find that he has crept up behind me. In the dark of the hallway, he stares down at me with an impassive look in his eyes. This is the first time he has ever made eye contact with me, and I step back in shock. Whoever this man is, whatever he is, I find it deeply unnerving to have him looking at me in this way. I feel as if he is seeing through me, and seeing inside me, and seeing everything about me. It's almost as if his mind is reaching into my soul. Suddenly I realize the truth: he's not here for my mother, he's here for me.

Sophie

Dedston - Today.

"Where's Shelley?" I ask, staring at Rob.

I've spent all morning looking for Shelley. She wasn't at home and she wasn't at her dead-end job at the diner on the edge of town; in fact, she wasn't in any of the places where I'd usually expect to find her, so I've resorted to tracking down the people she hangs out with. Alice was no use, and neither was Callum. Her on-off boyfriend Rob seems like an unlikely choice, but he knows her pretty well and I figure he's the kind of person she might contact if she's panicking.

"How should I know?" he replies. He leans closer to me. "I'm at work!" he hisses.

"There's nobody here!" I hiss back.

We're standing in a small DVD rental store near my house. The place is dead; no-one rents DVDs any more, but the owners of this place haven't figured that out yet. All Rob has to do is stand behind the counter and make sure no-one steals anything. It's a dead-end job in a dead-end town. This place'll be shut down inside of a year, and when they lock the door and throw away the key, they might as leave Rob locked inside. No-one's going to care too much.

"You haven't seen her?" I ask. "You haven't heard from her? Nothing? No texts? No messages?"

"Not for weeks," he says. "Why, what's she done?"

"Nothing," I say, sighing. I'm starting to worry, because if Shelley isn't in any of her usual places, that can only mean one thing: she's planning to leave town. It's not like she has any money, or any friends anywhere else, but she's probably going to try hitching out of here, or she's scraped together enough money to buy a bus ticket. "If you were Shelley," I say, "where would you go if you didn't want to be found?"

He shrugs. "Miami," he says.

"Seriously?"

"Lots of parties," he continues.

"Shelley doesn't have the money to go to Miami," I say, but I'm struck by a moment of realization. There's one place I haven't checked so far: bars and pubs. Shelley likes to drink at the best of times, and I can totally believe that she'd respond to panic by heading straight to a bar so she can forget about her troubles. Besides, if she's looking to make some quick money, the bars should be full of customers who are willing to spend twenty bucks at a time for a little fun in the back alley. Shelley's my best friend, but she's always been willing to go low for some easy cash. "Are you two still together?" I ask.

"No fucking way," he says. "She... She's got problems, you know? Serious, fucked up problems in her head. I mean..." He pauses. "I know to you she's probably just funny and a bit crazy, but deep down, she's the most fucked up person I've ever met."

"I know," I say.

"Do you?" He smiles sadly. "It's like... She always told me not to fall in love with her. And guess what? I did. You spend that long fucking someone, you're gonna fall in love with them eventually."

"I need to find her," I say firmly. "If you've got any idea where she might be, you have to tell me. It's life or death."

He shrugs.

"Got to go," I say, hurrying to the door.

"Hey!" Rob shouts.

"What?" I say, turning back to him.

"Good luck," he says simply.

"Yeah," I say, heading out the door. I hurry across the parking lot, and I spend the next hour checking all the local bars. If Shelley wanted to forget about everything, to drink herself into oblivion, these are the kind of places she'd go. She's always known how to plump up her eyelashes, emphasis her cleavage and get guys queuing up to buy her a drink. Equally, if she wanted to raise some money, she'd probably head to the bars and... well, I've heard stories about the kind of things she's willing to do for a few dollars. She has various nicknames, and nicknames don't lie.

I spend the next couple of hours checking all the bars. Finally, leaving the crumbiest, lowliest bar in the whole town, I find myself standing on the sidewalk with no more ideas. I feel like I've searched the whole town, looked under every stone, and still I can't find her. With a sense of growing despondency, I'm forced to accept something that previously I had managed to banish from my mind: Shelley has vanished, and I might never find her. She's run off. She probably had an emergency stash of money somewhere, and by now she's probably on her way to New York or LA or God knows where. She's an expert in covering her tracks, too. She's never had an online profile page in her real name, and if she wants to be untraceable, I have no doubt she can manage it. There's nothing keeping her in Dedston. I can't find her, and that means I can't find out what Patrick said to her, and that means...

Suddenly it strikes me that there's one place I haven't checked. Hurrying along the street, I head for the cemetery. When she was just a kid, just three or four years old, Shelley was taken to the hospital. Her mother had just given birth to a baby girl, a little sister for Shelley. When they arrived, Shelley's mother was holding the baby. She carefully handed the little girl, whose name was Rachel, to Shelley, but as Shelley held her sister, something went horribly wrong and Rachel stopped breathing. She couldn't be revived, and I know that Shelley always blamed herself, as if somehow she'd had a touch of death and had caused her sister to die. She also felt her parents blamed her. I've often wondered how different Shelley would be if Rachel hadn't died. But if Shelley's heading out of town, I'm certain she'd pay one last visit to Rachel's grave, to say goodbye.

It takes me a while to get there, and when I finally arrive I see a bunch of fresh flowers have been left. I sigh. She was here, but I missed her. And clearly she's decided to leave. She came to the grave a lot, but she never left flowers before. This is her way of leaving a final mark, of showing Rachel that she still cares but that she has to go. I crouch down and look at the flowers. There's no note, which is typical of Shelley. She's always been the disappearing girl.

"Goodbye," I say quietly.

"Do you know how long I've been waiting for you?" Shelley says suddenly.

I turn to find she's crept up on me. There's a faint, sad smile on her face. I've seen her look like this before, but only when she's been drunk. Drunk-sad Shelley is a familiar sight, but sober-sad Shelley is new to me and, somehow, infinitely more disturbing.

"I thought you'd left," I say.

She nods. "I was planning to get as far away from here as possible. I came to say goodbye to you know who, and that's when I realized I couldn't just run out on you. I mean..." She pauses, and then she shrugs. "So anyway, I decided to hang around here and see if you'd come looking for me. I kind of figured you'd work out where I'd be, so I decided to just sit it out." She pauses. "I'm scared."

"Yeah," I say. "Me too."

"He turned to stone," she replies. "I mean... who
does
that?" She stares at me, and then she laughs nervously. "You know what I mean. What the fuck have you got yourself messed up in, Sophie? Seriously, this is way beyond anything I can even comprehend. What's going on?"

"I don't know," I say. We've been friends for years, but it feels so strange to be talking like this, talking to her about something so important. "I've been looking for you all day," I continue. "I asked everyone. I even asked Rob if he'd seen you."

"No chance," she says. "That guy's a fucking moron."

"I could've told you that a long time ago," I say.

She smiles. "Typical. I date a guy who likes dressing up as a vampire, and what do you do? You go out and find yourself an
actual
vampire. And he's the only one, so I can't even copy you back!"

"Shelley," I continue, "I need to know what Patrick said to you." I'd been hoping to play things a little cool, perhaps build up to the question, but I couldn't hold it in any longer. "I'm sorry," I add, "but it's important. You have no idea how important. You have to tell me."

She shakes her head. "Can't," she says. "Sorry."

"You have to," I plead.

"No," she says. "Try to understand, the -"

"Her name is Abigail," I say.

"Who?"

"My daughter. The baby I had. Her name is Abigail and I won't ever get to see her unless you tell me what Patrick said to you."

She pauses for a moment. "Is Patrick dead?"

"I don't know," I say, starting to become a little impatient. "Maybe. Maybe not. Knowing him, probably not. But I need to know what he told you."

Shelley takes a deep breath. "Abigail, huh?" she says. "Nice name. You can shorten it to Abby. Or Gail. Or... So how'd you find out about her?"

"There's this guy," I say. "I don't know what's happening, but he's going to let me have Abigail if I just find out what Patrick said to you."

"A guy?" Shelley asks, sounding suspicious.

"I don't know who he is," I say, "but he has Abigail. He rescued her from Patrick, and he's going to give her to me, but first I need your help. Everything's going to be okay, you just have to tell me what Patrick whispered to you."

"I'm really sorry," she replies, "but I can't do that."

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to stay calm. "Shelley..." I start to say.

"I'm so sorry, Sophie," she replies. "Please believe me."

When I open my eyes, I see that she's started walking away. I hurry after her. "Shelley," I say, but she doesn't respond. I grab her shoulder; she tries to get free, and I push her roughly against a tree. "Tell me," I say, staring straight into her eyes.

"I can't," she replies.

"Why not?"

"Because..." She pauses. "I just can't."

"This is the most important thing in the world," I say, feeling a kind of cold anger building through my body. "There's no choice here. You have to tell me."

"Don't you think I know that?" she asks. "Don't you think I'd do anything to help you?" She pauses. "So please try to understand. If I'm not telling you what he said to me, it's because telling you would make things a thousand times worse." There are tears in her eyes. "Think about it. Imagine if our positions were reversed. Imagine if you knew a secret and I was desperate for you to tell me."

"I'd tell you," I say. "You're my friend and I care about you. No matter what, I'd tell you."

"Exactly," Shelley replies. "Me too. So imagine how big and terrible this secret must be for me to
not
tell you. Imagine how awful things would have to be for you to not tell me a secret like that."

I pause. "Is it about me?"

"Don't ask any questions," she says.

"Is it about Abigail?"

"Please don't ask," she insists, trying to get free from my grip. "I wish I could go back and stop him," she continues. "I don't know why he chose to tell me. I wish I could put my hands over my ears and block it all out. But I can't. I just have to... Please, Sophie. You've got to understand that this is more important than -"

"Than Abigail?" I ask, stunned by how cold she can be.

She stares at me. "I can't say..." she says, her voice sounding frail and anguished.

"I'll make you," I say. "I don't know how, but I'll make you say it."

"What are you gonna do?" she asks. "Hurt me?"

I stare at her. Could I do it? Before all this started, I'd have recoiled at the idea of using physical violence to get anything. Right now, however, I feel so desperate, I'm starting to wonder if there's some way I could force her to talk.

"Is that what you're gonna do?" she asks, a serious tone in her voice. "You don't understand, do you? You don't get it."

"Tell me," I say.

"Or what?" she asks.

"Or I'll rip it out of you," I say, my voice shaking.

"You can't," she replies, shaking her head, her eyes filled with tears. "I swear to God, I'd tell you if I could, but I can't, and you can't make me."

"It's true, she can't," says a voice from nearby. I turn to find Nimrod standing nearby. "But I can." He walks toward us, smiling at Shelley. "After all, what's stopping you from telling her what you know?"

Shelley looks concerned. "Who the hell is he?" she asks me.

"Are you worried about Sophie?" Nimrod says, stepping closer. "Is that why you won't tell her? Well, that's fine.
Don't
tell her. Just whisper it in my ear. It can be our little secret. After all, I'm sure Patrick never told you to be careful about keeping secrets from me, did he? Only her."

Shelley shakes her head.

"No?" Nimrod asks. He smiles. "Okay. I'm sure I can change your mind. I'm sure you'll tell me in the next three minutes."

"Why's that?" Shelley asks.

"Because that's how long it'll take before Sophie suffocates."

I open my mouth to tell Shelley to run, but suddenly I realize I can't breathe. No matter what I try, no air will come in or out of my body. It's as if Nimrod has reached in and placed a plug over my lungs. I try to say something, but I can't. Gasping for air, I start to panic.

"Sophie..." Shelley says, looking concerned.

I turn and try to walk away, but I quickly fall to the floor. Still unable to breathe, I can't help but panic. Clutching my throat, I roll onto my back as Shelley kneels next to me.