Blood Bonds: A psychological thriller (2 page)

“Mr Miller.” The voice had urgency wrapped around it. Carl was at the door, waving energetically. “It’s Mrs Randolf. I think it best if you come in a moment.”

She was standing by the desk, her nose and mouth buried in a flowing white handkerchief and turned appealingly to him when he came through the door. “I’m sorry,” she cried, collapsing into a fresh fit of tears and shoulder jerks. “I must…look a… perfect fool.” Shirley and Carl looked on helplessly while Miller marched up and put a comforting arm around her.

“Is it that awful?” he asked, guilt stabbing at him with an ice-cold blade. You bastard, he thought, you should have gone in with her. You and your damn selfishness!

“We did warn her,” Carl said with his hands held out. “I’m sorry, Mrs Randolf, but I did mention on the phone…”

Mrs Randolf blubbered into Miller’s chest. “Why me? Have I really been so bad?”

*  *  *  *

It sat on the coffee table. He’d wanted to destroy the thing straight away once he’d arrived home. He’d even taken it outside to the metal bin in which he’d only just finished burning one lot of autumn leaves, actually placed it amongst another batch of sweepings and determinedly struck a match. The flame had burned steadily down, till he felt the heat of it on his fingers and he wafted it out. “Shit!” he said aloud, retrieving the box from the bin, brushing away leaves and carrying it indoors again. And so it remained on the coffee table for three hours while Miller sat and sipped tea, ate sandwiches and stared coldly at it.

What’s wrong? Why not simply burn it as you have done the rest? Do you sense something different about this one - is that it? Or maybe you’re afraid. Oh yeah, what of? Precisely – then burn the thing.

Instead he put the box in front of him, carefully removed the lid, now smelling strongly of smoke, and hoisted out the file. Plenty of time to get rid of it, he thought. With a sigh he opened the plastic file to reveal the first white page.

     He began to read.

MONDAY.

I narrowed my eyes. They were the tiniest of slits now, and I squinted through the thin waving bars of dry grass…

*  *  *  *

I narrowed my eyes They were the tiniest of slits now, and I squinted through the thin wavering bars of dry grass, but I couldn’t make out any Indians.

I appeared to be alone, but I knew that to be a lie. They were there. You never saw them if they didn’t want you to see them.

The Sun was scorching, searing through my thin shirt, and I was aware of the cloth sticking to my back. My senses were honed to knife-edge sharpness. I could smell my own body smell and it wasn’t unpleasant; it was a warm, comforting, familiar smell, rising on the heat to mingle with the sticky-sweet aromas of trampled grass, and the bitter stench of crushed weeds. My lungs stopped their rise and fall. I listened intently. An insect zipped past. Birds rained down their song. But no murmur of voices, a careless word spoken in haste as a giveaway. For now I was safe, remaining undetected.

Fist tight and moist around the barrel of my Remington rifle, I allowed myself the luxury of two or three deep breaths and then resumed my laboriously slow crawl, easing the grass aside with a tentative hand, minimising the rustle of brittle stems and leaves, edging my way forward, one knee carefully placed in front of the other, my bottom kept as low as possible, my stomach all but scraping the ground. I ignored the hard rasping of stones and rocks; pain was necessary. And it intensified the alertness that had infused my entire being. I would have smiled, but it was too soon. Much too soon. Any second now there might be a cry of alarm and it would be all over. So I suppressed my burgeoning confidence, passed a parched tongue over parched lips in anticipation of my next move. This was potentially the most dangerous part, for I would be in the open at some point or other, no matter which route I decided upon.

To my right there was a patch of bare earth sprinkled with weeds and clumps of yellowed grass, beyond it a sharp declivity as the ground fell away into a sheer bank. This bank was perfect cover, once reached, but for at least five dangerous seconds I would be in full view of anyone stood atop The Mount straight ahead of me as I pelted across the open ground at a stoop. To my left more undergrowth, but heavily laced through with thorns, brambles and stinging nettles. This would afford me some cover, but might prove troublesome in making my way through it without a knife or blade of some kind to part the brambles, whose lethal white thorns bore more than a passing resemblance to barbed wire. I didn’t relish the thought of those barbs tearing into my bare arms and face. Jesus’ blood-streaked forehead sprang ridiculously to mind. The third option was straight ahead. There in front, through the flimsy curtain of grass stems was The Mount, looking dark and oppressive and broody, more undergrowth spread out around its base; trees, too, growing low and tightly packed. Once inside this canopy I couldn’t be seen from above. But there could be someone posted there waiting for me, a trap in the offing. What was good for the pursued was also invaluable for the pursuer. And to reach the trees there was still more flat, bare ground to pass over. I would be as vulnerable as a butterfly pinned onto a piece of white paper in a display cabinet.

It was as I pondered over the choice of direction that my heart began a fearful tattoo, and my legs became weak, unable to support my crawling body. I lowered myself flat to the ground, nose four inches or so above the warm earth, my rasping breath disturbing the air and causing a blade of grass to vibrate. It was then I wanted to cry out, to scream in my frustration and fear. Only the thought of my terrible fate if they discovered me bound my lips and stilled my panic. Look what they’d done to General Custer and his men, I thought icily. Legs, arms and stomachs laid open, great gaping wounds; private parts cut off and stuffed in mouths.

I must remain calm, I told myself. I must think rationally. There had to be an answer, because there was always an answer. My father was fond of saying, “There are no problems, only solutions,” and his words rang around my skull.
Solution.
Solution. Solution.
I had to find it. I had to make that decision, for if I stayed here much longer there was the possibility that a patrol would find me. I had come so far, had done so well. But I was tired, the heat and lack of water had exhausted me, conspiring to suck out my energy, clouding my thoughts. I had visions of my brain collapsing in on itself as it became drier, puckering up like a huge grey prune.

My eyes were dry and stinging. The more I rubbed the more painful they became, dirt dislodging itself from my grimed fingers and finding its way between my lids. I focused through the rippling heat haze on The Mount, its sides scraped bare of vegetation, Sun-cracked, topped by a crown of coarse dark green scrub. Beyond The Mount was safety. It beckoned like a glowing orb, a beacon, hidden for now, but its presence felt like invisible waves of energy, drawing me on. And yet I didn’t know if I could muster the strength to exert my bruised, aching limbs, or generate enough energy to fire my tired brain. I could have burst into tears, and I wondered at the rollercoaster ride my emotions were experiencing.

Nervously I checked my rifle. Enough ammunition should I need it. More in my pockets. My teeth gritted I resolved never to give in. My emotions were taking control too easily. They needed to be damped down if in order to survive. I had to have a clear head. You’ve come this far, I told myself; not much further and you’re safe. Decide on a route, stick with it and go for it. There were precious few options, and each had their element of risk. It was a case of which risk was going to be my partner. I decided. I was going for the bank. My breath was sucked in slow and steadily, my limbs preparing themselves for flight across the open ground. I counted in my head. On ten I would make a dash for it.
One, two, three…
My hand tightened around the Remington till my knuckles glared white and fierce
…four, five, six, seven…
I swallowed hard, but a lump remained in my throat
…eight, nine…

Voices froze me to the spot.

From my right, near the bank. How many? Two? Three? I couldn’t see anyone, not even a shadow. They must be hidden by the bank, tucked out of sight. I would have stumbled right into them. I almost doubled up in apprehension and relief. Bile rose. It went quiet again, save for the steady drone of a million insects. When the quiet pounded on my ears for a full five minutes I began to doubt my hearing, until a voice piped up thin and hushed to confirm his position. He called to someone else; someone searching, for I heard the sound of something sweeping, probing through tall grass – a spear, or a stolen cavalryman’s sabre. But I couldn’t place the terrifying sounds exactly. It was first dead ahead, then was emanating inexplicably from behind. Soon they would be on me. Panic began to well up inside me again. I forced it back, beat at it with my will to survive. I had no option but to choose the route of thorns.

Gratefully I reached the end of my self-made tunnel of dry grass – the sounds of my passage through it caused me grave concern, with the expectation that I would be overheard, for it sounded intolerably loud to my ears no matter how carefully I parted the stems and eased my way through them. I was now faced with a tangle of briars, broad-leafed nettles nodding on either side. Sounds behind me propelled me into the thicket; I used my rifle to ease open a pocket wide enough for me to squeeze through, but not without some tearing of my arms on the barbs. I gasped at the pain, drawing my legs into the cover of the brambles, curling up into a ball just as a pair of bare legs came striding through the grass and into view.

The legs paused before my ironically protective dome of thorns, venturing no nearer for fear of damage on the spines and nettles, but a cavalryman’s sabre swept this way and that, ripping up the undergrowth, slicing into it. I saw the blade descend into the brambles and sink into the soil not more than a foot away from me. Then a voice growled in sheer anger and frustration and now the sword beat frenziedly at the undergrowth, the indiscriminate slashing causing leaves and twigs to fly everywhere.

“He can’t have disappeared!” he said.

I silently congratulated him on his grasp of English.

Well he ain’t here is he?” someone answered.

“Course he’s here, where else is he gonna be?”

I recognised this voice. He was their leader, their chief. His voice carried with it his authority, in its tone, in the way he formed the words and then spat them out with a disquieting confidence. I feared him as much as the others undoubtedly did. Perhaps I feared him more.

“You, search over there. You, over that way, by the railway track.”

“I’ve been there once." A sullen, tired reply.

“I don’t care. He can’t get by us. We can’t let him through.”

Their voices trailed away until they were a distant murmur that blended with the sound of the wind soughing through trees heavy with summer leaves. I waited patiently, nursing the cuts on my forearms and hands. A band of white welts where I’d been stung by nettles on my upper arm caused great discomfort, but I thought I did pretty well in not groaning aloud considering my extensive wounding. Now I did smile, broadly, because I’d fooled them completely, and they were headed in the opposite direction, away from me. I resumed my crawl through the briars, surfacing at last into bright sunlight, surrounded on all sides by dense foliage mercifully free of thorns. I brought my hand up and licked a deep cut, tasting the metallic tang of blood, which had leaked from my cuts and onto my Remington. These weren’t too bad, but the severe nettle rash was excruciating. I grabbed a broad burdock leaf and rubbed the bubbled white skin till the green juice streaked my arm. The pain didn’t ease, but the action made me feel better.

I glanced heavenward. The sky was an all over pristine wash of blue; such an intense blue that it made me release a sigh of wonder. My good fortune in avoiding my pursuers had evidently heightened my appreciation of all things. And, above the tops of the waving rosebay willow herbs and cow parsley, towered the summit of The Mount. Beckoning. The final monolithic barrier.

I clutched my rifle in both hands and ran at a stoop across a small patch of open ground, throwing myself into the cover of a huge bush, a cloud of yellow dust rising slowly and settling on my already clouded shoes. Eyes alert, I scanned the group of trees ahead, rising, dodging from one to the next, pressing my back up against the trunks, peering round and then moving again. Swift. Like Roger Bannister. Like a shadow. Gliding effortlessly, mingling with the dense undergrowth like a spirit of the woods. The analogy pleased me. I couldn’t stop grinning.

And then the base of The Mount was reached. A steep wall of earth and slag held together by tufts of coarse, spiky, malnourished grasses, pebbles and rocks of many different hues and shapes sticking out of it like so many bones. A path snaked its way from ground level to the top, a white scar carved into the hard earth. I could attain the summit in thirty seconds, I estimated confidently. So long as I paused a moment to catch my breath. Turning to face the trees, my back to The Mount, my rifle held out rigid before me, I was delighted to find they remained Indian-free. Once I’d begun my dash up the side of The Mount I’d be vulnerable. This was the trickiest bit. I had to choose the right moment.

I listened. Then I listened some more, craning my head forward in the vain hope of filtering more noises into my ears. I could hear nothing unusual, nothing that should cause me fear. It had to be now. The time was ripe for the final part. I sprinted onto the path and began my frantic clambering, dislodging earth and rocks in my struggle to find purchase with hands and feet. My rifle fell out of my hands, slid down the steep side, the large stick broken from an ash tree finally coming to rest with a clatter against a cluster of rocks. I could only look in dismay. It had my blood on it, I thought. It was more than any old stick now. The blood had made it special. I paused on the slope and toyed with the idea of scrambling back down and retrieving it, but thought better of it and resumed my frantic clawing till I broached the summit.

I heaved myself over the last few feet and lay on the plateau, gasping for breath, a fire in my throat and chuckling to myself. Lying on my stomach I peered over the edge through the fringe of grass and looked down onto the trees below. From this height the whole scene of my flight could be plotted, from the long silvery line of the railway track beside which I’d hidden, to the places near the towering coal bunker where I’d flattened the grass as I lay - and the clump of briars didn’t look half as intimidating from up on The Mount. The Indians were nowhere to be seen. If there had been guards then they’d given up waiting and were searching elsewhere for me. I’d been patient and that patience had paid off in evading my pursuers. I knew then what the solution to this problem had been. Patience. The others had made the mistakes, not I. I merely waited, bided my time and the opportunities had presented themselves. I didn’t rush things. I thought it out, and I was justifiably proud of myself.

I rose, strutted to the large red rock in the centre of the plateau and sat on it, rubbing my nettle rash tenderly; only now beginning to feel the pain of a multitude of cuts and bruises. My shirt had a hole by the pocket where a thorn had snagged. I bit at my lower lip. I knew there’d be hell to pay when my mother saw it; it was clean on that morning. But that was for later. Right now I basked in the sunshine and the glory of beating them all. There was a pinkish orange tinge to the sky on the horizon, sitting in thin strips above the rooftops and foretelling of a lustrous crimson sunset to crown my achievements.

I heard a scrambling up The Mount, accompanied by a smattering of conversation. I stiffened and folded my arms. First their heads appeared as they clambered over, their faces wreathed in disbelief when they saw me sitting there as bold as brass on the rock. Their Chief pushed brusquely between the three Indian braves, his head framed by the reddening sky, his chest heaving; and it wasn’t through pure exertion, I thought. I saw his fist tighten around his sabre – the thick piece of oak he’d plucked from the undergrowth and stripped of leaves and twigs – and he strode with wide purposeful steps towards me. He halted a couple of yards away from me.