One Night (11 page)

What happens at this point? When
the victim knows all is lost? Is there a sense of giving in? A negativity that
brings the worst fears into being? I felt it overcome me. A kind of acceptance:
this was going to happen and there was nothing I could do. Matthew Bunting was
not only a lunatic rapist and killer who would have behaved exactly this way if
he’d met me by accident in the woods – but he was also bent on revenge for the
death of his brother. The power of rage added to the mix was incalculable. He
swung me around like a rag doll. His strength seemed immense. Whatever defense
I attempted he thwarted easily. I became like a puppet in his hands, a
marionette dancing to his tune.

And then I thought of Mona. And
rage came. Blinded me, strengthened me. I fought like a wildcat. He laughed,
but he hadn’t expected my level of fury. His grip loosened a fraction. It was
all I needed. I slammed my knee upward, praying I would strike gold.

His breath came in a surprised
‘whuff’ sound. He struck me across the side of the head, knocking me back a
couple of feet. I had a split-second opportunity. My head ringing, I leapt to my
feet, raced into a kaleidoscope of bright colours mixed with forest shadow. Night
and madness poured across my vision. I pounded into the silent dark between the
trees.

But I was exhausted and in too much
pain. Within a minute or two I had to stop and catch my breath. I crouched in a
black recess between a tree and an arching bush. Leaves touched me coldly,
creeping across my skin. I tried to still my breathing but it was ragged in the
stillness.

And then I saw him. Just a shadow a
few feet away. There was a ringing in my ears, blood coursing too loudly
through my veins. Matthew looked in my direction, looked away. My head was
ready to explode. Then he turned back quickly, staring. I realized he had
caught the glint of my straining eyes.

As he lunged towards me, I tore away,
slapping through underbrush, staggering on the damp, uneven ground, tripping in
the fibrous rot of old leaves. I looked up. I could see the outline of the old
house. I was already halfway up the slope when I realized I was back where I
started.

Matthew had the advantage of his
height and longer legs. He snatched at me, pulled me back, crushed me in an
iron grip. This time he would be more aggressive. There would be no escaping a
second time.

Bone-melting fear rinsed through
me, taking every shred of power from my legs. I could not stand. The only thing
governing my movement was Matthew Bunting’s grip bearing me down in a
smothering embrace as he pulled my head back by the hair.

And then something peculiar
happened.

Somebody whistled.

A low whistle as though warning us
of approaching danger. Matthew froze, my head held taut in his vice-like grip,
my face pressed against his chest. He stank of stale urine and sweat. I could
see his black lined fingernails. My brain seemed to reel, shaken by his
manhandling. Nausea roiled at the filth of him, my stomach heaved. At any
second I was going to add to that stale smell of unwashed skin and honking
armpits.

The whistle came again.

Matthew turned his head. He jerked
away from me, his pale eyes rolling upward almost blindly. He took a step
backwards. And slipped.

As he wheeled backwards into the
dell, he took me with him. My weight added impetus and we slid several feet. Marginally,
he lost his grip. I leveraged space and shot my knee into his groin for a
second time. His dull, vacant-looking eyes widened in one moment of shock. And
then he screamed. I wriggled sideways, slid out of his grasp. As he doubled
over I scrambled up the slope. I groped and crashed through leaves and mud
until I struck the solid base of a wall. Staggering like a drunkard, I ran into
the ruins of the house. There was the old bed, the blackened remains of the
chimney. Beside it, the floor trap leading to the cellar. The door was covered
in leaves and only the handle was visible. I bent down, grasped and pulled. At
this point I wasn’t breathing, I couldn’t stop to take a breath. All I could
think about was finding a place to hide. I could feel the heat of a hand almost
on my shoulders, a crooked shadow looming. I glanced back once – one split-second
of hesitation – then I was backing down the ladder into darkness.

There was a cloistered mustiness, air so thick I could taste it. The dark was
angled in deeper shadows of cloth shrouded shapes, boxes stacked, the smell of
leather, old paper. I felt my way through a jungle of packing, piles of
material and books – all faintly smelling of mould. Old things, treasured
things, straw packed with care and set out in the cellar in some sort of
format. I had a sense even in the dark, that while the place might be old and reeking
of damp stone, the materials were more recent and had been stored carefully in
tidy rows.

A movement caught my eye, a ripple
of light. Something was crawling in a box at my feet. I stifled a scream before
I realized it was paper, a packet torn open. For no accountable reason I bent
down and touched it. The crisp, thick-print weave of money moved under my
exploring fingers. Someone had left a box of new banknotes in this hole.

There was the softest shuffle from
above.

I whirled and ran down one corridor
of boxes to the end, to the deepest, darkest part of the cellar. I’d left the
door open at the top of the ladder and a shaft of moonlight filtered down. But at
the back of the cellar, I was in inky blackness.

I tried to be quiet but my breath was
coming in long snorting gasps, as though I couldn’t get enough air.
Breathe
.
The sound tore at the silence. There was something hard and lumpy in my throat,
forcing its way out in a dry heave, I was sobbing with no tears. If Matthew
Bunting found me here, my life would be over.

There was a sound.

I tried to control the sounds I was
making. It felt as though my chest might explode. In the alley between the
boxes where moonlight shafted down the ladder, a shadow fell. He’d found the
door. He was coming in!

My ears were ringing in the
silence, blood pounding through my veins. I bit down on my hand to keep from
screaming. The pain focused me.
I could do this…I could do this…
if I
stayed in the dark I’d be safe...

A piece of material slid away
beside me. Its fall was soft, silent. I saw somebody beyond its folds, a white
shape in the dark, a maw of a mouth, a gaping parody of a human face. I
screamed, rearing up as the figure at the top of the alley turned towards me. I
had given away my hiding place with perfect timing. Still screaming, desperate
to escape the ghostly vision revealed by the fall of material, I attacked the
man coming towards me. He staggered back for a moment then surged forwards,
grabbing me, pinning my arms to my sides, and pulling me up against the hard
bone of his chest. I could feel something wet and cold against my cheek; the thick,
sour smell of old blood. I went limp in his arms.

‘Casey,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It’s
me. It’s Jake.’

But it was too late. My legs had vanished,
my muscles turned to water.

I leaned over his arm and vomited.

6AM

I can’t remember what happened after that, except that I must have passed
out.

When I woke there was a vague
change of light at the trapdoor entrance. Dawn was coming. I was lying with my
head on Jake’s stomach, knees curled against a packing case, my hair covering
my face. I lay for a long time in utter stillness, trying to collect my
thoughts, put sequence into coherent line. Memory came at me in fits and starts
of clear and blurred pictures, imagination warping reality until I wasn’t sure
what was real and what was not. When at last I struggled upright, I looked
straight into the object I had uncovered in the dark – except now in the
dimness I could it more clearly: an old-fashioned full length Victorian mirror.
The strange phantom I had seen had been myself. I stared for a moment into its
pewter gleam which seemed to undulate like the oily surface of a pond.
Reflected in its watery depths was Jake’s marble white face set like an effigy
against a packing case, blood congealed thick as toffee on his shoulder.

‘Jake?’ My voice was croaky in the
silence. I felt for a pulse. It beat faintly under his cold, pale skin. He was
still alive!

I stared up at the trapdoor. What
lay out there? Was Matthew Bunting waiting for me? Or Brent Sedgeworth? The
latter equally deranged and dangerous as the lunatic who had broken loose from an
institution. There was a deathly quiet. I looked down at Jake. He was
unnaturally still. If I didn’t hurry he was going to die.

I hunted through his pockets, found
my phone.

I went up the ladder and peered
out. The light was a pale grey gauze through the woods, a deep gloom but certainly
better than the dead of night. I climbed out cautiously, wondering what had
happened after I’d hidden in the cellar. Who had whistled to catch Matthew’s
attention? Jake? Or someone else? And why? And where was Matthew now? I edged
to the perimeter wall submerged under decades of autumn leaves, bursting its bricks
in crumbly spills of cement. I peered over and into the dell.

Matthew Bunting lay at the bottom
of the slope, his head twisted to one side, his feet to the other. His face was
slack, eyes open, looking upwards into the grey light.

Frozen with fear, I stared at him. Could
he see me?

He didn’t blink.

And then I saw why he was lying so
still. The left side of his head was mangled to pulp – and the stone used for
this purpose lying a few feet away, crusted in blood.

Matthew Bunting couldn’t see me.
Would never see me. He was dead.

I sat on the perimeter wall and phoned Alice Petting – the kindly lady in the
shop who had offered to help if I was scared during the night.

Scared?

Well, how was this: four dead
bodies – possibly five if the dog had managed to get to Brent’s jugular before
he took the knife. And perhaps a sixth if Jake didn’t get an ambulance soon.
Not to mention a dead dog.

The click on the phone was music to
my ears. A connection. The real world was still out there somewhere beyond
these dank trees. I was trembling so much I could hardly hold the phone.

‘Mrs Petting?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Casey Blaydon. You know – the
girl staying in Barton Cottage?’

‘Yes?’ There was a sharp intake of
breath. She was expecting dire news.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you so early
but could you phone the police? And an ambulance? There’s been a bit of an
accident.’

Part 4

Daylight

I spent two days in hospital. When I left, I went to see Jake who was
due out three days later. In the crazy mess that followed that night, one
thought kept me focused: Jake had killed Matthew Bunting and saved my life. I
had made copious statements to several people, explaining over and over how I
had discovered Mona; I had told them about Ron and Max; admitted to the
shooting of Wally Bunting; and suggested they investigate Brent Sedgeworth’s
business, his involvement in setting up illegal aliens. When they questioned me
about Galina I could honestly tell them I did not know who she was. I had known
her for hardly more than a couple of hours.

Everywhere people moved quietly,
efficiently. There was commiseration, looks of sympathy and understanding,
always more questions than answers. I could only relate what had happened as it
had happened because that was the truth. But I was fully aware that there were still
weeks of investigation, correlation and penetrating inquiry ahead.

Jake was lying back on his pillow, sweating,
his skin an unhealthy grey pallor. They’d shaved off his beard and he looked
younger. I was struck by how good-looking he was;
soapy
looks, my mother
would say. I thought he looked like a medieval prince: slender nose, pale skin,
steady dark eyes. The bullet had grazed through the top of his shoulder,
leaving a little track through tendon and bone. It would be some weeks healing.
His involvement had left the police suspicious because of his prior
relationship with Brent and the law. I wondered if Jake was happy with the
outcome: Brent Sedgeworth was alive but sporting scars. He was also undone. His
every move, both past and present, was now under scrutiny.

And for the next few months, until
the trial for Mona’s murder, we would all be under that scrutiny. I knew Brent
had killed Mona but he was claiming that Matthew Bunting was responsible – and Matthew
was an unreliable witness because he was dead. I had reiterated clearly in my
statements that I believed Brent had killed Mona but I was beginning to sense
that a small thing called evidence, was missing.

‘You mustn’t worry about it,’ Jake
said, stroking my arm. ‘You must look after yourself. The law will take its
course.’

‘It doesn’t always.’

‘No, that’s true,’ he gave a wry
smile, and I remembered his years in jail for something he didn’t do.

‘Jake –’ I said suddenly, awkward.
‘Jake.’

His hand held mine. ‘What?’ he
asked.

‘Thank you. Thank you for saving my
life.’

He looked at me for a long moment,
the brown eyes opaque, a little lost. Then he said, ‘Reflex action.’

And then, I don’t know why, perhaps
because he looked so sick, so sad – I leaned forward and kissed him.

For a moment something in the dark
eyes moved. I thought it might be surprise but then I realized it was
gratitude. The man was lonely, suffering from shock, at a loose end in a
bewildering place. I felt a little warm kernel of attachment grow. He looked suddenly
luminous, beautiful.

I scrabbled in my bag. ‘Here,’ I
said. ‘This is my address. You’re welcome anytime.’

‘Thank you.’ He reached out and
touched my face. ‘Don’t worry. I have every intention of finding you.’