Scaderstone Pit (The Darkeningstone Series Book 3) (5 page)

I took a breath and looked my reflection in the eye. “It’s not enough,” I said. “It’s never been enough.” And I nodded to myself. I had to go through with this. I wasn’t that confused teenager who’d wandered into the old quarry. Not anymore. I was stronger, more sure of myself, and there was only one thing standing in my way, one niggling doubt that kept me from enjoying life to the full; I had to understand what had happened to me on the black stone. I had to
know
. And I’d already taken the first step in coming to France. All that remained was to follow through with the plan.

I headed back to the bed. “I’d better get some sleep,” I murmured. “It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow. A very busy day.”

***

The next morning I woke early, and I’d showered, shaved, and had my breakfast by 8 o’clock. I’d booked the taxi for 9 o’clock; Cally was filming in the middle of nowhere and I didn’t want to arrive too early and find nobody there. So with an hour to kill, I went for a walk. I needed to stretch my legs and it seemed like a good idea to get a feel for the place.

In the daytime, Saint Victor was quite an appealing town. A few of the shops were open and quite a few people were strolling past or hurrying home with fresh baguettes poking out from the tops of their shopping bags. The cafes were already doing a good trade, but though I was tempted by the smell of fresh coffee, I wasn’t in the mood to sit down. I wanted to get going.

I walked for about twenty minutes then decided to head back. As I turned around, I caught a glimpse of a dark-coloured saloon car speeding toward me. Instinctively, I stepped back from the kerb, and the car accelerated and swept past, its engine roaring. I turned and watched the car as it sped away, my heart in my mouth. I couldn’t be certain if it was the same car I’d seen outside the station, but there was one thing I could see very clearly; the car’s windows were heavily tinted.

I hurried back to the hotel, keeping an eye on the road. The incident with the dark-coloured saloon was probably meaningless—an irate driver in a hurry. But I couldn’t help thinking that the car had accelerated because I’d turned around and spotted it.
You’re being ridiculous
, I told myself.
You’re just nervous about meeting Cally
. And that was true. I’d been jittery all morning. It was so important that our meeting went well, but I had no contact information for her, no way to warn her I was on my way. All I could do was turn up uninvited and hope that everything went according to plan.

I walked a little slower. It was a warm day and I didn’t want to turn up at the site looking dishevelled. I ran my hand through my hair then straightened my shirt. It was a little creased, but it would have to do. It was the only decent shirt I’d brought with me.

As I neared the hotel, a taxi drew to a halt by the entrance, and the driver climbed out and went inside. I checked the time. It was 8:45, so this was probably my car. I picked up the pace again, but as I approached the hotel door, the driver came out and looked me up and down.

“Hi,” I said. “Have you come to collect me?”

The driver looked doubtful, perhaps expecting someone older.

“I booked a taxi for 9 o’clock,” I assured him. “To take me out to the place where they’re making the TV programme.”

“Ah, you are working with them, yes?”

“No, not exactly.” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “One of my friends is working up there. I’m going along to visit her.”

The driver smiled and nodded. “Bien. Jump in. The journey will take us about vingt minuits—twenty minutes.” He opened the back door of the car for me then climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. A moment later, we were off.

***

About twenty-five minutes later, the taxi ground to a halt and the driver turned in his seat. “This is it,” he said. He pointed out the window. “Walk that way in a straight line for a few minutes. You will see them when you get over the ridge.”

I looked out of the window. The land rose gently toward the horizon, and there was little to see: just an area of scrubland, and in the distance, a couple of trees. But there was a rough path heading in the right direction, so this was almost certainly the place. “Thanks,” I said. “Do you think I could arrange to call you later, so you could come and pick me up?”

“To take you back to the hotel?”

“Yes. But I’m not sure what time. Can you give me your phone number?”

“Bien sûr.” He plucked a card from a plastic holder and offered it to me. “But you pay for this trip now, yes?”

“Yes. No problem.” I took his card and stowed it in my wallet, then I paid him and climbed out into the sunshine. The taxi somehow managed to perform a U-turn in the narrow road, and then it sped away.

“OK,” I murmured. “It’s time.” I squared my shoulders, stepped onto the path and started walking.

Chapter 6

3550 BC

“USELESS!” ELDRIDE SPAT
. “You’re no good to anybody.”

Cleofan stared at his mother. He said nothing.

“You’re no use to me, you’re no use to your poor wife.” She paused to look him up and down, scowling. “And you come in here and tell me you’ve been out to gather firewood—and
this
is all you’ve got to show for it.”

Cleofan took a breath. “I brought firewood,” he said. “I brought all the wood I could find.”

“That’s no good,” Eldride said. “It’s the Feast of the Long Night tomorrow. Everyone else is bringing whole stacks of wood for the great fire. I’d be ashamed to bring those poor scraps of kindling.”

Cleofan looked down at the wood pile. It was the best he could do. It was all he could carry, all he could find. But it was no use telling his mother that. It would only make her more angry.

“And where’s your meat?” she demanded. “We must have meat for the feast.”

Cleofan did not look up. “I tried,” he mumbled. “It’s a hard winter. Hard for everyone.”

Eldride sucked in a loud breath. “Your father brought home three rabbits. Three.” She took a step toward Cleofan. “Go back out there and bring some more wood. Make sure this pile is bigger by nightfall of you’ll get no meat from us.”

Cleofan’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, mother,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”

“No,” she said. “You’ll do better.”

***

At the edge of the village, Cleofan bent down to pick up a piece of dead wood from the ground. It was damp and mouldering, but it would have to do. He dropped it onto his pathetic pile of sticks and moved on, searching the ground. “It’s no use,” he muttered. “There’s nothing here.” He tilted his head back and looked up into the sky. There was one place where he could find more wood, and quickly. But it would mean going into the woods around the pit. He checked the position of the sun in the sky. The sun was not yet at its highest. So though the days were short, there was still plenty of daylight left. No reason not to go into the pit. The Shades would not venture out in daylight—would they?

He shook his head. It would be safe. And there was plenty of wood near the pit. And some of it would be dry, sheltered from the rain by the rocks.
Dry wood
, he thought,
just waiting to be gathered from the ground
.

Cleofan looked back toward his mother’s hut, then glanced at the smaller hut he shared with his wife, Odely.
She’ll be expecting a stack of firewood as well
, he thought bitterly.

But it was all right. He had plenty of time. He could walk to the pit and be back with an armful of firewood before the sky began to darken.

He checked his knife was at his waist, and then he turned away from the village and set off toward the pit.

Chapter 7

2021

CALLY BARGED INTO THE PORTAKABIN
they were using as a site office, and slammed the door behind her. “Simon! I’ve just seen the script, and it’s no good at all.”

The cabin’s only occupant stood up and came out from behind his desk, a clipboard in his hand. “Calm down, love. It’s all fine.”

“No, it is not all fine,” Cally insisted. “How many times do I have to tell you? There is simply no way those menhirs could be some sort of astrological calendar. I get tired of all this pseudoscience—it’s just nonsense. You may as well say the whole thing was built by aliens.”

Simon frowned and pressed his clipboard against his chest. “Listen, love, as long as I’m the producer, I say what goes. This isn’t just some dry documentary. No one wants to be lectured. They want to be entertained.”

Cally rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t mean you can say anything you want. You can’t just make this stuff up.”

“No, perhaps not,” Simon said. “But people don’t mind a bit of speculation. They like a bit of mysticism.”

Cally folded her arms. “If you’re not dealing in facts then what the hell do you need me for?”

“That is a very good question, Ms. Freeman.”

“That’s
Doctor
Freeman to you,” she said. “Unlike your pretty little star, I’m actually qualified to be here.”

Simon shook his head. “I don’t have time for this. We’re recording this piece in half an hour, and the script is already written.” He pointed toward the door. “Now, I suggest you get out there, find a corner where you’ll be out of everyone’s way and look busy. It may have escaped your notice, but we are not stuck out in the middle of nowhere just to satisfy your academic interest. We are here to make a TV programme, and that’s all that matters.”

Cally stared at him for a moment, her chin held high, then she turned around and marched out, leaving the door wide open.

“Shut the door,” Simon called. But Cally took no notice. She walked across the site until she reached the trench where she’d been working then she climbed down carefully, making certain she didn’t disturb anything. Her tools were where she’d left them in the bottom of the trench. She picked up her trowel, let out a sigh then crouched down and began working.

“Stupid man,” she muttered. But she pushed her angry thoughts aside and concentrated on her work: moving her hands methodically across the bottom of the trench, scraping away the hard, dry earth with the tip of her trowel and collecting any interesting fragments in the plastic container at her side.

She lost track of time, so when she heard someone approaching, she assumed it was one of the crew coming to tell her that the filming was about to start. But when she looked up, two unfamiliar men were standing over her. They were both smartly dressed: dark suits, white shirts, and brightly patterned silk ties. And they were both staring down at her. Cally stopped what she was doing and stood up slowly. “Can I help you?”

One of the men, the shorter of the two, stepped forward. “You are Doctor Freeman?”

Cally looked from one man to the other. “Yes, I’m Doctor Freeman. Is something the matter?”

“I do not think so,” the man said. “My name is Bernard Azoulay, and this is my assistant, Giles Husson. We are from the Ministry of Culture and Communication, and we would like to discuss a few things with you.”

Cally tilted her head to one side. “You need to talk to the producer, he’s the one in charge. I’m just the hired help.”

The man smiled and shook his head slowly. “Forgive me, Doctor Freeman, but that is not quite true. We are quite aware of your reputation in this field. And we have travelled some considerable distance to speak with you today. So, we’d be grateful if you could take a few minutes out from your work to answer some of our questions.”

Cally hesitated. She didn’t like to be interrupted, but at least it seemed as though these new arrivals appreciated her qualifications and experience. “All right, but we’d better talk in the office. They’re going to start the filming any minute now, so we’d better keep out of the way, unless you want to be beamed to TV sets all around the world.”

“Ah,” Bernard said, “that would be most unfortunate.” He glanced at his companion. “Especially for Giles. He is not, what is the right word, photogenic?”

Cally looked up at Bernard’s assistant.
You can say that again
, she thought. Giles was heavily built and his features were brutish. She couldn’t imagine him working for a government ministry. He looked more like a nightclub bouncer.