Surefire (18 page)

I don’t bother to point out that the ‘farmer and his ponsy mate’ took on six of them in Gloucester and came out without a scratch. Instead, “How do you know he’s a farmer?”

He laughs again, the harsh sound now rasping in the wide open silence. I’m beginning to think he’s ill as well as deranged.

“Cos I’ve been fucking watching you. Weeks now, I’ve been here, living up here. Been coming to your boyfriend’s fancy little farm, slept in one of his barns for a while, nearly got caught by some nosy bastard poking around.”

Seth Appleyard, probably.
And suddenly I feel sick, remembering that afternoon in the barn, that feeling of being watched while we—Christ.

Sure enough, he’s giggling, some sort of crazy childish cackling as he gloats over what he saw, what he watched. “Yeah, I’ve been watching you, and him. Pair of right fucking perverts you two are. I watched you fucking him in the hay, after he’d laid into you with a bloody stick. Maybe I’ll do that, should have done it before. Might have taught you some fucking manners, could have taught you what happens to cheating little bitches who can’t keep that shut.”

Ha pauses in his tirade long enough to grab my face and jab at my mouth with the muzzle of the shotgun. I freeze, terrified, one slip and I’m without my face. I crumble, collapse in a heap when he finally lets go of me.

Leaning over me he snarls his hatred, “I was always too fucking soft with you. From what I’ve seen now you like it hard, you fucking love your bit of rough don’t you? And that fucking farmer of yours is it, your rough bit on the side. I had to move out of the barn when that nosy bastard started snooping around, had to find somewhere else to live for a while. But I’ve been following you. And him. And helping myself to his stupid fucking hens when I felt like it. And more sometimes—you country folk really should lock your fucking doors once in a while. And be more careful about leaving keys around where anyone can frigging well help themselves.”

I gasp, sickened. He’s been in the house.
Our
house. And that day in the barn, he
was
there. He must have been well hidden because Tom looked around and couldn’t find him. He found his left over rubbish though, knew someone had been there.

Tom used to leave a key outside for me. Under the log close to the back door. But he gave me my own key a few days after I moved in, and I’ve not seen the other spare key since. Why would I? I just assumed it stayed under the log in case of…well, in case. It sounds as though Kenny somehow found it, and from there on could come and go as he liked. I still can’t believe that neither of us realized.

Kenny cackles again, obviously loving my horrified reaction. “And you hadn’t a fucking clue, neither of you. I’ve been letting myself into your fucking house, helping myself to your food—nice bit of bacon, some crisps, sweets, whatever I fucking liked. I even slept there once. When you was away somewhere and the farmer pissed off with that mate of his, the one with the flashy car.”

When I was in the Peak District? Tom did say he’d stayed at Black Combe one time, when he and Nathan had one of their football and beer fests. And all that night this piece of scum had been poking around in
our
home. Looking at
our
stuff, messing with
our
private things. Finding out about us, about our life. I’m not ashamed, not even embarrassed really. I’m an adult—I’ll do what the fuck I like. But he’s invaded me. Us. His unwanted, uninvited presence in our home has infected me somehow, left a dirty smear, and I just know I’m going to throw up.
Shit. Shit, shit, fucking shit.

Oblivious to my reaction now, he goes on, wrapped up in his story, swelling with cocky pride at how clever he’s been, how cunning, how ingenious to outwit us. “I’ve been up here, while you’ve been taking bloody pictures all day with that fancy camera. Nearly took it off you a few times, but you always had that fucking great dog with you. So I waited, waited till now, and I got a gun, your fucking farmer’s gun, and I shot the bastard. Now I’ve got you. And now it’s payback time, you dozy, cheating, lying little mare.”

My head’s reeling, trying to keep up, to take it all in.
Tom’s gun? He has Tom’s gun? But how?
Where did he get that from? I know Tom has a shotgun, I’ve seen it regularly. All farmers do, for dealing with foxes and other vermin. Tom’s gun is properly licensed, locked in a secure cabinet in the farm kitchen, along with the cartridges. I’ve never used it, but I knew where it was kept. It seems Kenny did too. He must have taken it today, after we left the house. There’s no way he could have broken into the gun cabinet and it not be noticed immediately.

I remember, Tom left first after our little heart to heart around the kitchen table, and Eva and I followed him out about twenty minutes later. I shiver, my revulsion now beyond any disguising. Kenny must have been there, watching, waiting for his chance. And as soon as he saw us all leave he must have let himself inside, broken into the gun cabinet and helped himself before following us up here. On the quads we made better time, that’s why he was a good hour or so behind us. But he still had plenty of time, we were in no rush. So he picked his spot and got himself into position, then dealt with Barney. And more than ever I’m sure that was a lucky shot, but at point blank range, he wouldn’t need much in the way of luck to murder me. He wouldn’t even need a particularly steady hand.

He’s still ranting on about my cameras and ‘fancy fucking bike’ but doesn’t seem to realize that in his excitement about abducting me he forgot to also grab my expensive equipment. I viciously suppress the impulse to prick his self-satisfied bubble and instead decide to let that lie, I don’t want him being seized with a sudden fit of greed and going back down there and maybe running into Eva again. I’m hoping she’s got away, but I can’t be sure. Instead, exhausted now and utterly devastated at the realization that he’s been stalking me, spying on me and Tom for weeks, I rock backwards and forwards on my knees. My voice weak, I ask the one remaining question I can think of, “How did you manage to find me?”

He leers, obviously so damn proud of himself he’s near to bursting with it. “Got your fucking address from your car. You left it parked in the street outside that fucking burned out house of yours when the stupid coppers come and slung you in their car—what a fucking laugh that was, but in the end they let you off. I just had to smash the window, had a look around, found a garage bill with your address on. Or his, didn’t matter. I knew where to come looking for you, and here you are, you sneaking, lying little bitch. Here you are. And like I say, you’re mine, you’re not fucking off just when you feel like it. Not this time, never again. I’ll always find you. And now you know what’ll happen to you too, what happens to cheating little tramps who forget who’s in charge, forget their place, tell the fucking cops about me and fucking piss me off.”

His voice has risen, he’s screaming into my face now, his eyes watering and the pupils dilated ominously, spittle spraying from his slack mouth. Christ, to think I once—even in my dim and distant and incredibly stupid past—ever,
ever
found this vile specimen the least bit desirable. The least little bit attractive. To think I broke my mum’s heart for him. I gaze at him, incredulous. He ignores me, finishes his ranting tirade, “So from now on you treat me right, you fucking bitch, and you do as you’re fucking well told. If I decide to take you back with me you’ll never open that fucking lying trap of yours again. I’ll nail it shut first.”

I’m on my knees, dry-eyed but stunned, desperately trying to assimilate all of this, all of this crazy tale, this deranged series of events, the deluded, dangerous logic of Kenny Potts. And of one thing I’m absolutely certain—he’ll kill me and anyone else who crosses him, gets in his way, without a second thought. What Kenny Potts wants—what he wants to do—is what he gets.

But I need to survive. I have a life to live. Two lives, if the one inside me counts too. I think it does, and I’ll say anything, do anything, to get out us of this alive. So, more groveling… “Yes, I’m sorry. I will. I… What do you want me to do?”

He snarls at me, his hatred pouring off him. “Get up and get fucking moving. Not far now, then I’m gonna have me a bit of what’s mine. A bit of what I’ve been missing out on while you’ve been dangling your bits in front of that fucking sheep shagging boyfriend of yours.”

He jabs my shoulder with the shotgun, prodding me until I struggle awkwardly to my feet again. He means to rape me, that’s clear. I tell myself I can handle that, if I have to. I survived that before, more than once. I can survive it again. Being alive’s what matters, nothing else.

Except it
is
different now. Now I’ve had Tom, been with Tom, I know the difference. Kenny’s self-obsessed, self-important, deranged ramblings are ludicrous in comparison to a real Dominant, a real Master. Tom commands me, Kenny just disgusts me.

“You thought I was stupid, thought I wouldn’t see through that crap you told the police.” He’s behind me again, prodding me with the gun every few yards to keep me moving, keep me climbing upwards toward the highest crags.

I stiffen, grit my teeth against the pain as I struggle with the terrain. It’s steep now, hard enough in good health but near enough impossible with broken ribs and one eye now completely shut. I wonder how long it’s been since we left Eva. I’ve no notion of the time, no idea if she might have been able to get help by now, if anyone’s coming, how much longer I’ve got before he decides he’s finally done with me.

“You thought if you told the court I was with you those nights I’d not suss out that it was really you who told the fucking cops who did them shops. It had to be you, no one else knew. You were the only one who knew where the lock-up was. You thought if you said I was with you I’d think you was on my side, not know you’d double-crossed me. Not work out what you were planning, you and that evil old bitch. Not work out that you were going to dump me again as soon as I got locked up, planning to piss off with her. You thought I was fucking stupid, but it’s you who’s thick. I’m too frigging smart for you, remember that, cunt.”

A wave of nausea washes over me. He knows. He really does know. He’s worked it out. I did think I was being clever, but in reality all I was, was desperate. I covered my tracks as best I could but I couldn’t break my ties completely. It was always going to come to this, if he found me. That’s why I knew I had to leave, get away from my old home, try to start again somewhere else. And now, it’s all for nothing. In his head I ‘betrayed’ him. He’s bitter and vengeful and means to make me pay. The worst crime of all, the very worst thing imaginable in Kenny’s criminal fraternity, is to be a grass.

He might, he just might have forgiven me for trying to end our relationship, settle the matter with a good battering and a few brutal fucks, but he’ll never forgive me for telling the police. I can’t at this moment really understand why I’m still alive now. He could have simply shot me back then. Whatever he says about taking me back, he’ll never let this go. I need to get away, and soon, because unless I do, I’m as good as dead already. Like my mother.

My mind’s racing, desperately re-assimilating, re-aligning what I know. Trying to make sense of it. One thing’s glaring at me. And it chills me to my core. If he knows I was the informer—that it was me who turned in the ram raiding gang—then probably so do his mates who came with him to Gloucester that day. So, what was their motivation? Revenge maybe—that’s what Tom thought. Or was it just the prospect of a bit of fun in the back of a van with a helpless girl? I shudder at the sheer idiotic cruelty of it, and at Kenny, who callously set me up to be gang-raped just because he thought he had a score to settle. Because he’d decided I deserved it.

Hugging my latest realization to me, I drop my head, stumble onwards, upwards, one step at a time, one foot in front of the other. I wrap my arms around myself in an attempt to ease my injured ribs, try to pick my way carefully across the now rocky uplands, clambering over granite boulders. One slip would mean a twisted or even broken ankle—no chance of escape then. There are no dry stone walls up here, the few sheep that venture this far have to pick out their own territory. They don’t tend to stay that long, soon wandering back down to the lower hills. More shelter, more food.

“Over there, that way.” Kenny gestures over to the right with the muzzle of the shotgun.

I turn in that direction, picking my route cautiously.

“There, between those two rocks. Get a fucking move on, we haven’t got all day to piss about out here in the fucking cold.”

I peer in front of me out of my one good eye, try to pick out where we are. There’s some sort of cave ahead, just a narrow opening between the two rocks. I shuffle toward it, by no means eager to go in there with him, but still dangerously short of other options as long as he’s waving that bloody gun around. I reach the rocky entrance, lean on one of the boulders and peer inside. Not quite a cave, the roof’s not solid. The rocky floor inside is wet, there’s water dripping down the walls. The place offers some shelter, some protection from the elements, from the wind maybe, but not that much.

“Inside. Now.” Another jab in my ribs from Tom’s shotgun has me groaning in pain.

I obey, scrambling across the threshold. Once inside, the first thing that hits me, overwhelms me, is the stink. The smell of the place is putrid, vile. It’s clear this is the place where Kenny has been living rough since he was ousted from Tom’s nice warm barn, and it’s also clear he has no idea of even basic hygiene. One corner of his ‘home’ has been used as a toilet and the stench is appalling. My stomach heaves, I bend over and lose what little is left of this morning’s bacon sandwiches. Not much, mercifully. I stand, doubled over, my hands on my knees, as I gasp for air.

“Over there, sit down and keep your fucking mouth shut for once else I’ll shut it for you.” He gestures toward the side of the ‘cave’ farthest from his crude latrine, where a filthy blanket is piled, along with a few old, damp newspapers and a green denim knapsack. A familiar green denim knapsack. He still has it, the same bag he made me pile the stuff in we stole from Tom. Christ, talk about life coming full circle.