Robert stared directly at him. 'It made me weak, that fear.'
'Some folk might say it made you human,' Mark countered.
'Then being human can get you killed.'
'Or save you. Are you ever going to tell me why it frightens you so much?'
Buried memories intruded now: his house on fire, the knowledge that the men in yellow suits were cooking his wife and son, dead upstairs in the bedroom. His dog, Max, limping out, fur alight…
Robert ignored the question, and rolled onto his back, looking up into the night sky. 'The stars seem so much clearer out here. Everything's clear, in fact. No distractions.'
'You're going to have to open up someday,' he heard Mark comment. 'To me, Mary. Maybe even Reverend Tate.'
'What I'm doing now,' Robert broke in, totally off topic, 'with you, I mean. Someone else did the same with me. His name was Eric Meadows. He showed me the ropes.'
'I don't underst-'
'And do you know the most important thing, the first thing I learned from him?' Robert couldn't see Mark shaking his head, but he knew the boy was doing it. 'To keep my mouth shut and listen.' He rolled back onto his side, resting his head against his hand and looking past the fire at Mark. 'He was older than me, more experienced. So I listened.'
Mark looked down into the fire. 'And was there ever a time when you were able to help
Like most of Mark's questions, this caught him off guard, but his mind automatically supplied an answer. Another memory, not buried, just forgotten until now. Of Robert and Eric being called to a fight in a bar, where two twenty-somethings had decided to kick off over a girl who looked like she wanted nothing to do with either of them. By the time they'd arrived, the men were smashing bottles and throwing punches, so Eric had been the first to wade in. What he hadn't spotted was that one of the guys had mates in the corner, who came at Eric and were about to glass him when Robert stepped in. Several years down the line from the first collar he'd made, and he was a different officer. Confident, though not a risk-taker (because he had a wife to return to and they were planning on starting a family soon), but able to assess a situation like this and turn it to his advantage.
Robert had kicked the glass out of the attacker's hand, then followed up with a punch that sent him to the floor. Technically not the done thing, but Robert wasn't about to play nice in this powder keg of a situation. He'd been ready to tackle the others as well, but when the fighters heard sirens outside — Eric and Robert's backup — they'd fled the pub. Eric had cuffed the two original trouble-causers, leaving Robert to handle his. So he had no idea whether his mentor knew he'd probably saved his skin that night. Neither of them said anything to each other, as it was all in a day's work for Her Majesty's Constabulary, though Robert often wondered if he realised the favour had been returned.
But that wasn't what Mark had asked, was it? Had Robert been able to help him? Truly help him? Where was he when Eric had been injured at that football match? Robert couldn't even remember now. On holiday? Sequestered to one of the CID units? He hadn't been able to help Eric when it came to the real crunch, had he? Only postponed the inevitable.
'
Was that what this was all about? Did he need to get back out there for Eric, do something for the man even though he was probably dead by now (Robert had absolutely no idea what his blood group was, but he had to be pushing seventy even if he had survived).
Robert realised that long minutes had passed and he hadn't said a word in reply to Mark. 'I'm… I'm sorry. Just remembering something.'
'About when you were able to help this Eric guy?' asked Mark, looking up at him.
'I think in my own way I'm helping him right now,' Robert replied, not even attempting to explain. He wasn't sure he understood himself.
The fire was really dropping now, so they said their goodnights and retreated to their lean-tos. Robert faster than Mark, if anything. Not to get out of the cold, but to do what he'd come here to do all along: sleep.
And hope that the forest would find it in its heart to speak to him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At first he thought one of the sparks from the fire must have caused it.
Set this whole portion of the forest alight. Robert felt dreadful; how could he have done this to his beloved home? The bark was on fire, the branches and twigs. It was a good thing there were no leaves because they would only have added to the conflagration. He looked around, frantically trying to find something to douse the flames with. If they'd been closer to the lake at Rufford then-
But they weren't. Robert had chosen this spot intentionally to be away from the locations he'd lived in alone, when he'd first come here. The locations he'd been drawn to so he could while away the rest of his time and die; be with his late wife and child. To run away from…
From the blaze.
But he was wasting time now, thinking about all that. He should be waking Mark, getting him to help put out this fire. Robert couldn't see the boy's lean-to anywhere — couldn't see his own for that matter. Perhaps they'd both been burnt away? If that was the case was Mark all right?
A sudden wave of heat forced Robert to shield his face. He tottered backwards. Then, through the shimmering air, he saw a figure caught in the midst of the licking flames. Blinking, he tried to make out the features, but they were unclear. Once, he would have held back no matter what — not even attempted to go into the heart of this inferno. Now Robert braced himself and, head down, rushed in to get closer to the figure. It was about Mark's height, could easily
'Hold on,' Robert shouted. 'I'm coming.' He was aware that he must be cooking as well, but had to push through, had to save this person. He'd lost too much to the fire already, he wasn't about to lose the closest thing he had to a son as well.
Robert broke through into a clearing, the flames raging around him but not touching this section of the forest. In fact the only thing on fire was the figure directly ahead of him. Robert sucked in air, coughing, then refocused. He soon realised his mistake. This wasn't Mark at all; nothing like him. There, not ten feet away from him, was his old enemy: De Falaise.
Yes, he was on fire — the yellow and red rippling over him but apparently not eating him up. Robert was shocked. The last time he'd seen this man he'd killed him, and a blaze had played around them that day too. There was evidence of Robert's attack, because De Falaise no longer had eyes — and even though he was opening and closing his mouth, the Frenchman couldn't speak (a consequence of Robert having shoved an arrow as far down his throat as he could ram it). The arrow that had penetrated his heart — like a stake finishing off a vampire — was missing, but the hole was plainly there. De Falaise was saying something, but it was so faint Robert couldn't make it out.
It sounded like one word over and over.
Vengeance.
De Falaise smiled, those broken teeth even more yellow in the flames. The Frenchman opened his arms wide and let the full force of the fire take him, and this time it did crisp his skin, blackening his face and exposed hands. His dress suit — the one he'd worn for the executions at the castle — melted onto him, then that too turned black. Robert stood there watching, knowing he couldn't do a thing. Not really wanting to. This was a replay of past events — slightly different, but still a replay. What he wanted to know about was the future, about his new enemies.
As if to answer him directly, the figure burnt brighter… and redder. It took a step towards him, and when it did some of the black crust fell away. What was beneath was red, and it merged with the fire: creating a figure that was crimson from the feet upwards. Robert's mouth dropped open as he witnessed this transformation. That's the
