He smiled.
‘Better,’ she grinned. ‘So get your arse in gear, we have work to do.’
‘Anthony’s going to get himself killed out there alone,’ he said reluctantly.
‘I know, and that’s why I have to chase him down. He’s frightened, James. Frightened and confused, and you were in his sights when he felt like letting it out. If I can find him I can talk to him, bring him back.’
‘No, Abbey.’ He reached out and touched her face. ‘I can’t let you become the next missing person.’
‘We don’t have a choice,' she murmured. 'In every second that passes, Anthony puts more and more distance between us. Get the others back to the beach. I’ll see you at the camp before the sun sets.’
‘Take this.’ He handed her a small penknife. ‘It’s not much, but I’ll feel better knowing you have it.’
She palmed the knife and held his gaze as he brushed the hair from her face.
‘I can’t lose you, Abbey. Not now.’
‘You won’t,’ she uttered. ‘I’m coming back.’
He leaned forwards and kissed her forehead, his lips pressing against the taut skin longingly. Then she stood and turned, the barrier of mist looming over her indestructible resolve. Before she vanished, she glanced over her shoulder and caught a fleeting movement in James’s lips, his silent words unquestionable.
*
Swirling shapes buffeted her as the mist grew denser. She held her hands out and stepped cautiously, ghostly spectres of Anthony betraying her vision. The sun had not yet cut a path into the fog, stationary clouds tactlessly blocking the day’s renewed heat. All around her the jungle was alive with newfound noise, snapping twigs and raindrops succumbing to gravity, her own mind matching the cacophony with a gross collage of images featuring James and Edward, Edward and James.
Her heart was burning with guilt, a sadness lingering there to know that she had deceived her wedding vows, had deceived her husband’s trust.
What had she become? How was it that such an intense circumstance could alter one’s perception so irreparably? She felt like a gutter-dog, a bitch. A bad wife.
Edward was her life, but she couldn’t imagine what the newspapers were saying. If he was reading them, reading into them, then she was already dead, and he was already mourning. Had he cancelled her magazine subscriptions, had he halved the milk delivery? Were his friends recommending he move on?
She guessed she must’ve been half an hour into the pursuit by now, any sign of Anthony non-existent. There was nothing marked in the undergrowth to suggest he’d been there, no footprints, no dense puddles of tar seeping from his persona. She tried calling his name, but only birds seemed interested in responding. She began to wonder if the fog had misled her.
She tried his name again, the silence offering verification that she was lost. She guessed she was near the north of the island somewhere. She imagined Jerry Benton calling for her from somewhere nearby, his trapped skeleton scratching at the wall of his injury-laden cell. Lost in the fantasy, she stepped cautiously into a small valley she’d never seen before, desperate trees clinging to its broad flanks, dried out bed as if belonging to a dormant arroyo. The mist cut a perfect shape to fit the crafted landscape, settling amorphously into the valley.
She pressed deeper, the gorge slowly narrowing with each muffled footstep, until she drew to an unprecedented stop. Something was wrong here, she could feel it. A coppery hue lingered on the air like a persistent fly, the subtly intermittent stench of something unnatural dominating the morning. She took another tentative step forwards and the recoiling sight emerged from the mist. Covering her mouth, she held in her scream. Strung up in the trees were the motionless figures of Elaine and Sol, their shirtfronts dappled with blood.
‘I knew you’d come,’ said an unfamiliar voice at her back.
Startled, she turned quickly, her throat catching. ‘You…’ she whispered.
The world fell silent.
‘I’m glad you came alone.’
56
London, 1992
Just when he thought no one at Will Graham’s house was going to pick up, the phone was answered by Ross, Will’s nine year old boy.
After a few short scuffled noises, Will Graham commandeered the phone and asked who was speaking.
‘Will,’ said York quietly into the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Nick.’
‘Nick!’ cried Graham. 'Don’t ask me how but Mason’s found out what you’re doing. She’s after your blood, man.’
‘She can have it, it’s stone cold. Besides, I’m done up here.’
‘What did you find? Please tell me you got something, Braddock’s arrogance is really pissing me off.’
‘Sorry to disappoint. Didn’t find a thing. The house is just a shell now, what’s left of it anyway. It’s been stripped out by travellers by the looks of things.’
Graham’s muted sign echoed down the line. ‘Bollocks! Sorry, Nick, I really thought we were on to something.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘So what now?’ asked Graham.
‘I’m just about to hit the road, should be back around eleven. You have any plans for an early night?’
‘If I did, I get the feeling they’re about to be cancelled.’
‘They are,’ he said. ‘Stay up until I get there, okay?’
After a short pause, Graham asked the question York expected him to, his voice tainted with scepticism. ‘What’s going on, Nick?’
‘Nothing major,’ he assured him. ‘I found a few reels of old cine film at the house. You still any good at transferring them to VHS?’
‘Does a horse piss where she pleases?’ chirped Graham excitedly. ‘What kind of film is it? Are we talking 8mm, the old Super-Eight stuff?’
‘Will, the reason I’m on the phone to you is because I know nothing about it. You want to take a look, or what?’
‘I’ll wait up,’ said Graham and hung up.
Arthur Faulkner’s carer, Jason McCullick, eyed York from behind his desk. ‘Why’d
