The Hollow Places - A Paranormal Suspense Thriller Read online

  “Wait,” Firdy said when she was at the door.

  Clare had known that it wouldn’t be over so quickly.

  “I told you to call me the moment you saw her,” Firdy said. He laid a hand on her shoulder. She didn't flinch. “You did well,” he said, “but next time I ask you to do something, you do it. You could have saved me - and someone else - a lot of trouble. A lot of trouble.” It was Clare's turn to be disconcerted by her reflection in his dark glasses. She watched herself nod. “And stop smoking.”

  He limped towards the door. “Go,” he said, waving Sarah on.

  As she stepped out into the street, Sarah was frightened and angry and confused. She looked through the cafe window and saw Clare staring into her coffee cup. Firdy shoved her to keep her moving.

  As she walked, with Firdy behind her, she thought about running again, getting lost in the crowd. The man had a limp. How difficult could it be to get away?

  Doing as she was told had got her caught. She was going to have to save herself, her own way.

  She took a deep breath, not believing that she was about to do this, but -

  “Here,” Firdy said.

  The transit van dwarfed the car in front and behind. Mud had splattered the lower half of the vehicle and the wheels were caked.

  If you get in there, she assured herself, you’ll die.

  She could still run. There were people walking nearby; some of them looked half-crazy, but they were better than Firdy. She saw cars stuck at the lights. She could scream and a dozen people would look their way.

  “I have your brother,” Firdy said, unlocking the doors with his key fob. “If you want to see him alive, you’ll get in the van and come with me.”

  Her knees buckled. She wondered if Simon was in the back of the van, tied and gagged. Instinctively, she drifted towards it.

  Firdy opened the passenger door for her, his twisted face betraying the strain of remaining patient. She could see in the curl of his thin lips that he had had enough of chasing her and that he wouldn’t do it again, not as long as there were knives and guns and clubs and leather gloves and Simon. He had Simon, so she really didn't have a choice.

  She climbed into the van.

  “Thank you,” Firdy said.

  He sighed and slammed her door shut.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Clare ordered a lemon cheesecake and another coffee. She didn’t want to appear a glutton and had considered moving to another cafe, but her legs weren’t working properly so she suffered the shame. It was nothing compared to the shame of what she had done, handing Sarah to Firdy.

  The cheesecake arrived, a pristine wedge, glistening. A little fork. A napkin. She stuck the fork into the cake and split it in two. Today was officially the worst day of her life.

  She didn’t know how she would live with what she had done, but she knew that she would. The prospect was awful but true.

  She imagined that the cheesecake was a cliff and that the shiny, white plate was oblivion. She imagined herself stepping off the edge, not jumping, but hitting the rocks on the way down, dead before she hit the bottom. She knew she wasn't going to kill herself though; she had given up Sarah to protect herself and her own family. If she was going to kill herself, she would have done it this morning. It was too late to do any good now.

  So she’d live. She’d go home and cry and start cutting. In the morning, she’d disinfect her incisions, eat Golden Grahams and watch Jeremy Kyle.

  Then maybe more cutting.

  Just another day.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The tension in the hall thickened the air, which smelled of dust, pine and birch, varnish, paint and coffee. Two actresses were gabbling in hushed tones in front of a wooden backdrop on which the entrance to a forest had been painted; a path disappearing into blackness.

  Immediately in front of the stage, was an orchestra pit, where a violinist was attempting to argue a man in scruffy combat trousers, but he was preoccupied with his headset.

  Simon gathered from the palpable anxiety that this was 'opening night' rather than a dress rehearsal. Most of the work had been done and now it was too late to make any dramatic changes. All they could do was follow the script and hope for the best. Except, something had happened. There was an air of panic. This was almost chaos.

  It wouldn't be difficult for him to fit in. He picked up a plastic cup of coffee, which was sitting on a table against the wall, and took a sip from it as he strode across the hall, looking busy and purposeful, but feeling anything but confident and in control.

  Sarah wasn't answering her phone, so he had to find Geraldine fast. He looked for a man on his own so he could pose as a friend of Geraldine's and ask where we she was. Nothing would destroy his deception more quickly than telling Geraldine that he was a friend looking for her.

  He approached a couple of men who were positioning a table by the door, but they hadn't seen her. He tried an old man who stopped laying out chairs to scan the entire hall, but was no use at all.

  He felt success drawing away from him. It was agony to be so near and yet so far from finding Sarah.

  Though he was familiar with life and death situations, the 'death' was normally a consequence of his actions. Perhaps, he thought, this is how it feels to be on the other side; this fear - surreal and unshakeable.

  He grabbed handfuls of his hair, biting back a scream of frustration, and then he saw a woman run down the steps to the right of the stage. She appeared to be hurrying so that nobody would see that she was crying. A sob escaped from her as she threw herself through the exit.

  Simon jogged through the hall and found her leaning against the wall outside, her head in her hands.

  “Geraldine?” he said and she stared at him through her tears. He suspected that Firdy had got here before him and that her distress was the aftermath of his visit. “I'm looking for Sarah,” he said.

  She laughed. “Isn't everyone?”

  So he had been right; Firdy had been here or at least their paths had overlapped.

  “I'm looking for the man too,” Simon added. She stopped smiling. “You've seen him, haven't you?”

  “No,” she said. “Not exactly.”

  “Will you help me?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Clare was finally about to leave the cafe when her phone vibrated.

  It wasn’t Firdy for once.

  It was Ellen.

  She was surprised to find that she wasn't exactly relieved by this. She couldn’t bring herself to answer the call. The shame of what she had become was too great. She caught her reflection in the window and was disgusted. Drawn lips. Pinched cheeks. A hollow gaze.

  The phone continued to vibrate long after she had dropped it into her coat pocket and she felt unable to move until it's buzzing released her. She often ignored Ellen's calls without feeling paralysed by regret, but today was different. Today, she imagined Ellen sitting on her antique chair at the bottom of the stairs, gazing at the speaker in the handset as though she could will it to life, knuckles turning white.

  Clare took a deep breath.

  She reached into her pocket.

  “Hi, Ellen,” she said.

  “Bea.”

  “How are you?”

  “Well, I'm fine. How are you? That's more important.”

  “I'm ok, Ellen. I'm ok. I’m so sorry that I couldn't be there today.”

  “I didn't expect you to come, Bea, but ... I had hoped for a card.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “I’m only 80 once, you know. Good thing too, if you ask me.”

  “I know.” Clare wanted to call her Granny, but she didn't dare. Ellen had always insisted that they treat each other as equals; she only happened to be older. Clare didn't feel the equal to her now. She never had. As a teenager, she had lived with Ellen, her maternal grandmother, when things had been unbearable at home. Over the years, Clare had found
that she was someone she could trust. The only person she could trust. Ellen had taught her how to listen, how to wait and how to keep going despite her fear. These skills had served her well, but she couldn't tell Ellen how or why. She had to bear her life alone.

  “How are things down in London?” Ellen asked.

  “Fine,” Clare replied. “Everything's fine.”

  They pretended to chat in this manner, much as they had pretended to be close over the last year and a half, but Clare knew that she alone had broken the connection they used to have. That was another thing that she had to live with.

  “Are you there?” Ellen asked.

  “I'm here, Ellen. I can't talk right now.”

  “Of course you can't.”

  She yearned to confess the things she had done to people and why, but how could she? At it's best it would sound crazy; at its worst it was despicable and criminal.

  According to Firdy, it was almost over. A few more lies, though the biggest ever, and she would be free.

  “Your mother’s here,” Ellen said. “I hope that’s not the reason you didn’t come.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Shall I believe you?”

  Clare could hear the smile in her voice, but could tell that she was upset. The fact that she had called told her that she was upset. Normally, she would have waited for her to get in touch, by which time she would already have forgiven her, ready for her to do it again.

  But not this time. Not anymore.

  “I'd better leave you to it then,” Ellen said. “I have gifts to open. Your mother sends her love.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “No. She doesn’t. But I could tell that she was disappointed when I told her you weren’t here. When did you two last see each other?”

  “I’ll make it up to you,” Clare said. “I promise.”

  “No, Bea, you won’t. Bye honey.”

  “Ellen? Granny?”

  She drew away when she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was the Greek woman, Androula, looking alarmed.

  “Are you okay?” Androula asked. Clare bowed her head, letting her forehead touch the surface of the table. It was cool. A moment of peace. “Come on,” the woman said, “Don't do this to yourself. Sit up. Tell me what's wrong.”

  “You're very kind,” Clare said. “You've always been kind to me, but you don't understand. I should go.”

  “You're right,” Androula said. “I don't understand, but I think that you should talk to someone; I'm a good listener, Sharonne ...”

  She was normally Sharonne when she was here, but sometimes she had to be Bea. Today she had played Clare for the first time. She snorted at the strangeness of the thing that she had become. The name on her birth certificate was Bernadette. Her life as Bernadette seemed far away. A dead thing. A mile underground.

  She pushed her chair back, but Androula urged her to stay.

  “Look at the state of you,” she said. “You can't go out like that. I’ll get you some water. Please. Wait. Just a minute.”

  *

  By the time he reached the Olive Tree, he was out of breath and the pain in his leg was sending flares up into his hip. He'd had to drive past the restaurant and double back on foot, abandoning the car on the pavement fifty yards up the road.

  As he ran, he worked through his options. They were few. The best involved taking Sarah by the hand and returning to the car with her. The worst … he felt for the knife in his jacket, freed it from its leather scabbard and let it rest naked in his pocket.

  When he entered the cafe, a kindly-looking woman behind the counter looked up from polishing a glass display cabinet. Simon saw a man in an apron sitting on a wooden chair in the kitchen beyond and a second woman at a table near the window finishing up a glass of water.

  The cafe was clean and smelled of fresh bread. A radio played Heart FM quietly. There was no cloak room and no toilet. No Sarah.

  He returned his attention to the woman sitting at the table. She was pale and very thin, with dark blonde hair. She was staring into her glass and hadn't so much as glanced at him as he burst in to the cafe. Now he stood beside the table and stared down at her, forcing her to acknowledge him. Her movements were subtle, but he could see that she was taking a breath, drawing herself up to full strength. Finally, when their eyes met, her face slackened. It only lasted a moment, but Simon saw enough to pull out a chair and sit opposite her. He turned the seat at an angle, so his back wasn't entirely to the window.

  “How do you know who I am?” he asked.

  “I don’t know who you are.“

  “You know that I don't have time to argue with you.”

  She thought it over.

  “You've made a mistake,” she said and stood up.

  Simon grabbed her by the wrist. With her free hand, she snatched up the glass she had been drinking from. She restrained herself, for the time being, from smashing it in his face.

  “I only want to talk,” he said.

  She flicked her eyes to the right, indicating the owners of the cafe. Simon didn't make the mistake of looking. He had heard the man join the woman at the counter, but he wasn't concerned about them. He wanted answers.

  “Talk,” Simon said.

  She glanced at the door.

  “Here,” Simon said.

  Finally, she sat down. Simon let go of her arm and she let go of the glass.

  “Now talk,” Simon said.

  She sighed and said: “He took her.”

  “When?”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes.”

  “Which?”

  “Ten.”

  “You helped him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Who are you?”

  Her eyes flicked towards the old couple over her shoulder again.

  “Answer,” Simon said.

  “This isn't going to help you get her back.”

  “Quickly.”

  She pushed her fingers through her hair and grabbed a handful. “I’m like you,” she said. “I do as I’m told. I don’t get hurt. The people I care about don’t get hurt. You’d have done the same as me. As far as I knew, you already had.”

  “Why does he want her?”

  She was staring at him very steadily and intensely. Her eyes had both the colour and texture of a frozen lake. She swallowed hard.

  “The same thing is going to happen to her as happens to all the people you deliver.”

  Simon’s hand tightened into a fist. “And what is that?”

  Surprise swept over her face so quickly that she hadn’t a chance to hide it. When the tremor was over, her mouth curled into a contemptuous smile. She rested her hands in her lap and slouched. The contempt travelled up to her eyes.

  “Just tell me what happens,” Simon said.

  “You don't know much, do you?” she said. “It learns from them. It takes them apart to see if it can put them together again. Usually the answer's 'no' ... You asked me.”

  “Sarah’s his insurance to keep me ... delivering. Why does it want her now?”

  “I'd like to help you,” she said, “but I can't. We're very similar, so you'll understand why I can't say any more.” Before Simon could speak, she continued: “Firdy will tell you everything you want to know. I’ve got no stake in this. Nothing to gain and everything to lose. It’s not that I don’t sympathise. I can’t.” She stood up.

  Simon told her to sit down, but she straightened her coat and put up her hood.

  “I can’t say it was nice to meet you,” she said. “Don’t follow me. And one other piece of advice: when he realises that you’re not where he left you, he’ll be very upset. He has a terrible temper.”

  The woman raised a hand to the couple behind the counter and strolled out of the cafe.

  Simon looked at the empty doorway, flicking through his options. He was so absorbed in thought that he didn't notice that the man had emerged from behind the counter and was now standing beside him
, looking upset.

  “You going to order or what?” the man asked, his arms hanging at his sides as if he was a gunslinger.

  Simon pushed past him.

  In the street, there was no sign of the woman in the white coat. He thought about what she had said. She was right. Firdy told him that he would return to the house with Sarah. Having failed to reach his sister in time, all he could do now was get home and limit the damage. And once again, time was against him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Do you want the radio? You can have the radio if you want. Although I can’t stand pop music. I’m more of a jazz man. What kind of music are you into? You look like an intellectual, despite the jacket. You like Radio Four, I suppose. People bashing their heads against walls. Yeah, that’s you, but sitting on the sidelines, watching the world go by, because it can't really touch you, can it? Keep your hands clean. I’ve never had that luxury, but of course I wouldn’t have it any other way. It's made me what I am, right? You've got to try. You've got to get involved. Or you may as well be dead. Don't you see? Only, it's difficult when you look like me. It's difficult to get involved.

  “But that's life. You've got to play with the cards you've been dealt. Your brother would say the same thing. Take him back three years and he’d take the exact same path and it would lead him to me and me to him.

  “He’s done a good job of protecting you, but that’s no longer necessary. I’m going to take care of everything.

  “It’s cold; I’m going to put the heater on again. Do you mind the heat? I’ve never liked the cold. Tell me if it’s too hot. I don’t have any water left, but we’ll be back at yours soon. You can have a wash; rest, sleep, dream ... Everything’s going to be okay.

  “I want you to understand now, in case anything happens, that I’m not going to kill Simon, unless he makes me. He’s a smart man. I don't think he’s going to do that. There’s a chance that he's going to see us together and feel upset about that, but I don't think he'll do anything stupid. If he does, well, let’s not think about that. Sometimes you can think about something and it happens. Know what I mean? No. Perhaps not.

  “Smile. This could have been much worse, you know. If Sharonne hadn’t found you, I would have got to you first. That might not have been pretty. I was quite upset. I think I've just killed someone. I was getting kind of fed up of chasing you. You might not have been sitting here, comfortable, in the front with me. I might have put you in the back. You don't want that.