The End of the Line Read online

He’d tried to stab her in the van and she’d said nothing. But she’d seen what he’d intended. She’d sent him to pick up the girl knowing what he’d do. That’s why she was so calm, she was waiting for him to fuck up. The fucking bitch.

  ‘How many cards you want?’ she asked.

  Skeebs licked his lips. ‘Two. Give me two. Fuck’s sake.’ He was sweating all over. So cold in here and still he was sweating and he couldn’t wipe it from his brow because his knife was in one hand and the cards in the other.

  ‘Two. Dealer takes two. Fuck luck. That’s how we got Reeves in the end. Just fucking luck. Now we’ve got him this far but I want to hold onto him. I want him in the ground, consequence free. Our luck held until Bridget jumped under that lorry. Now it’s falling apart and if I’m to keep anything like that happening again then I need every scrap of information I can use. Not just from her…’ She gestured to the girl in the sleeping bag, then leaned forward jabbing her finger at him. ‘…but you as well. Because if you think you can just sit there second guessing me, while my daughter is back home with that fucking asshole, all the while thinking about how you’re going to stab me in the back then think on this. I’ve already gone through Reeves to get us this far, how quickly do you think I’ll go through you? So let’s cut the bullshit. I don’t care how you did it. I don’t care if it was frightening or gross. I just need to know. So show me your cards, then tell me what you’re hiding.’

  Rain drummed against the steel shell. There was a screech of metal on metal, the rails grinding, like the carriage was being squeezed in a giant fist.

  One thrust, that’s all it would take. Just one second and it would be over.

  But he couldn’t do it. His arm refused to move. Not with her looking right at him. All he could feel was shame, shame, shame.

  ‘You fucking rigged this.’ Skeebs threw his cards down, the Jack high replaced by a pair of twos. ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Skeebs, you’re the only one who faced him and lived. I need to know how.’

  ‘What if it was luck too? You think about that? I just ran, man, I just fucking ran.’

  ‘Like no one else wanted to? Like he’d even let that happen? What did you do different? You have to tell me. There has to be a reason AK insisted you had to come with us. You must be able to make some kind of contribution.’

  It was too much. The fear was coming back, unstoppable, like a switch had been flicked. His heartbeat was in his ears, his insides squirming against themselves, his body charged with energy that threatened to split his skin. He couldn’t catch his breath. How was he supposed to breathe in this tiny little room?

  He was back across to his wall now, knife clutched impotently down by his side, out of sight.

  They stared across at each other, Skeebs gulping and swallowing, fighting to get his breath back.

  It was a fight he slowly won, but letting her see him like that, it just made him hate her, and himself, more.

  She must have read it in his face, because, all of a sudden, she was all sympathy. ‘Skeebs—’

  ‘Just leave me alone.’ He turned away, lay down to feign sleep. Straining his ears, he waited for her to straight out call him on the knife or try and apologise.

  She did neither.

  He bit at a fingernail, his hand shaking between his teeth. The tears were rolling now as he pressed himself up against the wall.

  He’d do it, he promised Danny. He’d do it when she wasn’t expecting it.

  He pulled the sleeping bag up over his head so Amanda couldn’t see him cry, berating himself. Weak. Stupid.

  Chapter 9

  Amanda

  The present – eighty-seven hours to destination

  Silence settled, underpinned by the hiss of the rain, the rush of wind, the steady heartbeat of steel-rimmed wheels on iron tracks. Inside, the sounds were more intimate, leeched of warmth by the echo from the bare walls. There was the deep, heavy chuffs of the sleeping, the whisper of cloth on cloth and the grumble of supplies in their boxes as the carriage rocked.

  Despite his efforts, Skeebs’ breathing had slowed, the boy, willingly or not, drifting asleep. Amanda was alone.

  Almost alone.

  Reeves was silent. Expectant.

  Amanda moved as silently as she could.

  Reeves’ stink made her nose curl. Magic seemed to leak from his very pores, the taste in Amanda’s mouth making her want to scrub and scrub and scrub.

  It had been easier having Reeves in the box, out of sight, out of mind, just a package to be delivered.

  The tattoos continued to swirl, gentle eddies curving them along the skin, symbols coming into view then sliding out again under a shadow or bruise.

  Looking at them made her dizzy. Her skin crawled, urging her back to her sleeping bag.

  Just a few more days and she could let loose with Bridget’s knife, love every hot moment of it. But she dreaded it too. Didn’t know if she would have what it took when the moment came. If it came.

  She turned, looked over the others. All asleep. Caleb was snoring up a storm.

  Unobserved, Amanda checked the manacles, inspected the raw, pink welts they’d made in the prisoner’s skin. There was salve in the first aid kit. She didn’t want to risk waking anyone getting it, but maybe further down the line…

  Fingers gentle, she brushed the prisoner’s cheek. He was practically unrecognisable, eyes two engorged bulbs, lips split and puffed up.

  Amanda squeezed the prisoner’s shoulder, wiped away the beginning of a tear. What a fucking mess.

  Tiptoeing to her sleeping bag, she slipped back inside.

  Just a few more days.

  She leaned back her head, staring up at the light swinging overhead. Hand snaking almost of its own accord, she took out her wallet, flipped it open to the photo inside.

  There they were; the five of them smiling up at the camera. They’d enjoyed the shoot so much the kids wore three identical bright smiles, each a copy of their father’s. Amanda was glad of that. Simon had this big, honest dazzling smile that came from deep within him. The kids had deserved to inherit that smile. She was the only one closed lipped, holding back.

  Those smiles were a victory to be grateful for. Her father’s abuse may have closed her off, but she’d never passed that down to her children. Simon hadn’t let it. He’d always been the best part of her.

  Simon’s face shone up at her and her need for him felt more real than anything around her. Just to hold him again, rest her cheek on his shoulder, to smell his warmth.

  Skeebs shifted, settling deeper into sleep.

  God, Simon, what was she going to do? How was she going to raise their last little girl on her own? After what she’d done. After what she was going to do? She wanted Michaela back so much it was a hole inside her, but things would never be the same again and neither would they. Maybe they’d see each other again, two strangers who didn’t know how to talk.

  But she had to try. Had to try for her little girl, for Michaela’s future. She wouldn’t let this break her daughter.

  Laying her head back, she closed her eyes, Michaela’s image fixed in her mind. She tried to breathe deep and slow.

  She relaxed her hands… started to drift…

  Thirty years earlier

  Her mother was crying. That was always the accompaniment to their little family ritual. Mother would plead and clutch at her husband ‘No, David, please, let her alone, just for today,’ until Amanda’s father threw her aside. Mother wouldn’t get up again. Once she was thrown she would stay in that spot, sitting and watching, tears streaming down her pinched face. The ritual was a well-worn groove, resistance so ground into powder that there was no point in trying any more.

  Amanda, barely ten years old, would watch trembling from the small space between the sofa and the wall. Her tears were identical to her mother’s.

  They’d lock eyes, her mother telling her she was sorry until father stepped between them – blotting out the light.

  His hands woul
d shake, the first symptom of blood-magic withdrawal. A few hours more and magic would start leaking out, involuntary spasms that shorted light bulbs, shook rooms and made the radio scream.

  ‘Get up.’

  Sometimes Amanda would stay. Then she’d cover her ears and cower from the inevitable crash as the sofa was plucked away from the wall with a wave of father’s hand.

  Other times she stood, Father backing away to give her room.

  The bowl would be in his hand. She hated that bowl, could trace every rune carved inside in her sleep.

  ‘Go on then.’ The words, like gunshots to her young ears, made her jump and she struggled to roll up her sleeve. Father let her choose which limb was bled. She’d done her legs the last couple of days.

  When she didn’t do it fast enough, invisible hands snatched at her, tugging so hard her shoulder hurt in its socket. There were already a dozen cuts, some were scab-stitched lines, others raw and wet.

  ‘Now.’ The knife was held out, handle first. Then the empty bowl was thrust forward.

  She picked a spot that had mostly healed and sat the edge of the blade on her arm.

  She shouldn’t hesitate. She knew she shouldn’t. And still she did.

  ‘Now!’

  She flinched, gritted her teeth and cut. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, tears rolling, but didn’t dare miss the bowl.

  God, the pain.

  There would only be the sound of her laboured breath, of Mother’s whimpers and the silken sound of liquid hitting the bowl, collecting in those runes.

  Amanda hated those runes.

  Once father was finished with his spells, she would be the one to wash it and place it in the dish rack, the water in the sink pink as it swirled down the plug hole.

  The present – eighty-seven hours to destination

  The cigarette almost fell from her mouth jerking her back to the present.

  Cursing herself, she jabbed it dead. The photo went back in her wallet. Then the store-bought cards went to one side.

  She pulled out her pack of cards, flicked through the designs, her and Simon’s first year together all out of order; first kiss coming after their first weekend away.

  Fuck but she thought she’d had Skeebs. She’d almost managed to steer the boy through his trauma long enough to talk about how he had escaped Reeves. There had to be something there. Something she could use. Reeves wouldn’t just let the kid escape. This thing didn’t show mercy. She’d been reasonable, hadn’t she? Said the right things? Maybe she could have told him the truth about the importance of the ritual, the little shit kept on talking about skipping it, but with no idea how he would react, she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. The boy just needed to look past all the petty shit that had happened before and help her. The only situation that mattered was what was happening now. Fuck Reeves, fuck Danny.

  Simon had seen, she’d really tried. But what had the boy done but thrown it back in her face? Next time she wouldn’t be so gentle. She should have just left him to die in that squalid little shithole she’d found him in. Whatever it took, Simon, she was getting this job done and she was claiming their daughter.

  Just so long as Amanda came back to them the same woman.

  The thought came to her like it came from Simon himself.

  She’d been doing this recently, having conversations with Simon in her head. She could picture him, stretched out beside her, feet tucked under her like he would on the sofa.

  Oh God, Simon, she was so sorry she hadn’t got there in time—

  It was OK. She was making up for it now. She would do what needed to be done, he whispered in her ear. But if that meant becoming more like her father; violence and magic…

  Don’t worry, she imagined resting a hand on his thigh, that was never going to happen.

  She’d struggled against becoming her father her whole life; more years with the man dead than alive. But she had always felt it in her blood, the urge to let go of her anger and swing away.

  Magic and her father were inextricably linked. It was his power that had allowed the man to become a monster. Amanda wasn’t even going to take the first step down that road. Magic was a teachable thing but the power to wield it was hereditary. Sometimes when magic got too close Amanda could feel something in her veins respond – her father’s power was hers now, terrible potential that she would never tap.

  Thirty years earlier

  The thing about being brave was that you didn’t do it just once. You had to keep doing it. She’d been brave when she’d left the house but that had only got her as far as her doorstep. Then she’d had to pluck up the courage to get the bus. Then she’d had to be brave when she stepped off it again.

  Now she had to be brave and step through those doors.

  The Angel’s Bells was a grown-up place. No children allowed. Men laughed and fought and they came out, stinking of beer and cigarettes, anger stoked for the trip home.

  This was where her father went. When her father said he was going out, this was where he’d be.

  But not today. There was a job today. There was always an atmosphere at home when there was a job on. She and her mother were expected to tread more lightly, the bloodlettings increased to two per day.

  He’d left before sun up and the house had let out a held breath. Amanda had spent the morning building up her courage. She’d waited until her mother had gone for a shower before slipping out.

  Now it was raining.

  She hadn’t taken a coat, the sky had been clear when she’d left. Now water ran from the tip of her nose and her short braids, clothes soaked right down to her underwear. When she walked, her shoes squished and frothed freezing rainwater.

  Passers-by were starting to look – the little urchin staring across the busy road at the half-empty pub.

  Her new cut had started to bleed again, her arm staining tie-dyed pinks and reds.

  She could just go home. Mother would be angry but she wouldn’t say anything. Father would return, flushed with success none the wiser. And in a day or two he’d need more blood.

  The clouds were so dark out that the lights were on low inside. The dark wood panelling drew in the light. She could just about see the bottles of black spirits behind the bar, keeping their secrets. Cigarette smoke made a haze, irritating her eyes.

  There was no music.

  Two old men, sat at a corner table, stared. Their chins were frosted with white stubble, their false teeth left at home.

  Feet squelching, she rounded the bar.

  The people she was looking for were at the back. There was the sweet, pungent reek of pipe smoke here, the tang of spent spells. They sat nursing pints, sleeves rolled back to display their Abra tats in defiant display.

  They were an odd group, even to a ten­year­old. People who looked like teachers or stuffy old professors alongside men like her dad, shaven heads and split knuckles. Old men beside young men.

  These, she would realise later, were the old soldiers. Abras who had fought for their country to find their discipline shunned in peacetime. The horrors committed by the enemy had seen to the illegalisation of magic in the late 1940s – replaced by reliance on tanks and planes and atom bombs. War time Abras had had no work to come back to. Desperation, poverty and ostracising had done the rest – turning heroes to criminals as they plied their skills in the only trade that would have them.

  Two were playing darts. Neither of them even bothered to unfold their arms as the sharp needle points thudded into the board.

  The rest were arguing. Something about high principles. Leaps in scientific and psychological theory were showing new ways that magic could be applied. Magic would be in a second renaissance if it was only made legal again – time, space, the subconscious – if only word could be spread.

  One by one they stopped their debate to stare at the little girl as she dribbled her way through the empty, scratched tables toward them.

  By the time she arrived, heart in her throat, she had their full
attention.

  ‘Are you the Abras?’ she asked.

  ‘Depends who’s asking, sweetheart,’ said the man closest. He wore a suit and tie, his hair cut neat like he should have belonged in an office. He even had fussy little glasses which he pushed up his nose.

  ‘Are you or aren’t you?’

  This defiance raised a ripple of indulgent laughter.

  ‘What’s left of them, aye,’ came another voice. She didn’t see which said it.

  ‘I need your help. My dad hurts me. He does blood magic.’ She rolled up a sleeve for them to see, felt vindicated at how even the biggest among them recoiled.

  ‘Oi, Jerry!’ one of them shouted towards the bar. ‘Bring us some bandages, will you?’

  Amanda let out a sigh of relief as a muffled agreement drifted back and a stool was pushed forward for her to sit on.

  ‘Who’s your dad, love? Who done that to you?’

  ‘His name’s…’ she swallowed. ‘David Coleman.’

  And just like that the air was sucked from the room. It was a feeling she knew all too well. Like the man himself had stepped in through the front door.

  ‘Got to make a call,’ said the man with the glasses and he hurried away.

  ‘You have to help me, please,’ she pleaded. ‘He hurts me all the time and my mum can’t help. I know you know him. If you could just talk to him. He’s always talking about you and how you learned magic to help people. Well we need help. Please.’ She was fully sobbing now, desperate for them to prove that she hadn’t made a mistake.

  ‘All right, love, all right.’ A man in a leather jacket patted her on the shoulder. ‘S’alright. You did good in coming to us. Good that you came to us first.’

  The present – eighty-seven hours to destination

  Time for a game. Amanda shifted herself against the wall so she could play and see the prisoner across the cards at the same time. The cards click-clicked as she dealt herself two poker hands. Simon, sat opposite, held his cards. She imagined the way his eyes sparkled when he had a good hand, laughed at her skill at always being able to tell his tells.