Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) Page 10

  But when I picked up the last few pieces from the wood pile they were damp. “Oh well,” I said. “They’ll soon dry out.” And I threw them onto the fire anyway.

  The damp wood hissed and steamed. I sat and watched the steam curl up and mingle with the smoke until the acrid fumes caught in the back of my throat and made my eyes water. I turned my head away and coughed, rubbing my eyes. With each cough, my stomach churned and squirmed. Oh god, I thought. I’m going to throw up. And I was right.

  I bent over and puked onto the grass. The vomit streamed from my mouth and splashed on the ground; a mess of bitter water and vile green mush. I retched until there was nothing left.

  Afterwards, I sat up and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Oh man,” I moaned. “That’s bad.” My nose was running and I sniffed, but the stench of vomit set off a fresh wave of cramps in my stomach. Not again. Please not again. I took a breath, let it out as slowly as I could, then took another gulp of air. I breathed as deeply as I could and stayed perfectly still until the cramps faded away. “Thank God for that,” I mumbled. It was over.

  But that didn’t mean I was OK. I was exhausted—weaker than ever. I could hardly hold my head up. My stomach still ached, and though the shivers had gone, my head was killing me. My body was telling me to lie down, and I didn’t have the strength to resist. I turned away from where I’d been sick and I lay on my side on the grass, resting my head on my arm. I didn’t care about the fire anymore. I didn’t care if lying down was the right thing to do or not. I couldn’t think about anything. “I just want to go home,” I whispered. And I closed my eyes.

  Chapter 11

  2018

  AS CALLY’S BUS PULLED IN to her usual stop, she stood in the aisle and waited patiently for a gaggle of gossiping students to let her through to the exit. She stared into the middle distance and tried hard to tune out their cheerful chatter—a babble about nothing more than bars and nightclubs and dancing. Ah well, I suppose it is Friday.

  She stepped down from the bus and trudged along the road, lost in her thoughts. Had she been like that once? Had she giggled with a bunch of friends and talked excitedly about boys and parties? She smiled sadly to herself. No. Going to university had always been her dream, her golden opportunity. It had always been about putting the work in. She wanted—what? To succeed? She sighed and thought of all the times she’d stayed in, hunched over her books while everyone else was out having a good time. And what’s it all been for? What have I missed?

  By the time she arrived at her front door, she was thoroughly fed up. She let herself in, hoping she’d have the place to herself. It wasn’t likely though. She shared the house with four other girls, all final-year students like her, though all studying different subjects. There was almost always somebody at home. Normally, she quite liked that fact. But not today.

  Cally shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, listening. The house was quiet. Perhaps she was in luck. But no. As soon as she opened the kitchen door, she heard the clatter of pots and pans. Gemma stood at the cooker, stirring a pan of something. The smell of herbs and tomato sauce made Cally’s mouth water. Gemma turned to greet her, but her smile quickly faded. “Bloody hell,” Gemma said. “What’s up with you?”

  Cally stood in the doorway. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing. It’s just…a bad day, that’s all.”

  Gemma nodded. “Take your coat off and sit down,” she said. “This has just got to simmer for a while now. I was going to have a coffee—want one?”

  Cally managed a small smile. “Thanks,” she said. “That would be nice.” She shut the door and dropped her bag on the floor. She slipped her coat off, draped it on the back of a kitchen chair and sat down with a sigh.

  Gemma put a steaming mug of coffee in front of her and sat down opposite her. “There you go,” she said. “It’s even in your favourite mug.”

  “Thanks,” Cally said. She held the cup up to her mouth and breathed in the aromatic steam. Gemma was being so nice. Her housemates normally made fun of her habit of using the same mug all the time. I must look as miserable as I feel.

  “So,” Gemma said, “what’s happened to upset the wonder girl?”

  Cally tutted. “Is that what you call me when my back is turned?”

  Gemma wrinkled her nose. “No. It’s too sexist. And patriarchal.”

  Cally rolled her eyes and laughed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  Gemma sipped her coffee. “No, you shouldn’t. Made you smile though.”

  Cally sat back and ran a hand through her hair. “Yeah. You got me that time.”

  Gemma leaned forward. “Seriously though—what’s the problem?”

  Cally looked down at the table and tried to get her thoughts in order. Now that she had to explain it to someone else, it all seemed so silly. “It’s just my stupid dissertation,” she started. And without meaning to, she poured the whole story out to Gemma.

  Gemma listened carefully, her head tilted to one side. And when Cally finished, she reached across the table and held Cally’s hand. “That’s awful,” she said.

  Cally shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just making a fuss over nothing. I’ll soon catch up.”

  Gemma sat up straight. “That’s no good. You can’t just give in. You can’t let that old fool push you around.”

  Cally shook her head. “It’s not like that.”

  “How is it not like that? That old fart gets you on your own when there’s no one else around. He intimidates you. He bullies you. It’s just plain harassment.”

  Cally took a sip of her coffee but it was bitter and already growing too tepid for her taste. Why did Gemma have to turn everything into a battle of the sexes? “The thing is, Gem—he’s got a point. I’ve based the whole project on the wrong thing. I even used some research that turns out to be discredited.”

  “No,” Gemma said. “The two things aren’t the same. Just because you’ve lost one piece of evidence, doesn’t mean the whole basis of the project is wrong.”

  Cally frowned. “But Doctor Seaton said—”

  “Stuff Seaton,” Gemma interrupted. “You don’t have to do what he says, do you?”

  “Well, no.” Cally looked down at the table. She drew imaginary circles on its surface with her finger. “It’s not that simple though. He’ll be on the panel.”

  Gemma waved Cally’s objection aside. “Listen. I do know about these things. Three years of law has taught me a thing or two. If you felt harassed, he’s on thin ice. One word to the right people and Seaton will be suspended before he knows what’s hit him.”

  “No,” Cally murmured. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”

  Gemma shook her head. “Then you’ve got to stand up for yourself.”

  Cally looked into Gemma’s eyes. There was so much fire there, so much determination. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it was just a case of the old men of the establishment feeling threatened by a young woman with new ideas. “I just don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know if I can take that risk.”

  Gemma sighed. She leaned forward and took Cally’s hand. “Listen. You’re not like us.”

  Cally pulled her hand away and opened her mouth to complain, but Gemma didn’t let her speak.

  “Most of us are just plodding along, trying to jump through the right hoops. But you—you’ve got something. And I don’t just mean that you work harder than everyone else, though god knows that’s true. I mean, you’re original. You’re sharp.”

  Cally studied Gemma’s face. Was her friend making fun of her? No. That wasn’t Gemma’s style. If she thought you were being stupid she’d tell you to your face. “So, what do I do about it?”

  Gemma sat back and puffed out her cheeks. “You stick to your guns.”

  “But how?”

  “That’s up to you. You put your fantastic brain into gear and you come up with something—a new angle. You make it work.”

  Cally looked down and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she mutt
ered. “It took me so long to come up with the last idea.” She sighed and rubbed her temples.

  “Hey,” Gemma said, drumming the palms of her hands against the table top. “I know what you need. You need a break. Get away from it all.”

  Cally looked up at her. “I haven’t got time. Especially now. And I’m shattered.”

  “But that’s it,” Gemma insisted. “That’s exactly why you need a break. Get your head out of the books for few hours. Recharge your batteries. And then the answers will come to you.”

  Cally tilted her head to one side and studied Gemma’s expression. It was hard not to get caught up in her enthusiasm. “So what are you suggesting—a wild night out?”

  Gemma smirked. “Nothing so exciting. It’s just that a few of us are going on a march tomorrow—protesting about the education cutbacks. You could come along if you like.”

  Cally pulled a face. “Are you kidding? Me, on a protest march?” She laughed, louder than she meant to. But when she saw the smile drop from Gemma’s face, she stopped laughing and bit her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired—like you said.”

  “So, why wouldn’t you want to come with us?” Gemma demanded. “Are we not good enough company for you?”

  “Oh, don’t say that,” Cally said. “You know I didn’t mean that. It’s just, I’ve never been into student politics.”

  Gemma folded her arms. “Yeah. You toe the line. And look where it’s got you. It’s about time you stood up for yourself, and showed them all what you’re made of.”

  Cally’s shoulders slumped. She hated to admit it, but Gemma had a point.

  “We’ve got to make a stand,” Gemma said. “It’s not just for us, it’s for the next generation of students. If things carry on like this, people like us won’t even be able to afford to come to university in the first place.”

  Cally hesitated and looked down at her hands.

  “So are you coming tomorrow, or what?” Gemma said.

  Cally looked up. “It won’t be violent or anything will it?”

  Gemma snorted. “Of course not. It’s a peaceful protest—not a riot.” She smiled. “I dare say we’ll cause a traffic jam or two, and maybe we’ll annoy a few shoppers. But so what? We’ve got to get people to sit up and take notice somehow.”

  “OK,” Cally said. “I’ll come along.”

  “Great. It’ll get you out the house and get your mind off things. And you’ll be doing some good too.”

  “But only for a few hours,” Cally said. “Then I must get back and get some work done.”

  Gemma rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. It’s an early start so you’ll be free by lunchtime.”

  “Good. What time?”

  “We’re meeting at nine—Northernhay Gardens. I’ll give you a shout about eight if you like.”

  “Sure,” Cally said. “Eight.”

  Gemma smiled and pushed herself up from her chair. “The dinner must almost be ready.” She crossed the kitchen to the stove and lifted the lid on the pan, picking up a long-handled spoon and giving the bubbling sauce a vigorous stir. “Yeah,” she said. “I’d better get the pasta on.” She busied herself at the counter and Cally took the opportunity to make her excuses and go up to her room.

  As she shut her bedroom door behind her, she whispered, “Oh god. What have I done?” But it was too late to back out now. Gemma would never forgive her. Whatever happened in the morning, she’d have to go along with it.

  ***

  In one of the smaller MI-5 offices within Thames House in the heart of London, Andrew yawned and stretched out his arms as wide as his cubicle would allow. The office was quiet today and he was bored. He glanced at the clock on his computer screen. Almost four o’clock. He’d go and get a cup of tea in minute, but in the meantime, he’d better get on with his work. He leaned his elbows on his desk and forced himself to concentrate on the screen. It had been a long day and the lines of the transcript wavered and wobbled each time he moved his head. He tutted to himself as he read. First there’d been a few pages of inane chatter: meaningless drivel about TV shows and pointless arguments over whose turn it was to buy some milk. Then there’d been some long silences. And now, there was all this stuff about some college project or other—what was that all about? It hardly seemed worth bothering with. He blinked and worked his jaw, trying unsuccessfully to stave off a yawn. Since joining the Technical Operations, Analysis and Surveillance Branch, he’d had a succession of low-level assignments: small-time criminal gangs, animal rights activists, that sort of thing. He’d thought those cases were fairly dull, but this was ridiculous. “Perhaps it’s a mistake,” he muttered. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  He moved his mouse wheel to scroll down to the case notes at the bottom of the document, and what he saw made him jerk his head back in surprise. This case had been assigned to him by Crawford himself. He was to analyse, summarise and report directly to the section chief in person. “Bloody hell,” Andrew whispered. He’d better get this right. He took a deep breath and scrolled back to the place he’d left off. This time, as he read, he paid considerably more attention, and soon, he found exactly what he was looking for. “Yes,” he hissed. “This will be it.” He turned to his second screen and opened a new document. His fingers flicked quickly over the keyboard as he typed. Keeping his sentences short and to the point, he made it clear that Subject A was to attend a protest rally the following day. There was a clearly stated intention to cause disruption. He paused. Should he say that violence had been mentioned? He sniffed and glanced back over the transcript on his other screen. No. That was going a bit too far beyond the evidence. He resumed typing and made it clear that the protest would probably be peaceful. Even so, the woman’s house was bugged and that wouldn’t have happened without good reason.

  Andrew scratched his chin. With his report going straight to Crawford, he’d better show some initiative. He continued typing and recommended they make full use of CCTV along the route, and assign an undercover field agent to monitor Subject A more closely in case she left the march. He paused. What if he was being too cautious? What if the women knew they were being monitored and their whole conversation was a decoy? Andrew let out a loud breath and hit the backspace key. He retyped the last line and this time, he suggested that a watch team be assigned to Subject A. They could pick her up outside her house and follow her from there. That was better. Of course, with resources being increasingly stretched, there was a good chance his recommendations wouldn’t be followed. But that wasn’t his decision. He’d done his part. He gave his report a quick read-through and sent it to the printer. When it came to paperwork, Crawford was distinctly old school; if he couldn’t hold it in his hand, he wouldn’t read it.

  Andrew logged off from his workstation and checked his watch. If he walked quickly, he’d have his report on Crawford’s desk within minutes. Andrew smiled. This could be a great chance for his hard work to be noticed. A chance for him to be noticed. He grabbed the sheet of paper as it fed out from the printer, then, smiling to himself, he headed for the door.

  Chapter 12

  2014

  TOM LAID HIS CHEESE SANDWICH ASIDE and leaned his elbows on the table. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. “What a morning,” he moaned, and immediately felt self-conscious. He opened his eyes and scanned the staff room, checking it was still empty apart from him. Everyone else had finished their lunch ages ago. He checked his watch. He’d better be getting back to work. He had reports to write and they’d never been his strong point. He picked up his mug of coffee. It was almost empty, though he couldn’t recall drinking any of it. He swilled the dregs around the mug three times then raised the mug to his lips and swallowed the coffee in one go. It was lukewarm and bitter. His stomach gurgled and a belch brought the unpleasant taste of acid to his mouth. Oh man, how many coffees have I had this morning? He shook his head. Was it four or five? Whatever. It was too damned many. Especially when he wasn’t supposed to have too much caffeine. It gave him h
eadaches and it stopped him sleeping. Not a chance, he thought bitterly. After the horrendous time he’d had last night, he’d have no trouble sleeping tonight. He’d be out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow. He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Out like a light.”

  The staffroom door opened and Mr. Cox, the detention centre’s director, swept into the room. Tom sat up straight. Here we go, he thought. The director didn’t venture into the staffroom often, and when he did, it was usually to foist an extra task on some poor devil. Tom glanced around the room quickly, though he knew there was no one else to take the flak, and when he looked back at the director, his last hope faded. It was clear from Cox’s cold smile that he’d already found just the man he was looking for.

  “Tom,” the director said. “Glad I’ve tracked you down at last.”

  Tom managed a weak smile. Mr. Cox liked people to call him by his first name, but suddenly, Tom couldn’t for the life of him remember what the man’s first name actually was. “I was just finishing my lunch,” he said. He started to rise from his chair. “I’d better get back to—”

  But the director held up a hand to stop him. “No need for that.”

  “But, my reports—I’m a bit behind and I thought…” But when he caught the director’s eye, he knew there was no point in finishing his sentence.

  “I need a word, Tom. In my office.”

  Tom nodded. “Of course.” The director turned and strode down the corridor and Tom followed, trying desperately to get his thoughts in order.

  The director stopped outside his door and tapped a code into the keypad. He gave Tom the briefest of smiles then led the way into the room. As he swung himself into his seat, he gestured to the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. “Have a seat, Tom.”