Beyond Evil

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Charlie watched, transfixed, as Ted confronted the group. He fought the urge to go across and help him, but Ted was outnumbered and Charlie wouldn’t change that. He needed to stay alive to get Donia. But it was such a waste, because the woman on the stone slab was obviously dead, and so nothing Ted could have done would have saved her.

He realised then why Ted had done it. Ted was acting as a distraction, because he couldn’t let another daughter die. It was a message to Charlie to get Donia out of there.

He looked at his phone again. There was one bar, just, but it kept flickering, the signal wavering. He scrolled through the numbers he’d dialled before and called Sheldon. He cupped his hand around the phone, and when it was answered, he whispered into it, ‘It’s Charlie. They’ve just killed someone, and now Ted is in danger. A farmhouse on Jackson Heights, with standing stones. Hurry.’

He couldn’t hear anything. He looked at his phone again to see that he’d lost the signal. He didn’t know how much of that had gone through.

Charlie looked back towards the group. They were looking at Ted. This was his chance to slip into the front door. He would be in view, but it seemed to be the only way.

He gripped the corner of the wall and edged forward slowly. Nobody looked over. As he moved towards the doorway, the light from the hall started to shine on him. The best thing to do was not to go too quickly, to make sure that nothing attracted their peripheral vision. He just kept on moving steadily, and then he was facing down the hallway, and those people at the stones were fifty yards behind him. He couldn’t see them, because he was facing away from them, and so he wouldn’t know if they could see him until he heard the shouts from behind.

When he stepped inside the house, he put his back to the wall, so that he didn’t make shadows across the grass. He edged along, his hand making light brushing noises as it ran along the wallpaper. The cottage smelled of stale food, boiled vegetables, and of piss and shit. He covered his mouth and nose with his arm as the stench made him recoil.

He looked along the hallway and saw that he was heading towards some kind of living room. There were ashtrays on the floor and cushions around the edges of the room. There was a clock on a mantel, but the hands were still. The way ahead was dark.

He didn’t have an exit plan, he knew that. What would he do when he got in there? What if the door into where Donia was held was locked? He hadn’t thought any of this through, and the more he moved inside the cottage, the more his escape routes narrowed. He had already seen from the outside that the room had a metal grille on the window. He thought again on what Ted had said, that Donia was just bait, for whatever it was that they wanted.

The thought of what they would do to her when she wasn’t required as bait anymore emptied his mouth of moisture.

It was too late to go back.

His nose itched from the dust. The further he went, the more the room came into view. There was no one there, just the signs of communal living. A large dirty pot in the middle of the floor, the remains of some kind of stew around the sides. There were dishes scattered around the room, the remnants of spliffs in an ashtray made out of a large shell. There was a window, and he saw the metal grille on the other side of that glass. There were bottles underneath containing liquid, rags sticking out. Petrol bombs. It looked like Henry’s group were getting ready for a siege.

As his hand felt along the wall, he came across a doorframe, and then a doorknob, round and wooden. He turned it slowly. As he pushed, he expected to feel the rattle of a locked door, but instead it started to open.

He looked quickly towards the group outside. Still no change. Then he heard a whimper from the room. A young woman.

He made a silent prayer that he was making the right choice, and then pushed the door open fully and stepped inside.

When he closed the door behind him, he put his sleeve across his nose and gagged.

Ted was pushed to his knees, gasping as he felt the crack of Arni’s cane on his shoulder. The grass was damp underneath him.

He looked up at John Abbott, whose arm was stretched towards him, gripping the knife tightly. He could feel the tip against his throat, just pushing, not piercing. A sharp pinprick. It felt wet from blood. Was it his own? The blade trembled lightly, but he knew he couldn’t move.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ Ted whispered, swallowing, pushing his skin harder against the tip. ‘We could stop this. You could blame it on drugs or a breakdown. I could even forget what I saw, because she would have died anyway. But John, let’s end this.’

‘What’s he saying?’ Henry said. ‘Don’t listen to him. It is temptation, that’s all. Remember who he is, what he represents. Think of our mission, what we have planned.’

John faltered.

‘Come with me, John,’ Ted whispered. ‘Just put the blade down. Use it against them.’

‘John, kill him!’ Henry shouted. ‘Don’t give him an opportunity. The time is now.’

John looked back to Henry. The tip of the blade moved away, just a fraction. The grip on his shoulder slackened. Ted moved quickly, his hand snapping upwards to grab John’s forearm.

John yelped, pulled away, making the blade sweep sideways, an instinctive reaction.

Ted gasped as he felt the slash as heat across his skin. John stepped back, shock on his face. He looked at the dagger in his hand, and then at Ted. He turned to the group. Henry was laughing.

Ted coughed. Liquid splashed down the front of his chest. He looked down. There was blood down his shirt. His hand went to his throat. It felt wet. He pulled it away. More blood.

He coughed again, and when he tried to breathe in, the air didn’t make its way to his lungs.

John looked down at him, the dagger limp in his hand now.

Ted could hear laughter. He tried to take another breath, and the night air made him grimace as it rushed into the wound across his throat. But he couldn’t fill his lungs. He coughed again, and he felt the warm, oily taste in his mouth.

He tried to stand up so that he could escape, but the ground didn’t feel even. It was moving so that he swayed with it, his arms out. He felt clammy, his vision speckled, small dots of colour dancing in front of him. He looked at Henry and shivered. Sounds faded, the grass lost its colour, his view like television interference.

He put his hand to his throat again. It was slick now. He tried to look around the group, but nothing was clear. The colours swirled into one and faded out, the sounds gone.

But Henry’s laugh made it through, one last time.

Ted started to fall, the grass rushing to meet him. He knew he wouldn’t feel it hit him.