Unsure (Sure Mastery) Page 8

  My last thought as I drift back into pain-rocked sleep is, What if Tom Shore reports me anyway? Even after this?

  When I wake again it’s daylight. I roll onto my back before I remember, and quickly roll back onto my side. I’m not quite so sore now, but still uncomfortable. I glance at the clock. Nine twenty-seven. I’d normally have been up for a couple of hours by now. Up on the hills, setting up my camera. Then I remember. I don’t have a camera anymore.

  First order of business then—replace my equipment.

  An hour later I’m in my car, somewhat awkwardly perched on the edge of the driver’s seat, pretty uncomfortable but managing. I head back toward Colne, to a large retail park I spotted there just off the motorway on my way here a few days earlier. Sure to be a Currys or something there. And by lunchtime I’m sitting in McDonald’s nursing a latte, the latest wonder of Nikon technology still boxed up on the seat next to me, the most recent model of the superb camera I stole from Tom. And I’m just over a thousand pounds poorer. Still, if I’m serious about building up my photography business I can’t do that using stolen equipment.

  I can’t put this next task off any longer. I need to know where I stand, that my secret’s safe. I pull my phone out, and scroll through to the exchange of texts with Tom a few days ago. I select ‘compose’.

  Can I talk to you?

  I wait ten minutes, and I’m about to text him again when the response comes.

  I’m busy.

  Please.

  I’ll be in touch.

  Please, I need to talk to you.

  What?

  I need to know, that I can trust you. Not to tell anyone. About me.

  We have a deal. I’ll keep my side of it.

  Thank you.

  How do you feel today, Ashley?

  Now I make him wait before…

  I’m fine. I’ve got a new camera.

  Mug someone else, did you?

  Bastard!

  Mind your manners, Ashley. You really don’t want to annoy me again.

  I put my phone away. Time to be getting back.

  My hands are shaking.

  An hour later I pull up in front of Smithy’s Forge and carefully reverse into my off-road parking space. Cradling my new camera, still sealed in its box, I make my way round to the gate. Just time to get it unpacked, set up and go out to take a few practice shots. I need to get back into my work, try to forget about the formidable Mr Shore. For a while at least. I can’t let him intimidate me.

  “Miss McAllister?”

  I scream, almost dropping my thousand-pound camera onto the stone flags. I spin around. A tall, dark-haired man is lounging on my gatepost. Where the hell did he spring from? Must have been watching, waiting for me. He’s obviously been expecting me. Knows who I am.

  He comes forward, smiling. But not in a nice way. I back off, suddenly cursing the stupidity that made me choose to live out here in the lonely wilderness. First Tom Shore, now this…

  “Who are you?” I stand tall, trying my old assertiveness trick. He’s over a foot taller than me. Not quite as powerfully built as Tom, but still a whole lot bigger than I am. And I don’t think this is a social call.

  He sees straight through my attempt at bravado. “I’m sorry, did I scare you? Did you think I was going to attack you? Maybe help myself to that swanky new camera you’ve got there? Oh no, I forgot. That’s your trick, isn’t it?”

  The police? Oh God! Tom promised. He bloody well promised me…

  “Who are you? What do you want?” My voice is just a whisper. I’m weighing up my chances of dodging past him, getting to my car before he can catch me. And coming up with a fat zero. I should have made a run for it last night. This morning even. Shit, shit, shit!

  “My name’s Nathan Darke. I own Black Combe. You were there a couple of days ago.”

  What? I scramble around in my head for some reference point. I find it. “Oh, yes. You’re Rosie’s dad?”

  “That’s me. And Tom’s best friend. I’m the one who drove down to Bristol to pick him up when he was discharged from the hospital you and your thieving boyfriend put him in.”

  He knows. He bloody well knows. Tom must have told him. So much for ‘We’ve got a deal’. I stand there, clutching my camera.

  His dark eyes are hard as he looks me up and down, his dislike of me clear. His absolute contempt for what I did. “Why are you here? What do you want?” The same question Tom had for me last night. And the answer’s the same.

  “I just want to be left alone, to get on with my life. I’m here to start over. If I can.”

  “I don’t believe you. It’s not such a small world you’d end up in Tom’s backyard by chance. So, again, Miss McAllister, why here?”

  “I told you. I didn’t know Mr Shore lived here. Now please, just leave me alone. I don’t want any trouble.” I turn, fumbling in my pocket for my key. I drop it. I crouch down to pick it up, still juggling the camera box. My visitor makes no move to help.

  I stand up and turn to unlock my door. He’s behind me, up close.

  “Bad choice, love. You’ll find nothing but trouble here. I’ve no idea why Tom hasn’t just turned you in. Always a sucker for a pretty face and a sob story, our Tom.”

  Yeah, tell me about it.

  “But understand this, you scheming little bitch, I will turn you in. In a heartbeat. The first sign of any trouble from you, or if any of your nasty little mates show up, you’ll be locked up quicker than you can say ‘Smile, please’. And just so’s we’re clear, from now on you stay away from my home, my family. Got that?”

  I nod.

  “No more cosy teas at Black Combe. No walks on the moors with Rosie. You stay well away from us. Is that clear?”

  “Yes. Yes. Just get out of my garden, leave me alone.” Desperate to get away from this vile man, I’ve finally finished fumbling with the lock. I start to open my door, just wanting to run and hide inside. He has other ideas. He leans around me, and places his hand over mine on the door handle, preventing me from turning it, from getting into my refuge. Scared now, I start to struggle in earnest.

  “Don’t worry, I’m leaving. And now, I think I’ll take that.” And he’s snatched my camera, he’s going off with it down the path. My thousand-pound camera, the tool of my trade.

  “Hey, that’s mine.” I start after him. He turns a malicious smile on me.

  “Not nice, being robbed. Is it?”

  And he’s gone, leaving me crouching, shaking, on my doorstep, empty-handed.

  You lying pig. We had a deal! I want my camera back.

  Excuse me?

  You beat the living daylights out of me then you sent your friend to have his fun too. What big brave men you are.

  What the fuck are you talking about?

  The deal’s off. I want my camera back. Then I’m leaving.

  Ashley, you are NOT leaving. You owe me. What camera?

  Go to hell!!!

  My phone’s ringing. Tom Shore calling. I reject his call. And the next five. There is no way I want to talk to that lying, cheating scumbag. Not again, not in this lifetime. He was so free with his insults to me yesterday, calling me a liar and a thief, sneering at me. Saying he wouldn’t even fuck me in case he caught something. Like he’d get a chance.

  Then he went and told that horrible man about me. After he said he wouldn’t. After I let him do that do me. After I agreed to repay him for what Kenny stole, he still sends someone else round to my home, to bully and threaten me. And it’s worked. I can’t stay here. I’m done with cowering, with hiding, with looking over my shoulder to see who’s following me. I can’t live like that. I won’t. Not anymore.

  Starting again somewhere else won’t be easy, not least because I sank all my remaining cash, more or less, into the year’s lease on Smithy’s Forge. I can’t somehow see Tom Shore refunding my money! And now I’m another thousand pounds down as I’ll have to find some way of replacing that bloody camera. But I’ll manage. Somehow. Maybe loo
k for somewhere cheap to settle in Cumbria, or the Peak District. Pity, though, this place was ideal. But that was before Tom Shore burst into my safe little haven, shattering my fragile world.

  Still furious, still ignoring my phone, I throw the few things I brought with me into two large holdalls. It doesn’t take me long to pack and I start to load my few belongings out to my car. I lug out the two heavy bags, dragging them along the path and heaving them into the back seat of my loyal little Clio. Despite my brave demands I know I can’t get my new camera back so I see no point in hanging around waiting for that. I’ve not much spare cash left but I need to buy another camera and pay rent somewhere else. I’ll have some money when my first payment from Gloucester Student Housing Team comes through in January. That’s only six weeks away, but until then, I’m going to be broke. I don’t eat much, but I can’t live on air. I’ll just have to sell some of my mum’s jewelry to get by for now. Jesus., what a mess.

  I’m ready to go but Sadie’s nowhere to be found. I’m not leaving here without my cat. I make sure the door’s locked before I start rooting under the bed, her favorite hiding place. Not there, so I start poking around in the space under the kitchen cupboards. No joy. Christ, don’t let her be outside somewhere!

  Ten minutes of frantic searching, still no Sadie. And now it’s too late. He’s here, Land Rover dumped outside my gate, nose to nose with my car. I’m going nowhere except on foot. He’s pounding on the door, shouting at me to open up. Not a chance. And I’m pathetically grateful to that state-of-the-art security lock keeping him out. He must know I’m here, he’s seen my car, but I don’t answer. Let him pound on the door all he bloody likes. I know that in a few moments he’ll be looking in through the window so I slip my shoes off and creep silently upstairs to stay out of sight. I’ll wait it out, sneak away when he leaves. He can’t stay out there forever.

  I’ve not even reached the top of the stairs before I hear the door open, then shut with a click. My heart drops to my stomach at the sound of heavy footsteps downstairs. Oh God! Oh fuck, fuck, fuck! Should have realized he’s my landlord. Of course he has a key.

  I dive into my bedroom and slam the door. Heart racing, I frantically drag my small dressing table against it. It won’t hold him back for long but could give me the extra few moments I need to escape. I run to the window and throw it open, intending to take my chance jumping out. And I see him back outside now, walking calmly down my path to my car. He points my key fob—shit, I should have at least grabbed my car keys before I bolted upstairs—and the locks spring open. He leans in and drags my bags from the back seat, then locks the car again before casually dropping my keys into his jeans pocket. He glances up at the bedroom window, my escape route obvious, as he effortlessly picks up my bags and strolls back into my house.

  I hear a couple of thuds as he dumps my bags. A few seconds later his footsteps are on the stairs, coming up. He reaches my bedroom door, knocks softly.

  “Come out of there, Ashley. We need to talk.”

  “Drop dead.” I’m back at the window, leaning out, weighing up my chances.

  And I know they are absolutely nil when I see Nathan Darke easing his tall body out of a black Porsche parked right up behind with my Clio. He walks round the car, opens his passenger door and lifts out my camera, still in its box. He leans back against the car, looking up at me, a sardonic smile across his handsome features. He’s an attractive man in a satanic sort of way, a man I might have been drawn to but for that air of cruelty, that distaste for me—so strong I can almost taste it.

  He lifts his hand to me in a mocking salute, then taps the camera box. “Got something of yours here. Are you coming down to get it? Preferably by the stairs. I don’t much care if you break your neck, but Tom seems to want to keep you in one piece.”

  It’s a trick, must be. A cruel joke. They’re just having some fun with me. I feel like a child in a playground, desperately trying to grab my lunchbox back while the school bullies taunt me, pushing me around. It’s a long time since I was that kid in the playground, but the angry, frustrated helplessness is just as vivid now as it was ten years ago. Except this time there’s a lot more than a couple of cheese sandwiches and a carton of apple juice at stake. Sick with fear, completely vulnerable, trapped and alone. No kindly teachers to intervene here. No other kids to hide behind. Just me. And both of them.

  I hear the sickening grate of my barricade scraping across the polished floorboards as Tom Shore shoulders open the door. He’s in. And he’s angry.

  “Drop dead, Ashley? Now that’s not nice.” His voice is soft. Deceptively so. “You called me a pig. Told me to go to hell. Not polite. You need to tell me what this is all about. Now. Before I run out of patience.”

  “Leave me alone. Please, just let me go.” I’m pleading. Again. I despise myself, but can’t help it. Bone-deep fear will do that to me every time. I already know what Tom Shore’s capable of on his own. But with his hateful friend joining in the fun as well? Gripped by mindless panic, I dive for the door. No real chance of escape, but I’ll go down fighting this time, no passive acceptance today. He catches me easily around the waist and flings me backwards onto the bed. I scream, part fear, part rekindled pain from yesterday’s ill treatment as I land heavily on my backside. I brace myself, expecting him to be on me immediately, but instead he walks around the bed to the open window. He leans out and pulls it closed, nodding to his friend outside. He locks the frame in place before turning to me. He regards me silently for a few moments, his green gaze stormy, turbulent, as if weighing his options.

  A movement in the doorway catches the corner of my eye. I glance round to see Nathan Darke lounging against the door jamb arms folded. A quick flash of his teeth as he smiles slightly, and it crosses my mind that I wouldn’t be altogether surprised to see fangs—he certainly looks the type. Defensively I draw myself up into a ball at the head of the bed, my gaze flicking from one to the other, wondering which will move in on me first.

  Neither, it seems. At least not yet. “Well, bro, looks like you got it all under control. My work here is done.” Nathan Darke’s words are a low, mocking drawl as he straightens. “I’ll be off then.” Turning to me, “Your camera’s downstairs. On the table.” He glances back at Tom Shore. “Remember what I said about bad ethics. Especially with vanillas like this one.”

  “Fuck off, purist.” Tom’s response is as unexpected and enigmatic as Nathan Darke’s comment, but any curiosity of mine is dwarfed for the moment by my overwhelming relief that at least one of them is leaving. Only when the purr of his engine finally fades do I dare look up again. Tom Shore hasn’t moved. He’s still watching me from his position at the window, his hands thrust casually into the pockets of his dark brown waxed jacket, his jeans-clad legs crossed at the ankles. His casual stance is deceptive. He’s still furious. And, even alone, still absolutely terrifying.

  “We’ll talk. Downstairs.” And he pushes himself into a stand, strides across the floor to the door, the sound of his heavy work boots echoing around the small room. “Don’t keep me waiting.” The words are flung back at me as he clatters down the stairs.

  For the first few moments I am numb. The surge of adrenaline that had so effectively propelled me up the stairs, lent me the strength to barricade the door and even to believe I could jump from a first-floor window has now totally evaporated, leaving me limp, boneless. My hands are shaking, my heart racing. Even at the risk of keeping the imperious Mr Shore waiting, I need a few minutes to compose myself, to gather my wits. I allow myself five.

  I can hear movement downstairs, the clatter of crockery. I slowly descend the stairs to see Tom Shore sitting at my table, his wax jacket now slung over the back of his chair, a steaming pot of tea in front of him along with two mugs and a carton of milk. My camera’s there too, on the table as Nathan Darke said it would be, still sealed up in its box. Sadie, the traitor, has miraculously reappeared and is slinking around his feet. He idly leans down to tickle her ears before s
hooting a glance at me. “Milk?”

  “What?”

  “Do you take milk, Ashley?” He pushes a mug of tea across the table, indicating I should sit opposite him. I ease myself gingerly into the chair, wincing as my abused bottom throbs sharply under my weight. He notices, but says nothing. I’m grateful—he could so easily start to gloat, reassert his power over me, and I couldn’t bear that at this moment. Despite my brief respite upstairs as I tried to collect myself, my wits are too fragile, my thoughts too confused. Instead, he picks up the carton of milk, raising one questioning eyebrow to ask if I want some. I nod and he pours it for me.

  “You feeling a bit calmer now?”

  I opt for conciliatory. “Yes. I’m sorry, I thought…”

  He cuts me off sharply, his tone clipped and angry. “I know what you thought. You were shit scared up there. You thought we were about to take turns with you. Didn’t you?” His voice is hard, implacable.

  I nod, embarrassed. The whole notion seems so ludicrous now, sitting down here drinking tea round my little table. But a few minutes ago, trapped in my bedroom, I did fully expect to be raped.

  He leans back in his chair, sips his tea thoughtfully. Placing the cup back on the table, he fixes his stormy gaze on me, the emerald glint hard and sharp.

  “For the avoidance of any further doubt, Ashley, let me make this clear. I don’t intend to rape you. Neither does Nathan. He’s my best friend, true, but we never hunt in a pack. And we most definitely don’t share women. And certainly not a scrawny little tramp like you.” He smiles, a flash of even, white teeth indicating his sardonic amusement at the thought of me driving anyone to even consider sexual misconduct. His disdain, and his casual, cruel dismissal are almost as crushing as the act of violation might have been. “You know, there’s not really enough of you to go round even one of us, let alone two. You’re much too fragile, too flimsy, you’d break too easily. So you’re safe. At least as far as that’s concerned. Is that clear?”