The ravening, p.12
The Ravening, page 12
All depending, of course, on whether she could actually get free. But that was an easy enough question to answer. Rose arched her back, trying to hook her leg behind the oak tree, to bring the knife at her ankle within her fingers’ reach.
24.
The stream widened and Jenna walked along the left bank, occasionally glancing behind her for any sign of James.
The treeline was several yards from the river’s edge on either side of the water, only bare earth and a little grass in between. She felt vulnerable and exposed, so after one last backward glance she moved into the woods again, weaving over the uneven ground between the trees. It was slower going, but felt safer.
Her stomach growled. She hadn’t had time for breakfast before escaping. Eric had made good bacon and eggs. Pity she’d had to kill him.
Jenna laughed shakily. Feeling had begun to return to her feet; the right one was throbbing badly, making her limp. She found a fallen branch to lean on for support, but the pain brought back the memory of her heel hitting Eric’s jaw, the sound of crunching bone as his head hit the rockery. None of her pent-up rage and aggression, none of her martial arts training, had prepared her for the actual act of killing another human being.
And Eric hadn’t been a faceless enemy, either. Not by then. When he and Rose had abducted her in Castlefield, he’d just been a nameless thug in a balaclava; maybe if she’d killed him then it wouldn’t have troubled Jenna at all, although she doubted it. Yes, Eric had drugged and kidnapped her and all the rest, but he’d ultimately treated her with kindness and respect within the limits of his role. He’d told her about his childhood on a Dorset farm, the red setter he’d owned when he was sixteen, funny stories from his army days.
She wasn’t as cold as she’d wanted to be in the past. Didn’t want to be anymore, either, not if Holly was there. But she mustn’t think of Holly. Holly might be the enemy too. There was no knowing if Jenna could trust anyone.
Hey. Eric took the money and made his choice. No one put a gun to his head and made him kidnap you.
Not necessarily. He and Rose could have been coerced or threatened.
Bollocks. They both trotted out all that “pro-life” crap at you. They were on board for this.
“Point,” she muttered, leaning against a pine tree. Little pellets were littered round it, and small grinning bones: mouse skulls. An owl must have made its nest there.
More than anything else, she wanted to lie down and sleep. But if she did, she’d wake up back in the cellar. Assuming James and Reid found her. If Rose did, she wouldn’t wake at all.
Jenna pushed on. She was still battling the weariness, but when she next closed her eyes, she saw Eric’s head snapping back from the impact of her heel against his jaw, heard his skull crunch, and that helped her keep them open.
He held you prisoner. Stopped you escaping. Locked you in the cellar. Would’ve made you give birth, then helped James get you pregnant again. And again. And again.
All true. She walked faster, leaning on the branch. Fuck Eric, she told herself, and fuck Rose too. They’d both helped James, both tried to force Jenna under his control. Fuck the pair of them.
The stream was narrowing again, sinking between steeper banks. Up ahead there was a bend, and it disappeared into the trees. With another brief glance behind her – no sign of anyone following – Jenna came out of cover onto the bank, limped to the bend and around it.
She almost cried out as there was a sudden movement in front of her, but its source was probably more frightened of her – a young deer had been drinking from the stream, but bolted away from her, into the trees. She breathed out, laughing weakly; then she took in the sight ahead of her, and the laughter stopped.
The stream, still narrowing and sinking into an ever-deeper channel, ran on for another dozen yards or so before vanishing into rocky ground. Jenna staggered forward, feet squelching in muddy earth, and saw a hole gaping among the rocks. The stream rushed into it, fast and foaming, and disappeared underground.
Jenna’s first emotion wasn’t fear or despair, or even confusion: what she felt was pure, cheated rage. She’d played by the rules – had remembered the rules, which by rights she should have long forgotten – followed the water, and the water had pulled a mean, cheap trick to leave her stranded as James and his people closed in.
Bastards, all of them. James, Eric, Rose, the woods, Dad, the whole fucking world.
Jenna screamed: it rang and echoed, birds scattering from the trees, clattering away into the dull grey sky.
Shouldn’t have done that, babe. Really torn it now.
If Jenna hadn’t been clinging to the branch, she’d have fallen. She listened; she couldn’t hear any voices, but it was only a matter of time. No way James couldn’t have heard that scream. Nor Rose, if she was still on the loose too. Maybe Jenna should hope Rose found her first: at least then James wouldn’t get what he wanted, either.
Or finish it yourself. Then they all lose.
Jenna resisted that idea, but not as hard as she should. No baby for Jimbo that way, no vengeance for Rose: a last extended middle finger to them all.
But then Jenna wouldn’t get what she wanted. She wouldn’t get away.
Yeah, but that’s not on the table, is it?
“Bollocks it isn’t.” She’d keep going through the woods and hope for the best; hope to find a way out.
You’ve no chance and you know it.
Jenna closed her eyes for a second, holding tight to the branch so she didn’t fall. Don’t sleep. Mustn’t sleep.
And then she heard it.
A sound of rushing water.
Jenna opened her eyes, blinking. A hallucination; an aural mirage. That was all it could be. It couldn’t be anything else–
No. She still heard it. She wasn’t sure how distant it was, but somewhere within earshot, the water must come out from underground again – and, by the sound, with some force.
Jenna swayed, but steadied herself. She’d very little strength left, she knew. But she could always keep going, just a little further, given the slightest hope of escape.
She closed her eyes again, but not out of tiredness this time. She listened until she could tell which direction the sound was coming from, then set off towards it, leaning on the branch.
25.
When James heard the scream, he went still, suddenly afraid. Not for his personal safety: nothing in these woods could hurt him, or at least nothing a well-aimed rifle dart couldn’t deal with. It was the fear that something had happened to Jenna. If he failed to deliver on the promise he’d made, he wouldn’t get what he wanted.
And he wanted what he wanted very badly, or he wouldn’t have done all this. After all, he was going to live forever. You’d go to any lengths to achieve that.
But if Jenna died, he’d be cheated of that.
Not to mention the fact that a certain person would be very, very angry, in which case James might lose out not only on immortality, but even a normal human lifespan.
As the scream went on, though, he realised it wasn’t pain or fear, but anguish. Despair.
She’s giving up.
He grinned first to himself, then at Reid. “Come on, doctor. We’re almost done.”
He broke into a run along the bank. Following her was easy now. He might not know these woods as well as Rose and Eric, but he knew them well enough. Certainly better than Jenna. And he was a decent enough tracker in his own right. Daddy would have been proud to see James today. For once.
Her trail left the bank and disappeared into the trees, but that didn’t matter: she’d be following the course of the river, so he did the same, grinning as Reid panted and whimpered behind him, struggling to keep up. Her footprints soon reappeared, by the Devil’s Hole.
That was what Daddy had called it, when James was little: he’d no idea whether or not that was really its name or just his father’s invention to scare his milksop son. The Devil was hot, you see, down in Hell, Daddy had told him, so he clawed a hole up through the earth to the riverbed, so the water would pour down and cool him off.
But there’s no steam, little James had said – bright enough to spot that, even at that age.
It’s a long, long way down to where it’s going, Daddy had said, then grabbed him. Want to see?
James knew now he’d only been playing, but hadn’t at the time. Trying to impress Daddy in any way had always been a constant losing struggle, never mind actually making him proud. He’d so often felt he was being constantly tested and found wanting, that his status as Sir Alec Frobisher’s son was only ever a probationary one which might be revoked at any second, so at that young age it hadn’t seemed impossible Daddy’d finally had enough and decided to get rid. As a result, James had not only screamed in real terror – bad enough – but had actually wet himself.
The fucking shame of that now. He still remembered, with appalling clarity, the revulsion on Daddy’s face. His father had thrust James away, wiping his hands on his coat. For God’s sake. Disgusting boy. Stop snivelling, for– All right, all right, come on. Back to the lodge. Get some clean clothes.
James’s eyes stung; his face was hot. He was walking very fast, with an angry, determined stride – away from the Hole, from Daddy, from that shameful memory. But not only for that reason; not just to get away from something. There was something to go towards as well.
Fuck you, Daddy. I’ll show you, Daddy. I’ll make you proud of me, Daddy, even though I don’t care what you think anymore – no, I don’t. I don’t! I don’t care, but I’ll make you proud, you’ll see how great I am. If you were alive you’d grovel to me, when you saw what I’ll achieve. If I could I’d bring you back to life so that you could and then I’d kill you again.
Jenna’s trail carried on around the Hole, up through the sparse silver birches that grew above the rocks the Hole was set in. Through those trees and out again, towards the roaring water.
Once on the high ground, she wasn’t hard to find, especially as James already knew where she’d go. He glimpsed movement among the trees – her dull grey clothing, pale face, reddish hair – and shouldered the rifle as he watched her stumble-jog down the slope. The soles of her bare feet, he noted with detached disgust, were black with dirt. But she could be cleaned up later, back at Cutty Wren Lodge, when under restraint. When she was back under control.
James had her in his sights. He began squeezing the trigger, aiming for her back rather than for the head as he would when going after a stag with a real gun. But then the blasted trees were in the way again. No way to get a clear shot.
James swore between his teeth, then shrugged. It didn’t matter. He had her now. He just had to close in, till he had her at bay. She’d collapse from sheer exhaustion eventually, even if he didn’t put a dart in her.
He was almost tempted to just stroll after her and wait until her strength gave out, but decided against it. No knowing what the mad cow would do when cornered. Besides, he wanted to pull the trigger and bring her down. He still remembered her arm around his neck, that punch to the throat. He rubbed it automatically; it no longer hurt and he spoke normally again, but he owed her for it nonetheless. Before, he’d relied on Rose and Eric. That was the intelligent move: give the order, send people you knew you could rely on to carry it out. Daddy would’ve approved. But at the same time, he saw Daddy shaking his head again, as when James had wet himself at the Devil’s Hole: Disgusting boy. Daddy’s eyes, Jenna’s eyes: the same contempt. He’d show them both. Do this himself. Finish the job. Pull the trigger on her and Daddy’s eyes.
“Come on, doctor,” he called over his shoulder to Reid. “Need your help in a moment.”
He went carefully down the slope, weaving through the dripping trees.
26.
A misty haze hung beyond the treeline, and Jenna smelled the yeasty odour of fresh water. She broke into a stumbling run, biting her lip against a cry of pain as her foot hit a half-buried rock. Her toes throbbed, but she used the branch to hobble along at speed. She almost missed being unable to feel her feet.
She saw water up ahead, she was sure of it. And then she was out of the trees and stumbling forwards. Dampness sprinkled her face, and the ground before her dropped away into white haze and empty space.
Jenna lurched to a halt and swayed, fighting to keep her balance; her stomach seemed to drop away into nowhere. Below her was a rocky cliff with a horseshoe-shaped bite taken out of it, out of a hole in which a huge cataract surged in a white foaming spray, with far greater force than the stream Jenna had followed.
The sides of the cliff were about thirty feet high, streaked with glistening moss, tangles of thin creepers and tufts of grass clinging to small, dryer shelves; the water overflowed from a deep, rocky pool at the bottom and down a channel to join a much larger, wider flow up ahead. High banks and fast-flowing water the colour of badly stewed tea, loose twigs, leaves and branches swept along on its surface.
Jenna broke into another run as she reached the trail leading down to her left. That was due less to excitement than gravity; nonetheless, she began to laugh. It wasn’t a stream up ahead but an honest-to-God river, which sooner or later had to lead her to other people. But it could still be miles to the nearest settlement; still a substantial distance in her state, with or without James and Rose behind her.
She steadied herself against one of the Scots pines that clustered along the side of the path. The distance didn’t matter: one foot in front of another, that was all it took. She’d have to stay off the path along the banks, however appealing it was, however much easier. Slip into the woods alongside, keep the river in sight, use the trees for cover.
Fuck me, babe, you actually sounded like you knew what you were doing there.
Jenna laughed to herself, gripped the branch tighter, focused on the river and stepped forward.
There was a loud thwack and a faint breeze upon the back of her neck, as if something had disturbed the air, then a shuddering impact as something thudded into the tree behind her. As she spun, ducking low, she heard James cursing.
He was at the top of the path, dropping what looked like an air rifle and turning to snatch another one from Reid. Before Jenna could turn, the second rifle swung towards her, braced against James’s hip. She realised she’d heard the thwack before, when Rose had been about to shoot her. She looked at the tree behind her; there was a dart embedded in it.
James was still holding the gun on her; he nodded down at the one he’d dropped. “Reload that,” he shouted to Reid over the water’s roar. He wasn’t taking chances.
Jump. Into the trees, into the river. Do it now.
But she couldn’t look away from James’s eyes, and suddenly she was exhausted. James smiled. Fuck you, Jimbo, she wanted to shout, but hadn’t the strength even for that.
The bastard was going to win.
James raised the rifle to his shoulder, and began to squeeze the trigger.
The shot, when it came, was far louder than the previous thwack, and nothing hit her. Instead, James staggered forward, surprise on his face. He straightened up, frowning, and blood trickled from a hole in his chest. A second shot rang out, and James pitched forward; the rifle clattered over the edge of the cliff into the white haze below.
Reid stood, gawping, the other rifle broken open in his hands, as a figure emerged from the trees, one hand covered in blood, a pistol in the other.
Rose’s face was blank until she saw Jenna; she smiled for the briefest instant, then became expressionless again. Reid was staring at her, mouth agape; Rose turned towards him and pointed the pistol at his head, and then her face softened for an instant.
“Run,” she told him. “Run home to your Lizzie.”
Reid threw down the tranquiliser rifle and fled into the trees, crashing through the undergrowth. The sounds faded till there was only the thunder of the waterfall, and Rose returned her gaze to Jenna. She smiled again. It was warm, genuine, even as she took aim.
27.
No two ways about it, Jenna McKnight was a most resourceful quarry. Quite literally, in fact. Whenever Rose thought the girl’s last reserves had given out and she’d nothing else with which to fight or run, Jenna always somehow found more.
She’d been staring up at James and his tranquiliser gun with dumb, dull, cowlike eyes: exhausted, finished, waiting for the axe to fall. Even when Rose shot the spoilt little bastard, Jenna had just stood there, blankly staring. Rose had been disappointed at her absence of fear, cheated that there’d be no pleas for mercy before the end.
Even as Rose aimed the Beretta, the girl’s expression didn’t change. Yet as the trigger pulled and the hammer fell, something flared in the extinguished eyes and Jenna flung herself sideways into the trees, the bullet tearing a divot from the path behind her. The shot re-echoed from the cliff walls, the faint haze of gunsmoke dispersed, and Jenna was gone.
Rose sighed in annoyance, but smiled nonetheless. There was no pleasure in killing an empty husk. The victory would mean more if the girl still had some fight left. She moved towards the path, then stumbled as something caught her ankle.
She kicked out reflexively, almost overbalancing, but her leg was freed. She looked down to see James Frobisher lying on his back, pink lung blood frothing from his mouth and nose and with one arm outstretched, fingers clasping and unclasping.
Unlike Jenna, though, he’d clearly spent the last of his strength. It would’ve been easy to leave him to drown in blood, but Rose decided against it. With Eric dead, this was the end for her in every sense that mattered; now was the time to settle all accounts.
