He walked down the road, back to The Hamlet, mulling over what he had learned. He needed to talk to Amber again—she knew something. She had to. She was obviously closer to Tim than she had let on, and now she might know something about the Five’s Ascend tattoos. He couldn’t go back to London with this looming over him. He needed answers. And who knew? Amber might know what forced Matthew out of the friendship group and turned him murderous.
He needed to get back. If Amber wasn’t at the bar, he’d wait. He could have a drink, regroup and then talk to her.
He cut through the alley to get back to the main road. He was about halfway before he looked up.
His heart skipped a beat. There was a figure standing at the end of the alley illuminated just as Ethan Pack had been a few days before. But this wasn’t Pack. At least he didn’t think it was. The figure seemed tall, and whoever it was standing there wore a black jumper with the hood up. He didn’t know exactly why at first but he felt deeply unsettled. And then he realized he felt another set of eyes on him. He turned back to look where he’d come from. There was another figure at the end. Exactly the same. A tall foreboding presence in a black hooded sweater.
They were blocking him in.
Robin looked between the two figures, finally realizing what was happening. The figures started advancing, a step at a time—every time he looked they seemed to be closer. He looked around him, scrabbling among the bins as if he could magically find a way out, some concealed exit or something or at least find something to defend himself with. He tried both the back doors to the butchers’ and the café but they were locked. When he looked up, the figures were nearly on him. For some stupid reason he looked up again, as if asking for help from the divine, as though he was going to find a magical ladder to carry him out of this situation.
Instead, when Robin looked down, he found a fist sailing toward his face. He turned his head just in time so that it went smashing into his cheek. Pain exploded in his brain, as his head was propelled backward, guiding his body. He was caught from falling, and for a second he was glad, until he realized that it was the other figure who had stopped his descent. He dragged Robin back to standing and whispered in his ear, “Shoulda gone home, city boy.”
The figure in front of Robin brought its knee up to his crotch so fast he couldn’t prepare. His groin erupted in pain—his world spinning from the impact. He let out a wheezing, shrieking sound, like a small animal in panic.
He fell before he could even try to struggle. He was vaguely aware he was thrashing out with his arms—a reflex action, and incredibly useless, but he felt all the better for trying to fight back. Not that it would make the slightest bit of difference.
One moment he was free-falling and the next he was on the cold alley surface, with his cheek pressed against the rough granite. He tried to call out for someone, anyone, but as soon as he’d opened his mouth, he realized he’d made a grave mistake as a boot came up to meet it. His vision squirted red and somewhere—not here, not where he was—he realized it was blood. It splattered over the ground in front of him, becoming real in his mind. His mouth flared with pain, and as he was processing it, the boot kicked him square in the forehead. His cut sang and the rest of his forehead felt like it had cracked open.
He made a pathetic scream, choking on his own blood before he could get any volume, and he spit something tangible out. It flew out in front of him and clattered away—a tooth.
Robin found himself curling up—retreating into himself—into the fetal position as a barrage of kicks cracked at his back. The figure in front of him started kicking him in the chest, finding an opening between his legs and chin. He tried to curl up more to close the gap, but the attack of kicks was so strong he couldn’t. Pain became a constant, punctuated only with peaks of it. The figures showed no signs of letting up, and consciousness was a thing he had to work to keep.
Kick, kick, kick. And he squirmed on the floor of the alleyway.
He lived a lifetime of anguish.
And then, letting the darkness in, he let go. His final thought before he lost the world was not one of pain, or suffering. It was one of anger. Anger at the person who had done this to him. Not the people kicking the life out of him.
No.
Anger at Matthew McConnell.