THREE

Thief

 

Dawn. The rough, grey blanket of morning overlaid the weakening darkness of the night. The beach was deserted. It was far too early in the morning and far too late in the year for anyone to brave the coastal weather. The sea rolled leisurely over muddy sand, washing stones and pebbles with its foam.

Seagulls swooped through the sky, eyes scanning the water and the beach for signs of food. A bundle of rags lay heaped at the water’s edge. Two seagulls saw the bundle and dove down to investigate. Landing several feet away, they pecked at each other, each trying to deter the other. Finally a chain of command was established and the larger of the two birds approached the bundle cautiously. A light wind ruffled its feathers as it hopped around its prize. It cawed loudly at the bundle then cocked its head to one side studying the rags. Satisfied there would be no sudden movement, the bird hopped onto the bundle. The second gull came closer, keeping a watchful eye on the bigger bird.

The first gull pecked at the bundle, beak catching on fabric. It squawked and nodded its head rapidly, freeing its beak from its snare. The second gull joined the first and it too began to peck.

 

The blackness began to lift. Coal black clouds of fog billowed and moved, seemed to be sucked away leaving just a memory of the dark. As the dark vanished, so too did the warmth and the comfort. Consciousness came back to Alex slowly, his mind tugged along like a petulant child by an angry father. He didn’t want to wake up, he was fine where he was, thank you. Awareness was insistent, jabbing at him sharply, prodding him awake whether he liked it or not. His senses responded one at a time. The blackness was replaced by an insipid grey. He opened his eyes, shut them again quickly. There was a low rumble in his ears. He was prodded again. Alright, alright, I’m awake! Prod.

“Ouch!” His eyes snapped open and he rolled over and sat up. The seagulls were startled. Wings batting in panic they flew off his body, beaks open, cawing anxiously. He watched them fly to a safe distance, then looked at his hand. His flesh was white, looked bleached, except for the small circle of blood on the back. He looked to where the gulls had flown but they were gone. He groaned out loud, his voice a rattling wheeze. Licking his lips he tasted salt and spat in the sand. The salt smell of the sea air filled his nostrils. He took a deep breath and immediately began to cough. His chest ached at the violent spasm. The coughing fit passed, the ache remained, it fit in perfectly with all the other aches he was discovering, slotting into place like the last piece of a jigsaw. His shoulders and back felt knotted. He reached a hand up to his neck, rubbed at the muscles there, winced. He had been pecked there by the seagulls, could feel the bruises. The cold seeped through his jeans from the damp sand and his legs felt numb. He tried to stand, made it all the way to his knees before bolts of pain shot through his legs. Pins and needles stabbed him, little sharp points of pain up and down his legs. Gritting his teeth he staggered to his feet and tried to walk. He hobbled in a small circle, loosening his joints, stretching protesting muscles. The tingling began to ease in his limbs leaving just the bone deep ache that stretched from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, there was nothing he could do about that, not until he could find a safe place to rest and he had no idea when that would be.

Memory returned with the use of his legs. He needed to find out where he had been washed up. He looked up the deserted beach, could see no landmarks that he recognised. He was not back on the island, at least that was something. And he was alive. That was two big plusses and that was two more than he had a right to expect. He turned his gaze straight ahead. The beach ended in a high stone wall sixty feet away. Alex walked towards it. He shivered and rubbed his arms with his hands. His sweatshirt still clung damply to him and his jeans clung to his legs as he walked. His trainers squelched water with every step. He was freezing cold. The morning air blew cold draughts at him and his teeth chattered as he reached the wall. He turned and walked towards the staircase carved in the stone. A metal railing offered meagre support as he dragged his feet up the steps.

He needed to move more quickly but his mind was as sluggish as his legs. He’d escaped from the island and survived being capsized. How he had not drowned he didn’t know, but he was grateful. Hypothermia had nearly claimed his life, and if he didn’t find shelter soon, and some dry clothes, it still might, if pneumonia hadn’t already put a bid in for him.

He reached the top of the steps. A road led away to the left and right of where he stood, disappearing around a long bend a little way to the left, running straight for a quarter mile or so to his right before turning inland. Ahead of him was a steep hill, shrouded in mist. Alex chose the path in front of him, his body groaned painfully but he wanted to get inland as soon as possible. The climb up the steps had kick started his brain and he was anxious to put as much distance between himself and the island as possible, he wouldn’t do that staying on the coast roads.

The mist hung on the hill like a curtain, one step Alex was in clear space, the next, he had been enveloped. He paused and turned around, stepped back out of the mist and looked down at the beach and out to sea, something he had not thought to do earlier. Fog crawled over the sand and the water was lost from view. He had no way of knowing if the island could be seen from the shore he had washed up on. He wanted to believe that it couldn’t be, but that would be dangerous. He stared for a long minute at the fog trying to penetrate its cover to no avail, finally he turned and stepped back into the mist.

 

The island was two miles long, almost a mile across at it’s widest but tapering to a narrow point in the Northeast. It was not on most maps, on others it was just a speck without a name.

It was December the twenty ninth. A smattering of snow had fallen on Christmas Day but that had been washed away by the rain that had swept in from the North.

Dean Carter had the graveyard watch. He sat in the operations room, alone and bored. A banked array of monitors in front of his desk showed the island from a number of angles. The images changed automatically following a computer set sequence which would give Dean a fifteen second shot from every lens on the island. He wasn’t interested. There was no one here that shouldn’t be and most of those who usually were here had gone, celebrating Christmas somewhere else. Somewhere warm, he thought, somewhere where the sun shone on Christmas Day and you could sit by a pool with a tall, cool drink in your hand and a tall, hot woman by your side. Somewhere like Vegas, maybe, or Can-Cun. He’d been to Can-Cun two years ago, the only time he’d ever been to the Americas. He’d been to Vegas a million times in his head, imagining how it would be—the slot machines and gaming tables, he’d heard how they feed you free drinks all night long just so long as you played the tables and that seemed just too good to be true. The cabaret acts and shows all featured gorgeous girls with unbelievable bodies, he’d heard something about them too, how they were free just the same as the drinks, if you were enough of a high roller. Dean Carter was not a religious man, but he knew where Heaven was and he’d promised himself that one day he would take a trip to the Nevada desert. For now he had to content himself with his daydreams and his memories of Can-Cun.

If Vegas were Heaven, then Can-Cun was the waiting room. The sun melted the earth, turning the sand into liquid gold and it stayed that way for the whole two weeks he was there. And the girls, they were as good as any showgirl from Vegas, well almost. He smiled dreamily to himself and felt a stirring in his crotch as he remembered Conchita. That wasn’t her real name, he never knew what her real name was, but he called her Conchita. Skin so smooth and soft, burnished bronze from the sun’s rays, breasts large and firm, spilling out of that totally inadequate yellow string bikini. So, it had cost him a hefty wad of dollars for her to be there, it hadn’t seemed to bother her and it sure hadn’t bothered him. Most of his spending money had gone on Conchita, he believed it had been a bargain.

He gave a cursory glance to the monitors, the black and white images were mostly black, there was little light and storm clouds took most of what there was. The rain had been drumming down for hours and Dean had switched the audio controls off.

Another series of monitors showed the interior of The Clinic. Most of these were switched off, three screens displayed corridors, all empty. The sound on these monitors was turned down also. Dean resented having to be on duty now, it was Christmas, after all. He had worked for The Clinic for five years and nothing ever happened to warrant his being here over the holidays, yet it was always him. It was pointless. Nobody knew this place even existed so why did it need protecting over Christmas? Still, the money was good and he didn’t really mind the solitude of the graveyard shift, no one bothered him at this time of night. He glanced at his watch, it was midnight, the witching hour. He smiled to himself and picked up his paperback. He’d read it a dozen times and the cover showed signs of age. The spine was broken and the pages were all but falling out, the cover was folded and cracked, corners bent. He’d read all of Stephen King’s books, but for him, ‘Salem’s Lot was the one, it still sent a shiver down his spine and made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He leant back in the swivel chair and lost himself in the Marsten house, where Ben Mears still saw old man Marsten dangling from the end of a rope behind the door of the bedroom in his nightmares. He didn’t see Alex suddenly appear in one of the corridors, didn’t see the camera trace his movements down the grey carpeted hallway, didn’t see him disappear around a corner or watch him appear on the next monitor. The doors of the lift opened and closed silently on the television screen as Dean turned another page, oblivious of the world around him.

 

The helicopter flew low over the water, its rotors chopping air thick with winter cold. There was no sun to cast a shadow over the grey seas or bathe the cabin with a warm glow. Inside, the heater was up full, even so, the passenger sat in silence wrapped in a thick coat. A folder lay open on his lap and his steel grey eyes darted back and forth over the report. He finished reading the document through for the second time as he first felt then heard the change in the helicopter’s engines. The man glanced out of the window and saw they had reached the island. The Clinic lay just ahead. The man closed the folder and placed the report into the small leather portfolio on the seat beside him. The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom.

“We’re here, Mr Shelton.”

Anthony Shelton tensed as the helicopter sank to the ground. The pilot was good and he felt only a slight bump as the craft touched down. The whine of the motors decreased in volume as the rotors slowed. Shelton unsnapped his belt and stood up. He was a short man and did not have to crouch in the cabin. The pilot appeared in the doorway of the cockpit, nodded nervously at Shelton and moved to the exit, opening the door and lowering the steps for his passenger. The shorter man stepped quickly down the aisle, brushing past the pilot without word or glance and descended the steps. Outside, the cold December air ruffled his cropped grey hair and made his eyes water behind their narrow, steel framed glasses. Shelton marched quickly across the tarmac of the exposed landing pad and escaped into the air-conditioned warmth of The Clinic.

Andrew Elwes was waiting for Shelton in the reception hall. “Mr. Shelton,” he spoke softly. Shelton nodded as he walked past him heading to the lifts. Elwes followed and pushed the button at the doors.

“What happened, Andrew?” Shelton’s tone was business like.

“He’s… gone.”

Shelton glared at his assistant. Elwes blushed lowering his gaze.

“We don’t know when, or why.”

“Do we know how?”

Elwes was not fooled by the calmness of his boss’s voice, he had known him long enough to be afraid of him no matter how he sounded.

“Well?” A muscle twitch, one solitary spasm of a muscle in Shelton’s cheek was the only outward indication of the man’s anger.

“It appears that he… just… walked out.”

Shelton shook his head slightly in disgust. “What time did you get in?”

“Dawn. I would have been quicker but the weather was bad.”

Shelton saw the circles of tiredness under his assistant’s eyes and the crumpled state of his clothing. Andrew was reliable, Shelton knew he had gotten to the island as quickly as possible. “Who was monitoring things last night?”

The lift doors opened as Shelton asked this question and they stepped out into a corridor two floors below ground.

“Dean Carter. He’s been with us for five years. He’s reliable, or so we thought.”

“What does he have to say for himself?”

“Not much. Said he saw nothing.”

“Is he telling the truth?”

“Yes. He’s not the brightest person you ever met, but he’s smart enough to know not to lie to me. He’s had this duty since he’s been here, there’s never been a problem before.”

“It seems we have one now. Where is Mr. Carter?”

“He’s in the canteen, waiting for you.”

Shelton nodded. He had removed his gloves while they walked. His coat was slung over one arm of his expensive suit, a plain silk tie was knotted tightly at the collar of his crisply laundered white shirt, his patent leather shoes gleamed from beneath the cuffs of his trousers, his feet silent on the carpeted floor of the corridor.

“Then let’s not disappoint him, shall we?” He increased his step, Elwes followed in his wake.

 

Dean sat stiffly in the chair. He’d chosen a table as far from the door as possible as if the extra distance would delay the wrath of his employer. He’d seen Shelton many times but had only spoken to him twice and then only in answer to questions. He’d heard the stories though and he was worried now. Worried? Petrified was a better word. Forget Stephen King, he told himself, forget decaying corpses dangling from ropes in disused houses, corpses that could suddenly open their eyes and stare down at you, corpses that had mouths that would split wide in hideous grins, they had nothing on his situation now. Dean trembled as his imagination ran riot. He would rather face all the vampires and all the demons and all the corpses in all of the novels he had ever read than the man that was coming to see him now. His eyes blurred and he rubbed his hands over his face, pulling at the soft flesh beneath his eyes, fingers massaging his temples, palms scraping the rough stubble on his chin. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Okay, he’d screwed up, everyone made mistakes from time to time and maybe this one was his, he’d never make it again, if Shelton would just give him the chance he’d prove how he would never make it again. Besides, how was he supposed to know the boy was going to escape? Escape from what? He’d been here longer than Dean had, been here his whole life, this was his home, nobody escapes from their own home, do they?

The door opened. Elwes came through. The breath caught in Dean’s throat as he saw Elwes and hoped that he was alone. The door remained open, there was a shadow behind the first man and then Shelton was closing the door behind him. The air escaped from Dean’s lips in a short, quiet gasp. His legs felt weak and he was sure he would have fallen had he not already been sitting down. His bladder was heavy and he needed to pee.

Shelton draped his coat over the back of a chair, dropped his gloves onto a tabletop. He pulled out the chair opposite Dean and sat down.

“Mr. Carter,” he acknowledged.

Dean’s throat dried out, saliva was just a memory. He nodded his head.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened last night?”

He cleared his throat, his tongue darted out and licked at his dry lips, “There… there’s nothing to tell… sir. Not really.”

“Tell me anyway.”

There was something about that voice that scared him to death. He licked his lips again. Think happy thoughts, he told himself. Vegas, the desert, the showgirls. Dean began to tell.

 

Habitation became denser as Alex reached the brow of the hill. Houses and flats giving way to shops and boutiques. Small premises selling holiday mementoes and tacky trinkets, food bars and pubs. Lights were off in most of them and the morning light gave no relief to their interiors. He passed a newsagent, a man stood outside, filling a rack with the morning editions, he didn’t glance around at the light tread of Alex’s passage.

His stomach rumbled and he realised how hungry he was, until now his mind had been occupied with thoughts of escape and the cold. Where could he get food? He had no money, not anymore. He’d had some notes in his pocket but most of those had been lost when he fell overboard. Those that had remained, caught in the mouth of his pocket, had been sodden and had clung together like desperate lovers. As he’d pulled them out of his pocket they had torn, ink had run from the halves of the notes as his fingers grasped them. He’d thrown them to the ground. If he wanted to eat, he was going to have to steal. He’d never stolen anything in his life, never known anyone who had stolen anything either, or so he had thought. He could no longer think like that, not anymore. He had been stolen from, he’d discovered, his life had been stolen from him, not in the physical sense yet, but that would happen soon if he was not careful. He was making a new life for himself, it had begun at midnight and if it was going to last past the next midnight or the one after that, he was going to need to eat. And if that meant he would have to become a thief, so be it.

He turned off the main street, the smaller road had narrow paths and small kerbs, the road cobbled rather than tarmac. He was being led by his nose, a waft of sweet air finding and pulling him along the street.

The van was parked at the kerbside, its wide body filling the road making it impossible for other traffic to pass but it was early and there was no other traffic. A man appeared, stepping out from the door of the shop and reaching into the open maw of the van’s interior. Alex hid in the doorway of the nearest shop, a small art gallery. Seascapes and sunsets stood on easels in the window. He watched the man as he straightened up and turned to face the doorway from which he had appeared. A large basket in his arms, he disappeared back into the shop. Alex waited, counting the seconds in his mind until the man came back into view. He’d reached a full minute before he saw him again, and had advanced to the next doorway. The smell was stronger now and his stomach rumbled noisily. Again the man picked a large basket from the back of the van and re-entered the shop. Alex began to count as he cautiously approached the van. He peered around the frame of the window but could see neither the deliveryman nor anyone else. Quickly, he ran to the van, reached in and grabbed a large loaf. The bread was soft and still warm, his thumb broke through the crust and crumbs peppered the floor of the van. He took a large Belgian bun from a tray of cakes and turned to leave. A dark green, quilted anorak hung from a hook to his left. Instinctively, Alex plucked the coat from its hook and, with a quick glance at the shop, ducked around the side of the van and vanished from sight. He ran quickly up the sloping hill turning right into another side passage before the baker returned to his van. He sprinted to the end of the side road, turning again, losing himself in the maze of back streets. As he ran he tugged on the coat he had stolen, the padded material of the jacket immediately making him feel warmer by several degrees. And making him feel something else, too. He stuffed the end of the loaf into his mouth and bit through the warm crust of his breakfast, greedily chewing the doughy bread and swallowing rapidly, following the first mouthful instantly with a second. His stomach groaned in thanks. Alex was stopped in his tracks as the first images began to filter through to him. They were scattered and grainy, coming and going like a radio signal as a dial is spun through a variety of frequencies, but they were there. He saw the baker, standing before the ovens, watching the bread rise and then the image faded out. It was replaced by another, the baker behind the wheel of the van. Alex watched the road through the windscreen of the squat delivery truck, saw hands turning the wheel. The image was dark, blurred by the grey light of day that filtered into the van’s cabin, the vision itself soured by Alex’s brain.

He saw things that other people could not, saw things that had happened to people he had not met, saw things that were yet to happen to those people. He didn’t know why, or how, he could do these things. Or why he could not do it all the time. He had grown up with this ability and it was natural to him, but he knew now that the ability itself was not natural, the file had divulged that to him. The file he had stumbled upon in The Clinic. The file that had changed his life forever. He saw another image behind the van’s cabin, no, not behind, it was more like it was underneath the first picture in his mind, the van with it’s washed out grey light was superimposed over this other picture, the two images blurring together in the light and shade of his mind’s eye. He’d read somewhere that animals could only see in black and white and had wondered if they dreamt in colour, he hoped they did. For him it was the opposite, the images he saw were muted by a lack of colouring. He saw visions in the restrictive shadings of a photograph’s negative, reds and blues and greens, all the vibrant colours of the spectrum were bleached away leaving a sepia toned hue over the pictures he saw. Now, underneath the image of the van he saw a horse, large and powerful, muscles contracting and expanding as it galloped, air steaming from its nostrils, eyes widening at the flick of the whip stinging its flank, surging towards the finish line of a race track. The image was a thought belonging to the owner of the jacket. He reached into the pocket of the anorak, fingers touching a crumpled piece of paper. He pulled the betting slip out of the pocket, saw a woman, anger scarring her plain face, the baker’s wife berating her husband for his gambling habit. The horse had won, but the baker would not be collecting his winnings. The pictures began to fade in his mind and the world came rushing back at him from every angle. He felt the cold again, not so bad this time, his torso offered protection by the anorak, but the wind whipped around his legs, his jeans were still damp. He sneezed. He shook himself, forced the last vestiges of his visions out of his mind. He had to focus on the here and now, had to find transport and get away from the town, move inland, find a city, somewhere he could lose himself, find anonymity and figure out what to do. It was still grey but the mist was lifting, time was marching on and his pursuers would be at his heels soon if he did not move.

He’d eaten the loaf, swallowing down large chunks of dry bread while the images had assailed him. He munched now on the sweet, sticky cake as he searched for a way out of town.