The Cove, page 27
part #1 of The Cove Trilogy Series
Seven years ago, on the beach, while she’d been preoccupied, Cal had gone in search of hidden treasures.
He’d found hell instead.
Detective Turner glanced over his shoulder. “DS Mills would like to talk to you, if you’re up to it. We need to take a statement.”
Carrie followed his gaze. “What about Melissa?”
“There’s an officer right inside. Your daughter is completely safe.”
“I want her here with me.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged if you think it’s necessary.”
Melissa’s drawing flashed in Carrie’s mind. “It is. How’s Noah?”
“Traumatised. Undernourished. But he’s going to be fine. Thanks to you.”
Something passed across his face. A look of frustration. Disappointment. Carrie could understand why, but she was in no mood to be lectured about taking the law into her own hands.
Ignoring her throbbing ankle, she brought her knees up to her chest. Her boy was gone. Lost to the sea. Lost to Grady Spencer.
She thought about the skull she’d found hidden beneath Noah’s stuffed bear. Had there been others before Cal? Missing children who had refused to bend to Grady’s sick ways.
She pushed horrible images from her mind.
Something else sprang into her thoughts. Something Grady had said.
“‘They believed he’d be better off at the farm. But the boy came back to me.’”
Turner stared at her, confused.
“That’s what Grady Spencer told me. I don’t understand what it means.”
“The farm?” Detective Turner mused. He shook his head. Out in the corridor, the female detective raised her eyebrows. “I believe DS Mills would like to talk to you now, if you’re ready.”
On the bedside cabinet, Carrie’s mobile phone began to buzz. From somewhere beneath the numb haze, she felt her heart leap.
“I need five minutes.”
Turner nodded. He stared at her with an expression that fell between pity and respect.
“Take care of yourself, Carrie,” he said, standing. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Carrie watched him walk away. She picked up the phone.
Dylan’s panicked voice filled her ear.
As she soothed and assured him that his wife and daughter were safe, thoughts of her son filled her mind. He was out there somewhere. Frightened. Confused. As lost as she was without him.
She could no longer feel that invisible cord connecting them. It had disappeared when Cal had escaped into the tunnel, severed by the closing door.
He was alone now.
But Carrie was not. And knowing she was not alone would get her through the coming weeks and months. It would be the one thing to stop her from falling into a dark and infinite abyss.
“I love you, Dylan,” she said into the phone, interrupting him.
There was a moment of static silence.
“I love you right back,” he replied. “And I’ll be home soon.”
Carrie hung up. The sudden quiet of the room bore down on her.
She felt the abyss calling to her like a Siren, luring her toward the edge.
I am not alone, she thought.
I am not alone.
52
Dawn was breaking as Cal emerged from the treeline and into a field of corn. Above him, the sky was painted in swathes of purple and tangerine. He stopped still, his breath snatched away.
He had spent so long in the darkness of Grady Spencer’s basement that he could navigate shadows as if he were walking through daylight. Every sunrise was precious to him. A magical, miraculous sight to behold.
He stood for a long time, his mouth open, molten fire reflected in his eyes. Then his mother’s face put out the lights, and darkness returned to him.
He got moving again, taking long strides between rows of towering corn, until he had cleared the field.
The farmhouse looked abandoned. As it always had. Paint peeled off the window frames. Guttering hung from the roof. The garden was a barren stretch of rocks and weeds.
Circling the house, he strode past a water tank and an old, disused harvester, which had rusted over time and been reclaimed by nature.
It was early. They would all be asleep. He wondered if they would welcome him with open arms or if they would turn their backs, just like he had done to them.
It had been a mistake to leave the farm and return to Grady Spencer. His master had been angry. He had beaten Cal daily. It was his lesson, Grady had said. A lesson to learn how rejection felt.
Weeks later, when he’d finally been granted freedom from the cage, Cal had gone wandering, exploring the hotel while Grady napped, or sneaking outside into Briar Wood. One evening, he’d returned with Noah.
Grady had mistakenly thought Cal had chosen the boy to be his first kill. But Cal had been lonely. He’d needed a friend to play with. And Noah had reminded him so much of Jago.
Like the front of the farmhouse, the windows at the back were boarded up. A cat, flea-bitten and malnourished, sidled up to Cal and rubbed against his calves. Cal bent down and gave the animal an affectionate scratch. The cat purred and spun a full circle.
Grady had handed Cal a large kitchen knife. “This is a rite of passage,” he’d said. “The boy becomes a man.”
And Cal had almost done it. He’d pressed the knife to Noah’s throat until a thin red line had appeared in his skin. Part of him, the part that had become like Grady, had wanted to press harder. Just like when he’d practiced on those animals.
But he couldn’t do it. Noah was good and kind, and did not deserve to die. Cal should have taken him to the farm, where he would have been safe from the evils of the world. Where he could learn about the new dawn that was coming.
Cal had refused to kill Noah. Grady had said he wasn’t ready. That he was a disappointment.
He’d brought the knife to him again two weeks later. When Cal had failed to use it once more, Grady had beaten him until the room went dark.
Then, when Grady had returned a third time with the knife, and had held Noah upside down like a chicken on a butcher’s hook, Cal had become afraid.
A voice had whispered in his mind: Kill him.
He’d run from the basement, leaving Noah alone with Grady Spencer. He’d run through the tunnel, down and down, until he’d reached the sea. And he’d stood there for the longest time, swaying in the wind, wondering what kind of a boy he was becoming.
Once he had cared for an injured bird that he knew would die. He had given it comfort, held it in his hands until its time came. Now, he’d put a knife to a little boy’s throat and had wanted to open him up.
Standing at the mouth of the cave, Cal had listened to the sea calling him. He had let it take him. It should have swept him far out, where pirates sailed the seven seas in search of buried treasure.
Instead the sea had rejected him, spitting him out onto the beach. Because the sea had known exactly what kind of a boy he was.
Margaret Telford shouldn’t have saved him. That was why he’d punished her. He hadn’t wanted to be saved.
At his ankles, the cat let out a long, whiny mewl. He would bring it scraps of food, if he were welcomed back. If not, he and the cat would go hungry together.
Pacing up to the old red door, Cal’s hand hovered over the handle. He hesitated. Then knocked.
He waited. The cat lost interest and sauntered away.
Finally, he heard footsteps shuffling inside. Locks were drawn back. The door opened.
A woman, tall and round, with a lined face and a ruddy complexion, stared out at him. Her expression was stern, her eyes hardened.
“Well,” she said. “Well, well. Here’s a face I didn’t expect to see again.”
Cal lowered his head and stared at the ground.
“Grown tired of you, has he?”
Cal shook his head.
“Found himself a new toy?” The woman ran a hand through her short, red hair. “What is it, then? Grew tired of being treated worse than an animal, did you?”
Shame burned Cal’s cheeks. Grady’s dead eyes stared at him from the shadows.
“Spit it out, boy. Or does the cat still have your tongue?”
Cal looked up. Tears brimmed in his eyes.
The woman’s face softened. She grew worried. “Something’s happened.”
He nodded.
“Something bad?”
He nodded again.
“Best you come in, boy, and talk to Jacob. No one followed you, did they?” The woman hovered for a moment, glancing over Cal’s shoulder at the farmland beyond. “Come on now. Don’t be shy. This was your home for a time. It can be again.”
Cal remained on the doorstep, peering into the farmhouse with nervous eyes.
He should never have returned to Grady’s house. But his mother didn’t want him. He knew it, no matter how much she tried to convince him that she did. All she cared about was her new family, and finding Noah.
Now that he was calmer, he was glad she had found Noah. And surprised that Grady had kept him alive.
There could only be one reason for that. He’d been keeping him for Cal. Waiting to give him back the knife, so the boy could become a man.
Made in his master’s image, empty and alone.
Stepping forward, the woman hooked an arm around Cal’s shoulder and pulled him toward the house.
“The Dawn Children welcome you back,” she said. “Back into the fold with open arms. Now, in you go.”
His heart racing, Cal stepped inside.
The woman closed the door.
“I’ll put some tea on, warm you up,” she said. “Then I’ll wake Jacob. And we’ll get to the bottom of your troubles.”
Cal nodded.
I am not alone, he thought.
I am not alone.
PRE-ORDER THE COVE: DESPERATION POINT
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BOOKS BY MALCOLM RICHARDS
THE EMILY SWANSON SERIES
Lost Lives
Cruel Minds
Cold Hearts
Bad Blood (An Emily Swanson Prequel)
THE COVE TRILOGY
The Cove
Desperation Point (2018)
Devil’s Gate (2018)
STANDALONES
The Hiding House
Walking After Midnight
THANK YOU
Writing a book is never done alone. Thank you to Natasha Orme, for your stellar editorial work and insight; to J. Caleb Clark for the amazing cover design; to Sarah Grey, OT, for your invaluable help with researching hospital procedures and patient aftercare; Andrea Lydon, former CSI, for your amazing insight into all things forensic; Philip Bates and DI Gail Windsor for guiding me through police procedures and the challenges specific to policing Devon & Cornwall; to Alan Burton for translating Devil’s Cove into Cornish – yeghes da!; to Sarah Hosken for being the best unofficial research assistant; to my family and friends for their continued support, especially Kate Ellis, Alasdair Gray, Dutch Hearn, Casey Hintz-McDonnell, Victor Martinez Cecilia; to my advanced reader team, whose enthusiasm knows no bounds!; to Mr Smith, my absolute favourite.
And thank you, dear reader. I hope you enjoyed your visit to Devil’s Cove and will return soon...
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cornish born Malcolm Richards writes dark mysteries and crime thrillers. After studying for a Bachelor of Arts in Writing at Middlesex University, London, he went on to work as a literacy tutor, a therapeutic teacher of children with emotional and behavioural difficulties, and as a teacher of creative writing. He has also worked as a freelance copywriter and scriptwriter.
When not writing, Malcolm enjoys composing and producing music, cooking up a storm in the kitchen, and spending more and more time in the countryside. He lives in Crystal Palace, London, with his partner, a cat named Sukey, and a fish called Freddy Krueger.
You can find online him at:
www.malcolmrichardsauthor.com
www.facebook.com/malcolmrichardsauthor
Malcolm Richards, The Cove
