Dystopia: YA Paranormal Adventure Romance (6 page)

The drive takes us on a motorway for a couple of hours, then along darker country lanes. I try talking to Ludvig by asking obvious questions, like: "Where are we going?" "How long will it take?" and "Where are you from?" Each question is met with an unflinching lack of response. I begin to wonder whether I'm doing the right thing, sitting in the back of a car driven god knows where by a scary-looking foreigner.

I slump back into the seat with my hands in my pockets, a hand resting on the hangman game and
Menzies Blake's business card. I think about Dad, lying in the hospital bed. Then my thoughts drift to the Hangman Ghost and the vision in the bathroom mirror. I try to take my mind off things by helping myself to a cold bottle of water from the drinks cabinet and flicking on the TV. A news report talks about the rise of "Dystopia Dementia"; I switch it off immediately. I don't know why I bother; the government controls all TV programming.

I rest my head against the car window and stare out at the passing trees. I can't help but feel angry
torward Aaron, even though he offered to help me. But at the same time, he is clearly someone Dad works closely with. Maybe I should have listened to him rather than storming off? I'm not always convinced I make the best decisions under pressure and I hope this won't be one I'll regret.

The smooth motion of the car makes my eyes heavy. I'll close them, only for a few minutes…

+ + +

I wake up inside the dark car. The engine is switched off. It takes a few seconds to ask myself where I am and who I'm with. I'm not able to answer either question.
Ludvig has taken me to the middle of nowhere outside a lonely building which looks like a deserted country pub. I'm aware of smoke rising from the driver's seat.

"You know, you shouldn't smoke with passengers in here. You shouldn't smoke at all, really."

So now I'm giving lifestyle advice to a sinister chauffeur: way to go, Sasha.

Ludvig
twists in the seat to face me and I realise that he hasn't been smoking at all. What I thought was smoke was actually steam, rising from two glowing handprints where Ludvig had just been holding the wheel. The steering wheel is bizarre looking, like it's made of a heat-resistant material. I blink several times, hoping that things will suddenly make sense in the milliseconds that my eyes are closed. That horrible feeling that something isn't quite right starts to rise up within me.

"So are
we. . . here?"

I'm not hopeful of a reply.

Ludvig fixes me with two of the most piercing pale blue eyes I've ever seen. I wait for him to speak, but instead he pulls a white envelope from his inside pocket and hands it over. I tear it open to find a single page letter written in immaculate handwriting.

Sasha,

As
you read this you will be outside The Coach House Inn. Unfortunately, your accommodation at The Agency is not available and as such I have arranged alternative lodgings here for tonight only. I apologise for the short notice.

You will find the main guest
room fully prepared for your stay. I have also arranged a light snack in the kitchen.

Ludvig
will pick you up at 8am tomorrow morning and you will proceed to The Agency HQ. As ever, if you need anything, anytime, call me.

Have a pleasant evening.

Kind regards,

Menzies
Blake

Ps.
You have the entire place to yourself, so do make yourself at home.

"Why didn't Blake tell me this at the hospital?"

Ludvig
ignores the question and simply hands over a bunch of keys. They are still hot from his touch when he passes them to me. This guy feels like he's on fire. Ludvig juts his chin torward The Coach House Inn. A weak-bulbed lantern illuminates the doorway of the black-and-white half-timbered building which looks about as welcoming as the gates of Hell.

"Is this it? I mean, you expect me to stay here on my own?"

Ludvig rolls his icy blue eyes, then pulls back a cuff to look at his wrist-watch, clearly bored with his babysitting duties. It's obviously his way of saying "hurry up".

"Fine.
Nice speaking to you."

I grab my bag and slam the door behind me as I climb out of the car. A biting wind sways the trees lining the country lane and the old inn appears even more foreboding than it did from the safety of the car. The sound of rusty hinges on The Coach House Inn sign is replaced by the revving of the Mercedes' engine. I spin in time to catch
Ludvig's pale blue eyes before he fixes them on the road ahead. As he pulls off into the night I'm sure he has the hint of a smile on his lips.

And now I'm all alone, in the dark.

Chapter
7

Monday 16 September 8:59pm

I'm only human, and much like any young woman I don't like being alone in the dark. When you live in a big city like London, you never really get to see true darkness. Even at night, the orange glow of distant lights illuminates the darkest of skies. But in the country, in the middle of nowhere, you experience total darkness. It reminds me of Dystopia Day and it gives me the exact same chills.

Dad always told me not to be afraid of the dark. But I am. I'm terrified. Once my eyes adjust I can make out the different shapes around me in shades of dark blue and purple: hedgerows, a winding lane, tall yew trees. The only light source is the lantern next to the doorway of The Coach House Inn and I find myself attracted to it like a moth.

Resting my bag on the ground, I thumb through the half-dozen keys in the paltry light, trying to find one which matches the small bronze lock. A shrill noise behind makes me drop the keys. It sounds like a howl. Maybe it's only the wind? At the worst possible moment the lantern starts to flicker. I drop to my knees to find the keys in the strobe light, praying that the bulb won't go out altogether. Safety is on the other side of the door; I have to get inside.

Another noise, this time more of a low growl. A fox, probably. Or maybe a wolf. Do wolves even exist in England? Either way, I'd sooner be inside than out here. I palm the damp ground for the keys until I find them covered in mud. Worse still, the keys are all the same size so I'll have to use trial and error to find the right one. As ever, my luck is out.

The first key slides into the
lock, but won't move.

The second key is bent and won't go in at all.

A violent rustling noise shakes the bushes behind me.

My hand trembles as I try the third key without success.

Another low, guttural growl, unlike any animal I've ever heard. I dare to glance over my shoulder. What I see sends a bolt of terror through my whole body: two fiery red eyes are staring out from the bushes behind me. I open my mouth to scream, but no noise comes out. I give up on the idea of screaming and frantically try another key. Just as I am about to make a run for it, the key twists in the lock and the door opens. I fall inside, slam the heavy door shut behind me and sit with my back against it, sucking in a large dose of my inhaler.

I'm calling Blake and getting out of here. As I hold his card in my trembling left hand, I rummage for my mobile in my bag. Being sent to a mental asylum can't be worse than this. But that's not the only reason I'm here, putting myself through all this. Dad told me to go to The Agency and find someone called Gordon. If I give up now, what will happen to Dad? And what will happen to me? The image of Dad lying in a hospital bed flashes through my mind, waking me up as if a bucket of cold water is thrown into my face.

I force myself to calm down and assess exactly what happened. I heard some animal noises and saw two eyes. I'm in the country, after all. For god's sake, Sasha, get a grip. I pick myself up off the stone floor and use the light from my mobile phone as a torch. I manage to find an electrical box and after flicking a few switches the place lights up. It's the same feeling of relief as when I switch on the Christmas tree lights each year with crossed fingers.

I find myself in an oak-panelled bar room which looks like it hasn't served anyone for years. A loud noise makes me jump. It's nothing more than a jukebox firing up. An old love song comes on; it sounds like Elvis. Who knows how old this place is? Elvis was probably in the charts the last time anyone came here. There's something reassuring about old music and I begin to calm down. Time for some normality: find the kitchen and get some food. Having something to do would distract me, and I could do with a distraction right now.

I tiptoe my way around the bar and into the kitchen. Why am I tiptoeing? Nobody is here, except me. At least, I hope nobody else is here. The light in the kitchen doesn't work, but I can see the fridge at the far end of the room, humming comfortingly. As I open the fridge door its light displays the contents: a bottle of milk, a large jar of pickled onions, a plate wrapped in cellophane and a tin of beans. Who keeps beans in the fridge? No matter. The light snack I was promised has to be on the plate, unless Blake expects me to rustle something up with milk, pickled onions and beans.

I open the milk and drink straight from the bottle. If Dad could see me he'd tell me off for my bad manners. It tastes
great, even if it's so cold it makes my teeth ache. I pick up the jar of pickled onions to move them out of the way as Elvis works his way up to a crescendo. As I hold the jar in one hand, I realise that they're not onions. I gag and drop the jar which smashes and spills the contents all over the linoleum floor. A dozen eyeballs roll around my feet. I hear a sickening squelch as I tread on one or two in a panicked dash to get out of the kitchen.

Elvis croons away as I cling onto the bar to stop my legs from collapsing under me. I gag some more, then cry, then get really, really angry.

"What the hell is going on?" I scream at the top of my voice.

Enough is enough. I pull the business card out of my pocket and dial the number. Surprisingly, it works and starts to ring. I'm pumped up an
d ready to unleash until I hear…

"Hello, this is the voicemail of Menzies Blake. I'm not available at the moment, but—"

I hang up. What am I supposed to do now? I'll ring back and leave a message telling him to get me out of here. But something stops me as I start to redial the number. I couldn't trust Blake less if he wore an eye-patch and had a hook for a hand. But what if calling him was what he wanted me to do? I'm sure that's what he expected me to do. So many things don't ring true about this whole experience. It feels like I'm being set up.

Taking some courage from my anger, I steel myself and walk back into the kitchen where the open fridge door illuminates the surrounding floor. I hold my breath as I lean down to examine one of the eyeballs. It's not an eye, at least not a real one. They're just slimy balls made to look like eyes. My imagination has done the rest. I grab the plate from the fridge and pull off the cellophane, ready for whatever it might be
concealing. It's a freshly-made ham and mustard sandwich on granary bread; my favourite. I take it through to the bar and eat to the sounds of the sixties.

+ + +

It's 1:01am. I've made it through the Witching Hour; the hour after midnight when everything spooky is at its most menacing, according to the superstitious like me. For the last couple of hours I've sat in the bar listening to old music, flicking through album covers on a jukebox with a collection too old even for Dad's taste. Nothing has happened since the eyeball incident and my nerves have finally settled down. It's amazing how much energy you use being frightened and now I'm truly knackered. I consider trying to sleep in the bar, but all the seating has been stripped of its padded cushioned lining. Blake's letter mentioned a guest room. Was it going to be another set-up? He hadn't lied about the food he'd organised, which was really nice. Maybe I should take a look upstairs?

A
shadeless bulb lights up the bare wooden stairs which creak as I step on each one. I pull the small knife from my bag and hold it out like a weapon; except that it's not a weapon at all. It would struggle to cut through warm butter. An icy draught slides down from the dark landing, which seems to be hiding secrets and dangers. I feel a sudden urge to break the silence.

"Hello?" I call out, to no response. "Sasha, stop being silly," I tell myself.

What's the first sign of madness? Talking to yourself. And the second sign? Answering back. I'm being ridiculous. It's not like I've never spent a night alone before, with Dad out at work. Three closed doors at the top of the landing fail to indicate which one leads to the guest room. Always work left to right, or clockwise. Never anti-clockwise, that's bad luck. In fact, never do anti-anything. I twist the handle of the left hand door and ease it open.

It's a large, bare room, with peeling wallpaper hanging from the walls and a large window which overlooks the front of the inn. When I dare to peek out through the grimy net curtains I'm relieved not to see any glowing red eyes across the road. I leave the room to try the second door, the one in the middle of the landing. It's a bathroom, tiled from floor to ceiling. A shower curtain is drawn across the bath and one of the sink taps drips incessantly. Call me obsessive-compulsive, but I can't tolerate the sound of a dripping tap all night. I twist it off as tightly as I can with both
hands, then close the door behind me, hoping that I won't need the toilet anytime soon.

The last room is the guest room, if you can call it that. A dank smell suggests that the room hasn't been aired properly for years. Blake has shown some consideration in preparing a camp bed with clean sheets. The only other décor consists of an old wire hanger resting on a nail in the wall. When I try to pull the curtains closed I realise that they're not wide enough for the window.

"What a dump," I say out loud, still talking to myself.

With the jukebox playing the reassuring old music in the bar downstairs, the freshly prepared camp bed starts to look appealing. I feel
much better having inspected the whole of the inn and so with the door propped open to catch the landing light, I slump onto the bed. Every sound, every creak of the floorboards and every rattling window has a menacing tone. I focus on the jukebox over the other noises.

The last twenty four hours have felt like a long dream; one that has deteriorated into a nightmare. Maybe, if I go to sleep, I will wake up back in my own bed and none of this would have happened. To the sound of a woman singing a country song, something sexist about standing by your man, I fall asleep.

+ + +

I wake when I feel a pressure. It comes from the foot of the bed, as if someone has carefully sat down without wanting to disturb me. It's so slight it's almost nothing, barely enough to wake me from my half-sleep. It reminds me of something Mum would do. I've never been good at getting out of bed, but Mum was always so gentle in the way she would perch
on the end of the bed and softly wake me. But I'm not at home; I'm in a cold, empty building. I peer down to the foot of my bed, confused to see nothing there.

Drip.
Drip. Drip.

It's 6.30am. The first light of day has started to leak throu
gh the gap in the curtains. The stupid tap woke me up. I walk to the bathroom, still half asleep, determined to take my snappiness out on the tap. That's when I realise that the jukebox has stopped playing. Maybe it wasn't the dripping tap that woke me up, but the music stopping? Also, the landing light is now off. Didn't I leave it on? I flick the switch at the top of the stairs. Nothing. The electricity must be out. In an hour and a half I'll be out of this place, but that tap is still going to get it.

When I open the bathroom door the tap stops dripping. Or was it dripping at all? I stand in the bathroom rubbing the numb side of my face which I've been lying on. I don't know why, but something attracts me to the shower curtain. I have a burning impulse to rip it back. When I do, I immediately regret it. Two words are scrawled on the white tiled walls.

Words which look like they are written in blood. . .