The Dark Corners Page 11

  She paused, feeling secure now in the presence of passing traffic and approaching pedestrians, waiting until his coughing subsided.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone of that name.”

  His response took her completely by surprise. She’d anticipated disappointment, even if only feigned, but instead it was as though she’d delivered a shot of some instant-acting miracle potion that simultaneously stimulated and pacified. His eyes were suddenly alive and steady on her face, their previous nervous flickering stilled. He continued to stare at her intently, but smiling now, a clear expression of intense relief, and something else that could have been—

  Surely not—genuine tenderness? She’d been half-prepared for some indication of infatuation, but what she saw implied a depth of feeling that startled and disorientated her. Strangely, though, despite her embarrassment she still felt no alarm, her own initial mild disquiet suddenly replaced by a sensation that she didn’t immediately identify but that somehow echoed what she saw on his face.

  She began to inch away from him.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you.” She forced a smile and moved on, reaching the nearby bus stop as a bus drifted to a halt there and people began to climb aboard. She followed them, glancing back to where he stood, his face still illuminated by the transforming smile.

  She found a vacant seat and sat down, staring out of the window, oblivious of the passing scenery. What on Earth had all that been about, she wondered. Apart from the mystery of his obvious interest in her she was totally bemused by the abrupt change that had come over both of them at the time of her denial of knowledge, her seeming inability to help him that had contradictorily transformed his anxiety into relief and simultaneously allayed her own, replacing it with the sensation that she now acknowledged.

  Although she was childless and had yet to form a strong romantic attachment, she was fully aware that normal maternal instincts were a strong part of her nature. Back there, though, she’d briefly experienced them to a startling degree, an acute feeling of protectiveness towards a complete stranger who at the very least was twenty years her senior, a surge of empathy that had made no sense at the time and now felt like nothing more than an embarrassing absurdity.

  Get a grip, girl, she told herself. Save it for when the time comes, if it ever does. She was still trying to make sense of it all when she finished her journey and crossed the road towards the staff-entrance of the hospital.

  * * * *

  The minute-hand of the clock above the magazine rack had almost reached the number eleven as he pulled the phone towards him and rested his hand on top of it, following what by now had become a sardonic daily ritual.

  Seconds later, it rang. He picked it up and reported on the day’s takings, and by the time he’d listened disinterestedly to the owner’s customary litany of complaints about the state of his various other business interests and replaced it in its cradle it was a minute to eight.

  That’ll be the day, he thought sourly, when he doesn’t make sure he’s getting his money’s worth. And why does he have to tell me about his problems? He’d already emptied the till and bagged its contents, and was emerging from behind the counter preparatory to taking them down to the basement safe when he glanced outside and saw the car slide into the pool of light illuminating the forecourt.

  He swore, disgustedly. Given another ten seconds or so and he’d have locked the door and reversed the card to ‘CLOSED,’ but doing that now could provoke an argument with somebody who might be prepared to engage in a lengthy exchange that would only delay him further.

  He reluctantly moved back behind the counter, depositing the takings bag beneath it and watching as the driver climbed slowly out of the car, walked around it to the nearest pump, unhooked the hose, and stuck the nozzle into the jerry can he’d been carrying. A couple of bucks’ worth. Well, at least it should be a quick sale. He switched on the pump and waited, drumming his fingers impatiently on the counter top.

  A minute or so later, the man entered, carrying the can, bringing with it the reek of gasoline. Jesus, he thought, irritably. If he had to bring it with him, at least he could have put the cap back on first. He switched off the pump, and turned. “That’ll be a dollar eighty-five.”

  The man made no move to produce any money. He placed the can on the floor, then slowly straightened, his right hand wedged in the pocket of his raincoat, staring at him with feverish eyes set deep in a leaden face. He coughed several times, a lightly hoarse sound.

  Jesus, he thought, this is one sick-looking guy; more like a walking corpse than living being. And why was he staring at him like that? He felt a twinge of unease. He said again, “That’ll be a dollar eighty-five.”

  The man cleared his throat. “You’re David Simmons.”

  It was a statement, delivered flatly, with no hint of query. So that was it, he thought. He knew him from someplace, although there was no recognition as far as he was concerned. Maybe he was the father of someone he knew, some background figure that had registered him without it being reciprocal on his own part.

  He manufactured a smile. “That’s right. I guess we must’ve met sometime.”

  The man nodded, slowly. Equally slowly, he pulled his right hand from his raincoat pocket.

  The gun he was holding glinted threateningly in the fluorescent glare of the room. Speaking in the same tired rasp as before, he said, “Keep your hands where I can see them, and come out here and lock the door. When you’ve done that, go to the office and turn on the light, then come back and switch off everything out here; this room, the forecourt lights. If you try to run for it or make any kind of move towards me, I’ll shoot. Do you understand?”

  In the space of a second his simulated affability had stiffened into frozen alarm. Oh, God, he thought, sickly. It was what he’d always feared, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. If the owner wasn’t so remorselessly punctual with his daily check-ups he’d have been out of there at least five minutes before, encouraged to leave early by the absence of traffic; on his way back to town and his date for that evening, safe from—

  His mind wavered, a shocking realisation penetrating the panicky fog that filled it. The guy knew his name, recognised him from somewhere! The fact that he hadn’t been able to identify him in return might be seen as a purely temporary lapse of memory on his part that might correct itself at any time, automatically making him a particularly dangerous witness to the crime.

  “Now, wait a minute,” He raised his hands, swallowing hard. “I don’t know how you know my name, mister, but I swear I never saw you before.”

  He stared the man in the eye, willing him to believe him, at the same time fractionally increasing the pressure on his abdomen where it already rested against the counter, praying that this minute movement would be seen as nothing more than emphasising the urgency of his claim. Braced against it, he fished carefully with his right foot. There! He felt the shallow rubber mound of the alarm-button, and pressed down on it with the toe of his shoe. “Honest to God, I don’t know who you are. You must—”

  “Don’t talk,” the man said. He was suddenly energised, naked hatred clear in his voice, startling in its impact. He raised the gun a little, the knuckle of his trigger-finger gleaming whitely. “Be quiet, and do what I told you. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you right now.”

  He means it, he thought dazedly. Mother of mercy, he really means it. He inched his way from behind the counter on legs that barely supported him and began to carry out the man’s instructions, desperately trying to ensure that none of his movements provided an excuse for this threat to be carried out.

  Had that really been hatred that he’d heard? What could he possibly have done to have invoked such abhorrence? Was he the father of some girl who’d achieved an unwanted pregnancy and named him as the person responsible? Unless he’d used a faulty condom during one of his sexual adventures he was certain of his lack of guilt as far as such a possibility was concerned. But whatever transgression,
imagined or otherwise, might have been responsible for this encounter, there was no doubting that this was no straightforward hold-up. Everything that was happening clearly indicated that a personal element was dictating the situation, that the man with the gun was an inexplicably dangerous adversary whose resentment meant that he was fully prepared to end his life at any time.

  He tried to focus his thinking, seek out some solution to this appalling predicament. Had the alarm-bell worked, the signal got through? Even if it had they were eight miles from Laxton, the nearest town, and the gas station was isolated, nowhere near any other source of law enforcement that he knew of.

  His only real hope of early help from the police was if a patrol car wasn’t too far away and the message had been relayed. He couldn’t count on anything like that, though. Perhaps his only real chance of survival would be to jump the guy if the opportunity presented itself. His throat, already restricted with fear, almost closed at the prospect. The office was cramped, though, so they’d be bound to be close to one another once they were inside. Besides, he was young and strong, and the man was plainly unwell and most likely weakened by his condition. If he could just get a grip on his gun-arm—

  As he carefully entered the office, a sudden blow took him on the back of the neck. Retching and half-conscious, he dropped to his knees. Then the second blow came, this time pitching him into smothering darkness.

  * * * *

  He came to gradually, his head thudding, dully aware of the pain that filled it and of the rancid moistness of his lap and thighs. He was seated on a chair, his legs free, but his arms were looped behind it and fastened to its frame. He tugged, weakly, and felt the edge of the tape that bound them dig into his wrists.

  The man was facing him, seated on the swivel-chair that was normally behind the desk. There was no sign of the gun now, but the open can of petrol rested by his right foot, somehow a significant threat that terrifyingly penetrated his still-sluggish consciousness.

  He tugged feebly at the tape again, feeling sick and dreadfully afraid.

  He said, quaveringly, “Why are you doing this? Have I done something that’s offended you real bad? If I have, I swear to God I don’t know what it was. Why don’t you—” He stopped, confused by the man’s response, the slow side to side shaking of his head.

  “Not yet.”

  Not yet? What could that possibly mean?

  “If you live,” the man said, “you’ll go on to do great harm. To me, but particularly to someone else. I have to try to prevent that from happening.”

  It took several seconds for what had been said to fully penetrate his consciousness, but when it did, his insides, already taut with panic, contracted to a nausea-inducing ball.

  He was at the mercy of a lunatic, someone who believed that he could forecast the future, one in which he would commit some unspecified act of cruelty that could only be avoided if he was to die before it could take place! He almost fainted, in this state of near-fugue witnessing a macabre image of himself crouched motionless on a sheet of glass that was barely thick enough to support him, the only thing saving him from falling irrecoverably into the blackly bottomless abyss that yawned beneath it. A single movement, one ill-judged redistribution of his weight would shatter the glass and pitch him headlong into this passage to inescapable death, he knew it with chilling certainty.

  Shuddering uncontrollably, he re-surfaced to equally chilling reality, the fume-filled confines of the office and the grey-faced man slumped in the other chair, his mind surely deformed by his deadly fantasy.

  Numb with panic, he tried to think. Stall him that was all he could do. Pray that the alarm signal had got through and that help was on its way. Would reason have any effect or would it provoke him to impatient anger, actually precipitate what he intended to do? Perhaps it was the only way to stretch the moments, give himself any chance at all of survival.

  He’d have to risk it. He swallowed again, desperately trying to lubricate the arid tunnel that his throat had become. “How do you know what’s going to happen in the future? Nobody does, not really. How do you know I’m going to do what you say I am?

  The man stared at him silently for several seconds before speaking. “Because it’s already happened.”

  There it was, confirmation of his insanity! His mind groped frantically, trying to find the right words, any argument at all that might pacify this madman.

  “But how can it have? You mean you were actually there when I did this thing?”

  The man’s mouth turned down, grimly. “Not to witness it directly. But, yes, I was there.”

  He ploughed on, doggedly committed now. “But you’d have to be able to travel through time to know anything like that! Is that what you’re saying, that you’re from the future, and that you’ve come back to try and put right whatever it is you say I’ve done?”

  The man nodded, a single duck of the head. “Yes, that is what I’m saying.”

  He means it, he thought sickly. He really believes it. Perhaps attempting to make contact with any possible remaining shreds of reason would be pointless, but for now it was his only hope. He introduced a wheedling note into his voice.

  “Look, why not tell me what it is you say I’m going to do? If I know what it is I won’t do it, honest to God I won’t. Wouldn’t that make more sense than killing me?” This spoken acknowledgement of the man’s intentions was almost a relief. Cards on the table, he thought light-headedly. Why not? In that sense at least, what have I got to lose?

  There was another pause, longer this time. He allowed himself the first faint flicker of hope. At least he’d got him thinking, pointed out an option that seemed to have created at least some uncertainty. How could he reinforce that? If he could only—

  The man said, “Do you suffer from nightmares?”

  The question took him completely by surprise, segueing almost at once into a surge of relief that was overwhelming.

  Of course! That must be what this was, a nightmare brought about by his constant fear that the isolation of the gas station would one day invite criminal intrusion, with this demented scenario its manifestation! None of it was real; the man with his gun and his mad tale, the can of gasoline and its implied threat1

  He took a deep breath. His dreams occasionally reached a point where he identified them as such, sometimes even enabling him to force himself awake, free himself from their warped settings and events. Now that he’d recognised this torment for what it really was he should be able to exert at least a degree of control.

  He began to tug at the restricting tape again, gradually dismayed by the continuing resistance he encountered. Even at their most threatening, actual physical discomfort was never part of his dreams. He blinked repeatedly, willing himself to wake, suddenly intensely conscious again of his surroundings and what they contained; the grey-faced man confronting him, staring at him with feverish eyes, the overpowering reek of gasoline that filled the small room.

  No dream. He sagged in his chair, his heart accelerating again to its previous thudding gallop, an onslaught that this time felt as though it might tear itself free of its arterial moorings.

  Keep talking, he told himself dully. It’s all you can do. Talk and pray.

  He stonewalled. “Why do you want to know that? What have nightmares got to do with any of this?”

  The man shifted slightly in his chair, a movement that somehow implied more than simply physical discomfort. He said, slowly, “This is an unprecedented situation. It contains factors that make accurate prediction—difficult.” He fell silent, his face pensive.

  Again, hesitation. He snatched at this straw.

  “Are you saying you’re not sure you’ve got this right? That there’s a chance that killing me won’t prevent this thing you say I’m going to do from happening?”

  The man moistened his lips. “A degree of uncertainty’s involved. Whether or not it can be resolved—”

  “So you’re not sure? If you’re not, how can you justif
y doing it?”

  The deep-sunk eyes stared at him, broodingly. “If I don’t, the guarantee of what you’ll do remains.”

  He took a deep breath. “But you don’t know for sure that it’ll work, you’ve just admitted that. That means you could be committing murder totally unnecessarily! Do you really want to take that kind of—”

  He faltered to a halt, abruptly gripped by a fresh onrush of terror as he saw the change in the man’s expression and demeanour. It was as though a sudden draught of icy air had entered the room, dispersing the fog of doubt that he’d desperately been trying to nurture and simultaneously leaving the flicker of hope guttering perilously close to extinguishment.

  Oh, God, what had he done? He shuddered, feeling the cold envelop him like a freezing shroud.

  “That’ll be the culmination of what you’ll do, commit unnecessary murder.” There was no trace of hesitation on the leaden face now. The man’s eyes were coldly certain again, and unadulterated hatred was clear in his voice. “You’re destined to kill someone who’s done everything in their power to help you. If the uncertainty can be resolved, it won’t only mean that that person will survive, you’ll no longer be guilty of committing this outrage, I realise, of course, that this is no consolation; to you now, but it’ll also mean that you’ll be spared a bitter self-inflicted end.” A twisted grimace flickered briefly across his face. “By killing you now, I may even be saving your soul.”

  His soul? The existence of such an abstract thing was something that he’d never seriously considered, and even if it did exist it was of little concern to him at that moment. His life and the sensual pleasures that it offered were what he wanted, not to be meaninglessly despatched into some unknowable limbo where it might well transpire that redemption was a myth and the harsh reality was that all things ended.

  How long had it been since the commencement of this purgatory? There was a clock on the wall behind him, out positioned as he was there was no chance of his seeing it. Ten minutes, fifteen, more? He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, so it could have been considerably longer, surely long enough for help to have arrived by now.