Ravens Gathering (25 page)

A scream tore its way into Martin’s consciousness.  The
deep sleep he’d been in vanished, his eyes flicking open immediately. 
Later, he would realise that his instantaneous reaction was no more or less
than he had become used to over the years.  So many nights had been
interrupted by his dreams.

Without thinking, he was on his feet and into the
corridor.  As he entered the kitchen, he caught a flash of movement in the
main hallway.  Even as he registered that, he heard heavy boots running
across the wooden floor.  Instinctively, he knew it was Ian.  Just as
he knew it was Tanya he could hear screaming.

Ian had twenty years on Martin, so reached the bedroom door
only moments ahead of him.  He was opening it as Martin hit the landing,
and had come to an abrupt halt when he caught up.

The scene that greeted them was surreal.

The door was set very close to a corner of the room.  A
large picture window ran across the opposite wall, and beneath it were two
chests of drawers.  An armchair was angled into the corner, a towel draped
over it.

To Martin’s left was the king-sized bed, and beyond that
fitted wardrobes flanked a dressing table and large mirror.  The top of
the dressing table was mainly clear, though bottles of perfume and a set of
brushes stood at the back of it.  A padded stool was tucked under the dressing
table.  The furniture filled most of the wall, but at the far right was
the open doorway to the en-suite.

Tanya was standing at the foot of the bed.  She was
completely naked, and apparently oblivious of the fact, which seemed even more
strange bearing in mind that the curtains were wide open.  Under ordinary
circumstances, her privacy might not have been an issue, considering how far
away from the rest of the village they were.  But there were still half a
dozen or more
squaddies
wandering around outside.

Her nudity wasn’t the surreal part.  The curtains had
clearly been drawn earlier.  Martin knew they had, because
he’d
drawn them.  But even if he hadn’t known, it would have been
obvious.  They looked as if someone had tried to tear them down. 
Curtain rings had been pulled loose from the rail – shiny glints on the duvet
were evidence of where at least two of them had landed – and at least half of
each curtain was now draped over the chests below them.  The drawers
themselves looked as if they had been pulled out by someone who’d been given
ten seconds to find something hidden inside them.  There were three
drawers in each chest.  Two of them were pulled about half way out. 
Another was teetering precariously, only around a centimetre of it still inside
the chest.  Two more had been hurled across the room, one landing on the
bed, the other shattered against the wall above the headboard.  The last
one was at an angle on the floor in front of the chest.  If Tanya had been
standing where she was now, it was clear that it must have struck her.

The alarm clock and two paperbacks had been launched from
the bedside table.  He’d noticed the books earlier.  One of them was
a Stephen King he hadn’t read.  So he knew they’d been next to the alarm
clock.  All three now lay scattered on the floor in front of the armchair.

Both men took this all in as they entered the room. 
Tanya looked at them desperately.  Her screams had stopped before they
started up the stairs, so they guessed all of this had happened at least twenty
seconds ago.  She made no effort to cover herself up.  Under other
circumstances either man could have read something into that, but it was clear
she was traumatised.

“What happened?” Ian asked, moving forward.

As he did, Martin continued to look around, searching for
clues as to what might have caused this damage.  He was also conscious
that he should look anywhere other than at Tanya.  He didn’t want to
embarrass her, or Ian – or himself, for that matter.

But even as Ian reached the end of the bed, the light fitting
in the room began to sway, casting shadows where previously there had been
none.  All eyes flicked up to it, and as they did the wardrobe doors burst
open.  The interior of both wardrobes was split into two halves.  The
top half stored the hanging clothes, the bottom held more drawers.  Each
wardrobe had two columns of drawers in them.  Shirts, jackets, trousers
and dresses swung outwards as if pulled by some invisible threads attached to
them.  It reminded Martin of Sean Connery hanging on for dear life as
Goldfinger
was sucked out of a plane.  The clothes
looked as if they were doing the same, the hangers gripping the rails inside
the wardrobe as if their very existence depended on it.

Not that either Martin or Ian had time to dwell on the
clothes.  The drawers from the wardrobe blasted out as if they’d been
fired from cannons.  Fortunately, the lower ones crashed into the side of
the bed, but the four from the top row cleared the mattress and hurtled towards
them.  Martin leapt backwards into the doorway, Ian lunged at Tanya,
pulling her down to the floor.  The drawers smashed into the wall. 
Two of them splintered, the others showed more resilience.  All of them
dropped to the floor, scattering socks, handkerchiefs and underwear across the
carpet.

“What the hell...?” Ian shouted angrily, but he was cut off
by the unmistakable sound of splintering glass.

Martin’s brain told him it must be the window, but his ears
told him it was coming from a different direction.  He leaned forward,
taking a peek into the room.  What he saw sent him cold.

“For God’s sake stay down!” he yelled at Ian.  “And
keep Tanya covered.”

The splintering became a loud crack as the mirror
shattered.  Martin ducked back on to the landing as lethal slices of glass
flew across the room.  From his vantage point, he could see Ian was lying
on top of his wife.  Fragments fell on him, a few on his back, more on his
legs.  Because of their position, they escaped the worst of it.  The
wall facing the mirror was hit by three chunks that were at least a foot
long.  One shattered on impact, the others hit it with such force they
embedded themselves in the wall.  The light from the swinging bulb
reflected off the pieces of mirror sending a myriad of shining light sparkling
across the walls and ceiling.

Watching the broken glass scattering across the room, seeing
coat hangers lose their fight and clothing flying out of the wardrobes, hearing
the screams from Tanya, and not knowing where the next barrage was going to
come from, Martin crouched in the door frame.  He’d hoped to God this
wouldn’t happen.  But he realised now there was no way of escaping it.

In 1979, Martin had flirted with a Spanish girl.  She
was a waitress in a bar he was working at.  The flirting wasn’t going
anywhere.  It never did.  He’d learnt that already.  Somehow the
chatting up came easily to him.  He could flash the smile, make them
laugh, get close to them.  But then everything would cool.  His
enthusiasm would suddenly dry up.  It was fear that did it.  Fear of
what, he wasn’t sure.  Maybe it was just a fear of being found out.

He decided on a couple of occasions to face his
demons.  Not that he knew what those demons were exactly.  But he
knew that facing them would involve putting himself on the line, and he guessed
that the line involved following through.  So when his interest in a girl
began to wane, he forced himself to do just that.  They got as far as her
bedroom before he vomited.  It wasn’t the most promising start to a
relationship, but she was surprisingly understanding about it.  Martin
wasn’t, though.  He hadn’t felt unwell before they got to her room, so he
knew there was nothing physically wrong with him.

The experience with the second girl was equally disastrous. 
He wasn’t ill, but he couldn’t perform for her.  She blamed the alcohol,
allowing him to save a little face.  He’d only had two beers all night.

From then on, he resigned himself to a life free of intimate
relationships.  He didn’t understand why he responded so badly, but he
decided it was better to accept it and move on than to spend his life agonising
over it.

So when he flirted with the Spanish waitress, he knew it
wasn’t going anywhere.  The problem was, she didn’t.  And more
importantly, nor did her boyfriend.

One night after work, the boyfriend confronted Martin in a
side street outside the bar.  He’d brought two friends with him.  It
was past two o’clock, and there were still a few party animals on the streets,
but most were preoccupied with finding their next drink or the nearest gutter
to throw up in. No one took any interest in the exchange between the lone
English barman and the three local boys.

Martin was twenty-three.  He’d learnt that intimate
relationships were something to walk away from, but he was still inexperienced
in many other aspects of life.  Because he kept to himself most of the
time, his communications skills were limited.  There are two sides to
communication: getting your message across and understanding the message being
put across to you.  Most people focus on the first and ignore the second
and Martin was no exception.  He didn’t want to listen to what the
boyfriend had to say.  And initially he ignored the threat posed by the
extra numbers.  He’d seen the three of them together in the past and
assumed they just happened to be out as a group.  When the warnings were
made verbally, he was already annoyed enough to kick back.  He knew he
could handle himself.  He’d already had two stints working the doors on
nightclubs.  He also thought they were just making a lot of noise. 
But he misjudged it.  Misjudged it to the tune of three nights in hospital
and four weeks off work.

His injuries weren’t life-threatening, and nor did they
leave him with any lasting damage, but they very easily could have done.

Like his experiences with girls, he’d learnt when to walk
away and when to keep his mouth shut.

Confronted by the Hawthorns and their two friends on the
main street of Ravens Gathering, his thoughts had flashed back to that experience
with the Spaniards.  Back then, he could have walked away.  He knew
immediately that he didn’t have the choice this time.  And it took him
only a moment or so to realise that fighting his way out of the situation
wasn’t a viable option either.  Even if he discounted the girl – and he
wasn’t a hundred percent sure he could do that – he was outnumbered, and he’d
already seen enough to know that at least two of them knew what they were
doing.  The pursuit of his family suddenly seemed less pressing.  So
he came quietly.

The ride in the Land Rover was short in distance and
communication.  Martin was wedged between the two men on the back
seat.  During the short walk to the car, he’d heard them called Mason and
Croft.  No first names were mentioned.

Mason was the bald one.  His bulk made the journey less
comfortable than it might otherwise have been, but Martin was aware that the
larger man was pressing himself up against the door as much as he could, so it
could have been a lot worse.  Croft sat on Martin’s left.  His
slightness meant there was no need for him to give up any space to
Martin.  Both men were silent as they left Ravens Gathering.

Nor did the Hawthorns have anything to say.  They sat up
front, the man driving, both of them apparently intent on the road ahead.

Martin didn’t see the opening.  When the Land Rover
suddenly turned off the road, he thought they were heading for a collision with
the trees that lined it.  His vocal reaction offered some light relief to
his fellow passengers.  As the headlights flashed across more trees and
lit up the track in front of them, both Mason and Croft laughed out loud. 
Under the circumstances, Martin should have felt as if he was being derided. 
Strangely, he didn’t.

A few moments later, they were pulling up outside the
farmhouse he had visited earlier in the day.  The driver looked over his
shoulder.

“Welcome back,” he said.  In the low lighting, Martin
couldn’t see his expression, but he thought there was warmth and humour in the
voice.

Ten minutes earlier, he had been looking to take
flight.  Now he was curious to find out what they wanted with him.

They entered the house through the kitchen.  The driver
led the way, his sister following him.  Mason gestured for Martin to fall
in behind her as he and Croft took up the rear.  While Martin may have
felt curious, they were clearly still not taking any chances with him.

From the kitchen they crossed a narrow hallway.  It was
fair to say that the Hawthorns’ living accommodation wasn’t as comfortable as
that of the
McLeans
.   He noticed that the
simple wooden door they passed through didn’t have a doorknob.  Instead
there was a latch.  He hadn’t seen one of those inside a house since he
was a child.  On the other side of the door was a living room. 
Unsurprisingly, it was snug, especially with six people in it.

The sixth person was a woman Martin hadn’t seen
before.  She was medium height, her light brown hair hung to her
shoulders, framing her slightly rounded face.  By the time Martin was in
the room, she was next to Hawthorn, her hand resting on his forearm.  It
was an endearing gesture that offered reassurance.

As he was jostled gently by the two men entering the room
behind him, he looked closely at Hawthorn.  What did
he
need
reassurance for?  There were five of them against Martin.  What
danger could
he
pose to them?  Hawthorn wasn’t giving anything
away.

Mason touched Martin’s arm from behind and used it to guide
him to a chair.

There were several chairs in the room.  Two armchairs
and a two-seater sofa had been pushed back against the walls.  He could
tell that, because the imprints on the carpet showed where they normally
stood.  No doubt they’d been moved because of the extra chairs that had
been squeezed in.  He recognised them from this morning when he’d looked
in the kitchen.  All of the furniture looked as if it had seen better
days.  The seating arrangement was a loose circle, with the chairs pressed
close to the walls, and a very small gap in the middle.  Mason was
directing Martin to one of the armchairs.

To be seated was to be vulnerable, but Martin didn’t see
that he had any choice.  At the same time, his concern about having
physical violence visited upon him had severely diminished.  So he took
his seat.

Hawthorn nodded.  “Thank you.  I hope you’ll
forgive us for the way we’ve gone about bringing you here.”

Before Martin had time to consider how to respond to this,
the others began to take their seats.  As they did, Hawthorn introduced
them.

“John Mason is the one who has spent the last few minutes
literally as your right hand man.”  Martin almost smiled as the bald man
sat down in the other armchair.  It looked as if he was taking the role of
right-hand man to heart.  “Your other guardian is Ed Croft.”  The use
of the word guardian jarred, but Martin didn’t have time to consider it as the
dark haired man sat almost directly opposite him in one of the kitchen
chairs.  “My sister Claire.”

For most of the time since they’d picked him up, he had seen
little more of Claire than her back.  As she sat down in the other kitchen
chair, he was able to appreciate her at close quarters for the first
time.  His earlier impressions were confirmed.  Usually when he saw
an attractive woman, he would be relaxed, chatting comfortably with them and
before long the flirting would start.  Here, he experienced something
remarkable.  Apprehension.

On his left was a wall, and against that was the sofa. 
The other woman sat at the far end.  “This is my wife, Jennifer.” 
Then Hawthorn sat next to her, less than two feet away from Martin.  He
looked directly into Martin’s eyes.  “And I’m Adam Hawthorn.”

“How do you do,” Martin said drily.  “Now, would you
like to tell me what I’m doing here?”

Adam didn’t pause.  He continued to look at Martin as
he spoke.

“A lot of strange things have happened in the village over
the last couple of days, Martin.  And we know you’re linked to them.”