Secrets - Confrontation (1)

The sky's darkening, urging me to turn back.  

The contact's not answering his phone.  

He and I have an agreement: I must stay out of sight and not approach his home.

But I've driven all this way.

Now what?  

Go home, I hear you whisper.


***
Good idea.    

I resume my journey.

Long shot, but I'm prepared to take a chance.

It started in one place. And I believe it will end in that same place.

Whaley Hill, in particular the reservoir at the top.



***
I turn into the street where Macarthur used to live and follow the row of council houses to the entrance at the bottom of Whaley Hill, bringing my car to a halt in the clearing. The clearing hasn't changed, although the atmosphere's gone and I can't really imagine anyone wanting to play there like we used to. The same wooded area and playing fields, the cluster of abandoned cotton mills and acres of waste grassland – and I really hate being back. Someone's parked a white van by the trees, the same van I saw two evenings ago outside my flat in London.

I step out into the early wintry chill. 'Hello?'  

Silence, apart from the wind and rain.

'Hello?' I say, louder.

No answer.

A mist has settled. Going back for a torch, I take the pathway up the hill, like we did that other day, although it was hot and sunny then and there was no mud. Now, mud chomps with each footstep as I make my way to the place where I guess he'll be waiting: the reservoir at the top. I pass the row of trees where we hid that other time. The tyre swing has gone.

The gust gets stronger, sweeping through the trees and shaking the bushes ahead. When I reach the bench near the reservoir, I shine the torch around. 'Anyone there?'
            
A carpet of soaked leaves. Dead twigs. Beyond lies the water, eerily still under the glow of the torch.  

'I'm here to talk. Where are you?'

No answer.    
            
'Hey, I know it's you, Macarthur.' My size and physique make me confident. I play rugby and soccer, have done since I was a boy, as you know. And at six foot two, I'm sure I can handle him.
            
'I'm seriously upset about the notes you've been sending.'
            
Silence.
            
Once before I ran from here. You and I were ten then.  I will not run again.  
            
My hands and feet are getting cold. I continue calling for him, telling him he needs to come out so that he and I can discuss the threats, but the silence persists. I get angry and tell him that only cowards make threats and hide. That if he's got something to say, he must say it to me. I suppose you would gape at my choice of words, or stifle a nervous giggle, perhaps.
            
More silence. I'm beginning to find the whole thing unnerving. Trouble I can deal with, but not mind games. I wish you were here to suggest something, but you're not. I glance at my watch. It's one o'clock in the afternoon.  
            
A branch snaps behind the No Swimming sign.  
            
'Who's there?' I say.
            
Crunching footsteps in the mud. A shape weaves its way through the trees and mist. Or, rather, two shapes. I tense and shine my torch back at them. One of the shapes lunges forward, barking.  
            
'Quiet, Sam,' a man says, yanking a snarling Alsatian's lead. 'Bad boy.' He nods at me. 'Nasty weather.'
            
'Yes, pretty lousy,' I say as the dog continues to growl.  
            
A fresh downpour has started. I make my way down the hill, stopping when I hear footsteps. Nothing. I continue on through the icy wind to the clearing where I've parked my car. The dog's barking gets louder in the distance. Nearby, more branches snap. Silence again. The white van is still parked a few yards from my car.  

I feel it then. An invisible presence, the same one I felt a few nights ago near my flat in London. I hear movement in the trees that separate the clearing from the deserted field and I shine the torch in all directions.

A figure slithers through the mud, towards me. I see the man's smile and my bravado slips away.

It's him. Vince Macarthur, your killer. One of the most hated men in the country.
            
'Hello, Alan,' he says.