The hunted, p.1
The Hunted, page 1
Also by P.R. Black
The Family
The Long Dark Road
The Runner
The Beach House
The Winter House
THE HUNTED
P.R. Black
An Aries book
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2022 by Head of Zeus Ltd, part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © P.R. Black, 2022
The moral right of P.R. Black to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (PB): 9781801105361
ISBN (E): 9781800249394
Cover design: Ben Prior
Head of Zeus Ltd
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Friday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Saturday
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Sunday
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
For Nan
FRIDAY
1
At some point after wiggling the last drops of petrol out of the nozzle into her tank, it occurred to Shell that she was free, and she should be happy about that.
She gazed at the jagged black mountains towering over the forecourt of the petrol station, and thought: It looks like they’re jostling each other to be the first to squash me.
She had forsaken her own well-beaten runabout car to take what her husband Ewan had called The Wagon, with a touch of pride, not to say possessiveness, and he had been uncharacteristically touchy about this. ‘Please bring her back in one piece,’ he’d said – not quite joking.
She knew he’d said this to provoke her a little, and to snap her out of it. Shell would have struggled to define ‘it’, but she knew it was there. Not quite remorse, not quite guilt, not quite apprehension. ‘It’s only three days, Shell,’ Ewan had said. ‘Three days with your besties. When was the last time it happened? Your hen party?’
‘I suppose.’ Shell sighed. ‘And they were arseholes then. Think they’ll still be arseholes?’
‘They’ll be the best arseholes a girl could ever wish for,’ he’d told her. ‘Have a nice time.’
‘Just nice?’
‘Have a great time. That’s underlined. Thick black marker. Have a great time.’
The guilt, remorse, apprehension wasn’t for Ewan, of course, but for their three musketeers, who seemed to haunt the empty space at the back of the four-wheel drive, their absence causing an ache. They had been bemused rather than upset, though Lewis had been a little bit weepy at the prospect of Mummy going to the island without him. Ewan had wound their youngest up a little, and had dropped a few references to the Loch Ness monster, who Scooby-Doo had been pitted against on one of the boys’ favourite videos. For all Scooby and the gang’s antics, red-eyed, full-throated Nessie had frightened the boy a little bit.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Shell had told Lewis, holding him close. ‘There’s no Nessie. Well, even if there is… he doesn’t swim in the sea.’
‘Are you going in the sea?’ Lewis had said, more curious than anxious, now.
‘I hope not, sweetie. They’ve got a nice ferry to take me across.’
After she pulled away, with her boys waving from the driveway, she felt that little tug. She’d been away before; she’d even gone for a spa day with Leah – and not a few cocktails before, during and afterwards – but the truth was that Shell had gotten out of the habit of going out, going to the pub, being sociable. Fifteen… even ten years ago, no one would have been more surprised about this development than Shell. She’d lived for it, from school days onwards. It had crystallised into harder drinking at university, away from her core school mates, the ones she was on her way to meet now… Their own little club, with its own little name.
‘The Owl Society,’ she said aloud, smiling.
But then she’d met Ewan, and everything had changed. All her own work, really. No one to blame but her. Shell had thrown herself into rearing her sons the same way she’d gone into anything else – one hundred per cent. All in. She’d changed. Hence the guilt, the remorse, the apprehension.
And yet, filling up The Wagon at a petrol station that had no right being in such a beautiful valley, with mountains, trees, moors and sky piled up in her line of sight, and the wind stirring the hair at her scalp, with a cold sun chipping away at the cloud cover above, she’d allowed herself that treacherous sense of freedom. ‘Storm’s passed the other direction,’ the woman behind the counter told her, nodding towards a departing mass of bruised skies above. ‘Looks like you’re in luck.’
‘I’ll take a lottery ticket as well,’ Shell had said, with a wink, and the woman had roared like it was the funniest thing she’d heard all day. It was possibly the only thing she’d heard all day, Shell mused, aside from the tinny sound of a museum-piece FM radio set over the woman’s shoulder. But the exchange had gladdened her.
Driving off through the valley, with the ferry terminal getting ever closer, Shell began to think of the girls, and what it might be like to catch up with them now that middle age was getting too close to be ignored – and too close to be hidden, either, she thought ruefully, noting the crinkles at the corners of her eyes in the rear-view mirror. Definitely not laugh lines, no matter what anyone said.
Leah, she could talk to, but then there was Toni and the doubtless social-media-ready life she led… and dear God, Debs. Always entertaining, Shell supposed – but then some people found car crashes entertaining. Mouse too, of course… Her heart leapt. Wee Mousie Mouse. She must remember not to call her that to her face. No one called her Mouse to her face any more… Or did they?
Shell sang along to the tunes, confident in the satnav’s solid yellow lines and arrows, pointing her along what was surely the best A-road in the world. Shell had even become nervous about driving during her child-rearing interregnum years – and what the hell was wrong with that? She reproached herself – sticking to the shopping and nursery/school runs, letting Ewan do the holiday and day-trip driving. She’d never been like that. Perhaps it was a part of her brain that had burned out; that had known to step aside and let someone else take the stress. She’d loved driving, had learned when she was seventeen. In fact, the girls had made full use of her services when they’d first started creeping into nightclubs and pubs that they really shouldn’t have. But Shell had been glad of it. Never a fan of taxis…
She suppressed an image of Debs throwing up in the back seat of her dad’s Volvo from long ago, and sang along to her Britpop playlist. Cast – her favourite. Pulp of course. Even Ocean Colour Scene, which had edged a little bit too much towards the Big Brother Rock end of the spectrum, along with Oasis… Britpop had been old when she was young, but it was the sound of wanting to be older, going to shows, dreaming of being in bands herself. As a motivational tactic, it worked; top of her voice, louder than the stereo, until she cranked it up, that is. The Wagon became a throbbing, thumping love bus, heaving up and down the A-roads. It was almost the wilderness, if you didn’t count the pylons…
Shell’s heart had swelled in the fifty minutes or so it took to reach the ferry terminal, where the valley became less craggy, and ancient houses began to creep in along the roadside.
She was soon parked in, had her ticket scanned, and parked The Wagon inside the belly of the boat. This is the part where her anxiety had threatened to return, and she’d feared struggling to squeeze The Wagon into a tight space, but there were plenty of spare bays. With a giddy feeling in her s
Am on the way, she texted to the group. And she shared a picture: the sea, with the islands in the background, picture-postcard perfect. Ahoy, me shipmates!
They had responded true to form. Leah first: Squee! See you soon xx; then Toni, with a picture of a toytown plane with twin propeller engines: See your boats and raise you, hon; (‘Tart,’ Shell muttered, not ungraciously); Debs with a picture of a gin and tonic, no text; and from Mouse, an emoji that could have been a smiling cat.
Once the boat started and the land moved away, Shell remembered something she’d seen or read; something about casting silver into the water, for luck. She did have some change in her pocket, a relic from the last time she’d gone to the vending machine at the gym; she hurled it into the air, after checking there was no one to see her silly act of abandon. She did not see the coins strike the water, the moment of impact swallowed in the white wash of the wake.
Looking forward to it now, she thought. Then she thought of Debs’ gin and tonic; remembered there was a bar on board; then, with a sigh, remembered Ewan wasn’t here, so Ewan wasn’t driving. Meaning she was. Oh well. Soon enough, she thought.
The crossing to the island took a little longer than Shell anticipated. She had done a bit of sailing as a student, but even so, she was surprised by how long it took to get there given how soon the island had appeared on the horizon. It was as if the land mass was effecting a slow retreat, but losing ground to a faster pursuer. She was in the car and ready to go when the ferry docked at a simple concrete protrusion reaching off a rocky shelf and into the sea. An immense mountain hid the rest of the island, but the road round about was flat, and easy to navigate. Shell was grateful to be disgorged into the light, and even more grateful to remember, at the last moment, that she should be turning right, not left, to get onto the road to Owl Tree Halt.
The dark clouds had returned, and even The Wagon, in all its fat-arsed bulk, rocked a little in a sudden high wind. The mountainside was denuded of trees on this part of the island, and the grass and mosses turned a sickly green in the spotlights of the late afternoon sun. There was something thrilling about the tiger-stripe effect of the light, followed by the dark fingers stealing across the face of the hill, then the light, again. Nearly summertime, she thought; nearly time for the better days.
The satnav told Shell she was less than three miles from Owl Tree Halt when she saw the hitch-hiker.
It was clearly a woman, which made Shell think. She hadn’t seen any hitch-hikers since she was a child, and she had also seen many movies and read many books, and so upon approaching the dark figure by the side of the road, she had thought to treat it as she would a charity worker with a clipboard on the high street. Then she saw the frantic movements of the hands, a second before she glimpsed a small hatchback car in a lay-by, with its hazards still on.
The woman’s face was stricken, as Shell passed. Help, the woman had mouthed, as The Wagon rolled past. Then once more: Help.
Shell didn’t hesitate. Checking there was no one about to roll into her from behind, she brought The Wagon to a stop, turned in the road in a single tight arc, went past the hitch-hiker, then turned again to stop right beside her.
A woman of about Shell’s age, covered from the neck down in livid purple waterproofs, bent down to speak as she lowered the passenger-side window. Underneath a beanie hat, her thick black eyebrows bullied a somewhat blunt, though still cute face. Shell experienced a strange moment of recognition, then quickly dismissed it when the woman spoke in an American accent.
‘Hey, thanks for stopping! I was beginning to worry no one was going to stop. I’ve had a bit of trouble with my ride, over there.’
‘Has it broken down?’
‘Yeah,’ the woman said, vaguely, gazing up and down the road. ‘Yeah, something wrong with it, honey.’
‘You’re welcome to use my phone, if you like,’ Shell said.
‘You know, I already spoke to the breakdown company and they were like, “Uh, we can’t get anyone out there for hours,” and I’m like, “Dude, is it even going to be worth me sticking it out here? I’ve got somewhere to be, you know?”’ The hitch-hiker was a little bit too loud, but Shell still felt concern for her. There was a naivety to her, even though she was long out of her twenties. She was thick-set, with quite broad shoulders underneath the waterproof jacket, though it was difficult to discern her exact body shape.
‘I can give you a lift somewhere, if you like,’ Shell offered, instinctively. ‘Where are you headed? There’s the village about four miles around the coast, there – should be a place to stay. Or if you’re going somewhere reasonably close…’
‘Know what, I was headed out to some lodges, at the far end of the island. The uninhabited dark heart. In the forest, you know?’ The girl’s eyes bulged a little upon the word forest – the way you might say it to a child, if you were recounting a fairy story. ‘They’ve got a weird name – Owl Tree Halt? Think it’s an old military barracks, but they converted it into luxury cabins and what have you. I’m meeting a few friends up there. I don’t think they’ve arrived yet – they’re in transit. Seaplane from Glasgow, would you believe?’
‘You’re in luck!’ Shell said. ‘I’m heading to Owl Tree Halt, myself. Meeting some old schoolfriends there. Class reunion, you could call it.’
‘No way!’ The American girl beamed.
‘Yeah. In fact, at least one of them’s coming in by plane – your friends could be on the same flight!’
‘You’re kidding! That’s awesome!’
Shell touched the control that unlocked the door. ‘Get yourself in. Is your car secure over there?’
‘Oh, it’s totally fine,’ the American girl said. ‘I can turn off the hazards with the key, in fact… There we go. It’s all locked up… Besides, I think you’d be hard-pressed to find any car thieves out here. I don’t think anyone actually lives here, you know? Away from the harbour and the front? It’s way too quiet.’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised at the lengths people will go for some peace and quiet. There’s a few houses and here and there, private houses, that is, not just holiday lets. It’s not for me, though. I’m not sure I’d want to live here. There’s quiet, and then there’s too quiet, you know?’
The girl nodded at this, then said: ‘I’ll just go grab my bag. Then I’ll be back. Thanks so much for doing this, you’re a real sweetie.’
‘No problem,’ Shell said. Then, watching the woman scuttle towards her car, clamping her beanie hat tight against her head for fear of the wind running away with it, Shell felt a sudden… what? It was as indefinable as her feelings of separation from Ewan and the boys. Dread? Regret? Apprehension? She seemed harmless enough. But you wouldn’t have done this anywhere else, Shell, she thought to herself. Wouldn’t have given it a second thought. You’d have driven on and forgotten about it in seconds. Getting soft, perhaps?
The stricken hatchback car’s hazards gave a final, stately all-out orange glare from the four corners, then were stilled. The American girl ran back towards The Wagon, with the loose straps of a backpack flailing at her back in the wind.
The Wagon’s door was torn open in a gust of wind as the American girl opened it, surprising them both. ‘Whoo! Almost turned into Mary Poppins, there. That breeze came out of nowhere. This place is wild!’ She nimbly eased herself into the seat, placed the backpack at her feet, then clicked her seatbelt. ‘Anyway, pleased to meet ya, my knight in shining armour. I’m Michelle.’
Shell took the girl’s hand, grinning. ‘Me too! Though everyone calls me Shell.’
‘Shell! You know, I like it. I think I used to know a Shell, from way back… Anyway, thanks for helping me out there.’
‘Not a problem. I’ll take you all the way in. You want to put the backpack in the back seat, at least?’
‘Oh no, it’ll be fine at my feet.’
As she pulled back out into the A-road Shell said – just for something to say – ‘You travelling light?’
‘I’ve got all I need right here. Girl Scout – I know how to pack a bag, that’s for sure!’ Michelle took off her hat. For some reason, Shell had been primed to think long dark hair was going to flow out once the hat was off, but to her surprise she saw close-cropped short blonde hair, evidently dyed. It was a striking contrast with the dark, heavy eyebrows, but suited the pixie-type pointy chin and elfin nose.
