The Sacrifice Read online

  “You’re unbelievable.” Eliza started towards the door.

  “And you’re a tease.” Bob snatched the half-eaten strawberry from her hand.

  The self-professed Adonis of a man stood before her, dick in one hand, half-eaten strawberry in the other. Eliza bit her lip and killed the smile trying to blossom. “Goodnight, Bob.”

  The corridor outside was empty, and Eliza thanked God for small mercies. She fumbled for the back of her bra through her uniform. Bugger, she couldn’t re-fix the clasp. Bloody Bob. She crossed the corridor and entered Jason Devlin’s room, the last patient on her rounds. Drawn curtains blocked any moonlight, and other than the small television set that glowed in the corner, the room was dark.

  Eliza switched off the set.

  The bed squeaked as the patient stirred, and a bedside lamp illuminated the room.

  “Sorry, Jason. Did I wake you?”

  Jason, his elevated leg in plaster, struggled to sit up. “I was awake.”

  “Here, let me help you.”

  The bruised face he’d arrived with ten days earlier had lightened to a yellowish-green, and the swelling around his jaw had almost disappeared. “You’re an angel. What would I do without you?”

  Eliza blushed. If only he’d seen me minutes earlier.

  “I can’t wait to get into my own bed and have a decent night’s sleep.”

  “Well, you’ll be out of here tomorrow.” She poured him a glass of water. “Be a while before you’re on your bike again, though.”

  “Be a while before I have a bike to ride again. I hear it’s a crumpled mess.”

  Eliza smiled sympathetically, and plumped his cushion until he looked a little more comfortable. “Is there anything else I can get you before I leave for the night?”

  “You could turn the television back on.”

  Eliza closed the door behind her at the same time Bob exited the storeroom. He tucked his shirt into his trousers, threw her a look that would turn a person to stone, and marched towards her.

  “Here. Seeing as I bought these for you, you may as well have them.” He took her hand and plonked the punnet of strawberries on it. The plastic edge sliced the side of her palm and tiny blood dots pricked into view. If Bob noticed, he didn’t show an ounce of concern. “Enjoy.”

  Eliza wiped the blood away and watched Bob swagger off along the corridor. Now she was glad she’d neglected to tell him his zipper was still undone.

  Outside, the night had cooled significantly from the surprisingly warm October day. Eliza pulled the collar of her coat tight around her neck, wishing her car hadn’t chosen this day to break down, and headed out towards the street. A night bus passed and she yelled for the driver’s attention. The bus didn’t stop, and two teenage youths mooned her from the upper back window.

  Then, rain began to fall.

  Searching her bag proved fruitless for an umbrella, and Eliza turned back towards the hospital. The thought of going back in there evaporated when she clocked Bob through the main doors in hot pursuit of the pretty receptionist. As much as Eliza detested the rain, being wet was a small price to pay to retain what little dignity she had left. Happy birthday to me. She turned up the collar on her coat and began the long walk towards the taxi rank.

  Looe Station was small, like its village, and at this time of year the derelict platform was only manned for a few hours a day. Hardly any trains stopped and hardly anyone used it, with the business entrepreneurs preferring to drive to nearby towns. Outside the station, on top of the bridge, a tiny wooden hut served as the village’s main taxi rank. Eliza walked up and pushed on the door. No light escaped past the mesh-covered window, and when she glanced down and spotted a padlock securing the door, it confirmed her worst fear.

  “Damn it.” She reached for her phone, her fingers hovering over the buttons. She had no idea what the nearest cab number was.

  A blanket of darkness swept across her. She stared up at the sky, catching a brief glance of the moon before the clouds regrouped and blocked it again. Not the usual silvery white moon one would expect to see, and not the copper red of a lunar eclipse. This moon was dark, with a halo of green light glowing around it. Eliza had never seen the moon look like this before, and its haunting appearance unnerved her.

  A train sped beneath the bridge and pulled her from her thoughts. It continued through the station before disappearing into a tunnel of trees and leaving a whirlwind of fallen leaves and foliage to settle on the track. Eliza glanced once more at the sky, but the moon had completely disappeared behind the clouds. She wanted nothing more than the comfort of her own home, a hot bath, and a bottle of wine. Catching a train suddenly seemed her only logical option. She made her way back across the bridge, where a rusty handrail aided her down some iron steps to the station, and headed for the pebble-dashed shelter at the far end of the platform. Screwed to its wall was an information board. If nothing else, she could check the timetable and at least stay dry while she waited for the next train.

  One surviving Victorian streetlamp flickered midway along the platform, the glow just touching upon the information board. Rain streaked down the scratched Perspex, and no matter how hard Eliza tried, the jumble of departure times was impossible to decipher. The lack of information meant she could be waiting hours for a train – maybe even until morning. She lowered her head in defeat.

  She had no choice but to return to the hospital.

  Beyond the streetlamp, in the shadows, a tall figure stood in the shadows – a man, Eliza instantly presumed. She paused, unsure for a moment whether she should feel threatened at her obvious vulnerability, or indeed safer at the prospect of having another person nearby to help her. Seconds ticked by. The figure didn’t move, nor did it offer conversation. Instead, it remained still, and watched her. The hairs on the back of Eliza’s neck pricked to life, and she pushed her wet, auburn hair from her face in the hope her body language would convey some kind of confidence. It certainly didn’t instill any inner strength. Her heartbeat accelerated, and she found herself backing away.

  The figure stepped forward and followed her. Slowly at first, its feet not walking but floating inches above the ground. An ice-cold breeze, the kind only felt on the wintriest of days, surrounded Eliza, and when she exhaled, her breath frosted the air.

  Then the figure surged towards her.

  The nearer it got, the blurrier its shape became, until it resembled no more than a dark cloud. A Shadow, which engulfed Eliza like a tidal wave would a ship. Finger-like claws grabbed her hand, and chilblains immediately pained her fingertips. Eliza parted her lips to scream but the Shadow invaded her mouth, darting to the back of her throat and down into her stomach. Now inside her, it slammed her back against the shelter. In an instant, Eliza’s battle against the attack turned to one against suffocation. She kicked and fought the force that smothered her, but its fingers dug deeper against her arms, pinning her harder against the wall. Eliza’s chest burned and her lungs felt ready to explode. Realisation dawned. This thing wasn’t letting go until it had sucked the last pocket of air from her dying body. Again, she tried to punch free but her weakened arms were no longer a threat.

  Through the Shadow’s haze, the streetlight had become no more than a small, orange dot in front of her. Convulsions shook her body but the orange light called to her. Was this Heaven trying to guide her from this pain? No. I am not ready to go. In the distance she heard the bulb shatter, and the orange dot vanished completely from sight.

  Tiny shards of glass rained down upon her, and as quickly as it had attacked, the Shadow retreated from her throat and evaporated from sight. Eliza slumped to her knees, her legs unable to hold her up unaided. Tears streamed the sides of her face, and spluttered coughs choked her with every shot of night air she desperately sucked in.

  Beside the broken streetlamp, she saw a shape running down the station steps. For a second she froze.

  The shape came closer and Eliza scrambled to her fe
et. “Somebody help me!”

  The shape drew closer, its humanlike qualities mimicking that from before. Eliza’s soul filled with dread. But even with the lack of light and the torrential rain beating down upon her, she started to notice the differences. The first shadowy shape had floated. When this Shadow moved towards her, she heard footsteps echo on the wet platform.

  Eliza retreated further and the human shape slowed, each step now gradual, until a man stood only feet from her. He paused, the rim of his baseball cap shadowing his face and leaving only a stubbled chin visible. Without uttering a word, he reached for her hand. The swift movement caught Eliza off guard. She tried to pull free, but the man held tight.

  “Goddamn. You’re one of them, aren’t you?” the man said.

  His question confused Eliza, and she could only gaze at him.

  “Can’t you speak?”

  But Eliza had no words. Her mind raced over the events of the last ten minutes in an attempt to decipher what was happening to her now. A slight movement caught her attention and she turned from him. Ice-cold air returned around her and the man released her hand, his face not revealing even the smallest glimmer of surprise. Several Shadows crept forward from the darkened corners of the platform, stretching out across the floor to touch and caress each other until their edges morphed into one, taking on an almost human look.

  “Go. Now,” the man said, pushing Eliza towards the stairs.

  Eliza ran, but the Shadow blocked her path. Its spindly fingers grabbed her waist and spun her until the tips of her shoes wavered on the edge of the platform.

  Then, the grip let go.

  The man lunged towards her, his arms outstretched, but Eliza tumbled off the platform edge. Her skull whacked the train tracks and a sickening crack, like that of a whip, reverberated inside her head. A gurgled cry left her throat. Acute pain burned behind her eyes, and with shaking fingers she fumbled through her blood-soaked hair and tried to reach the source of her injury. When she found the swelling lump, she retched.

  A cold grip entwined her waist and flipped her onto her front. Eliza’s face hit the dirt, and the Shadow swept down her legs and tightened around her ankles. Before Eliza could kick free, the Shadow dragged her backwards along the tracks. Eliza screamed for help, clawing at the loose gravel, the shingle fracturing and splintering her short but manicured fingernails. The man jumped onto the tracks, his rust-coloured Timberlands landing on the railway line some metres away, and charged her way. He leapt over her and the grasp around her ankles loosened, leaving Eliza lying motionless, listening to her own erratic breathing. She lifted her head. Matted hair fell across her eyes. She tried to move, but collapsed again. Darkness blurred her vision, and only the whine of the approaching train told her she was still alive...for now.

  Water splashed Eliza’s face.

  She partially opened her eyes, blinking away further onslaught from the rain, and looked at the man staring down at her. “Am I dead?”

  For a moment, he didn’t answer. He wiped some of the water droplets from her cheek and gazed at her, his blue eyes radiating concern. Then, his face hardened. “Why? Do you want to be?”

  Did she want to be? Did his response mean that she was? “Where am I?”

  She tried to sit up, but pain exploded behind her eyes. The man pressed her back against the ground, that look of concern returning. He reached for her face, and again Eliza felt his warm fingers brush her cheek. Like magic, she felt a calm sweep over her. Where am I? The hospital cupboard? No, she’d left the hospital. Where did I go? She couldn’t remember. “The train—”

  “The train’s been and gone,” the man said, his fingers lingering against her skin.

  “Did it hit me?” Eliza tried again to sit up, but the man held her still.

  “Relax. You’re not on the tracks, you’re on the platform.” He seemed to realise he still touched her face, and cleared his throat. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

  One of who?

  “Jesus Christ. I thought you were a myth.” The man leaned back. He seemed unsure what to do next. “As long as they can smell your blood, they will come for you again.”

  They? They who? What was he talking about? That Shadow thing?

  Eliza sat upright, her eyes searching every inch of the platform.

  “It’s gone.” Again, the man lowered her back to the floor. “Do you know what you are?”

  What is he talking about? “N..Nurse?”

  The man sat back, pulled a cigarette from inside his jacket pocket, and lit it. The match flicked from his hand and landed somewhere in the darkness.

  Eliza tried to focus on him, but he’d become a blur. “Who are you?”

  He stared at her, seemingly apprehensive to answer. Finally, he puffed on his cigarette and said, “Roman.”

  Dizziness took hold. Blurred shapes swarmed inside Eliza’s head. Only the orange glow of the cigarette stood out like a beacon in the darkness. Somewhere in the distance she heard voices. Maybe male, she couldn’t be certain. Eliza closed her eyes. Good, more help was on the way.

  “Fuck.” A hand clasped the side of her face and then Roman’s voice was in her ear. “You’re okay for now. But when daylight fades and it gets dark again, they’ll be back. Stay in the light.”

  Without uttering another word, Roman stood. “And get your head stitched up. They know the scent of your blood now.” Seconds passed, and then he turned and headed towards the train tracks. He’s leaving me?

  Up on the bridge, panicked echoes of conversation floated down as the two males hurried by. Eliza lifted her head. Tried to call out for help, but the words stuck in her throat. Pain reignited behind her eyes and she collapsed back on the platform.

  She lay there, cold and alone, not knowing what to do.

  Billy.

  She fumbled inside her coat pocket, felt the smoothness of her phone, and for the first time in a long while, wished she didn’t have a touch screen. Pulling it out, the bright screen blinded her. She squinted, touched what she thought was the green receiver icon, and prayed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THURSDAY

  Roman Holbrook needed to take a piss.

  He stirred and jolted upright. His head protested against the sudden movement, and immediately he massaged his temples until the pounding subsided and he was able to think more clearly.

  Moonlight filtered through the open curtains, bringing a blue haze to an otherwise sparse and dismal bedroom. Only four items of furniture lived in this room: a small, paint-chipped side table covered in woodworm, which was probably the reason the previous tenants had left it behind; a single bed, complete with stained and sagging mattress; and a television – not a modern flat-screen, but a 1970s box with a metal coat hanger jammed into its top. It balanced on a broken stool, which wobbled whenever there was nearby movement. Apart from the TV, the room wasn’t dissimilar to the one he’d shared with Jane many years before.

  He closed his eyes at the mere thought of her. She hadn’t visited his memories in such a long time, but here she was, her skin pale and smooth, her lips longing for his touch. He savoured her image, happy to lie with her until the day death came for him – as he’d wished it to so many times in the past. But slowly Jane drifted away from him, leaving nothing but a foul taste in his mouth, and an overwhelming guilt that would no doubt consume him for the rest of the day.

  The phone rang and Roman, hungover as he was, reflexively answered it before the second ring. He tried to swallow, but his tongue scraped across his dry palate.

  The old man spoke, his voice cold and controlled. “Where were you last night?”

  “Out getting pissed.”

  “Would the drinking establishment happen to be in the vicinity of the train station?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “When you left, did you happen to follow two of my men to the station?”

  “You have a hard-on for the trains first thing in
the morning, don’t ya?”

  The old man chuckled. “Knocking them unconscious was a little excessive.”

  “Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Roman yawned. “Is that the Q and A session done with?”

  “Don’t push me, Mr. Holbrook. My patience is wearing thin as it is. Now, when do you leave for Paris?”

  “Later today. Why? You gonna miss me?”

  The line went dead, leaving Roman listening to nothing but a dial tone and the feeling he was still one step behind whatever the old git was planning. That old fuck-head. Roman replaced the receiver and lay back against the pillow. Thought about the girl’s bag he’d found on the train tracks. The bag that now lay on his kitchen table.

  Christ, he felt like shit.

  A soft voice groaned beside him, but he didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. She’d be blonde, married or engaged to be and, with a little persuading, up for anything. She slid her arm across his chest, a small diamond ring on her wedding finger from a man obviously too tight to buy her anything decent. No wonder these girls were so easy to pick up. On the bedside table sat a Smirnoff bottle, still open, and almost empty. He shook his head in disbelief, remembered the first drink and, at a push, vaguely remembered the second. The amount of nights he’d gone to bed drunk, he’d have thought he’d be immune to bloody hangovers by now. He rubbed crusty flakes of sleep from his eyes and yawned again. His bladder felt ready to explode.

  His overnight visitor nuzzled in closer to him. Shit. He really needed to send these one nighters home in a cab before he passed out.

  Beside the bottle sat the clock. Five-twenty a.m. Fuck sake, no wonder he couldn’t wake up. He’d only just gone to bed. But he couldn’t, nor did he want to, go back to sleep with this girl beside him. She’d wake in the morning and expect breakfast, then push for conversation and finally finish with the grand finale of more sex. Whereas he was never hungry in the morning, definitely wouldn’t want to shag her while sober, and as for talking? He did very little of that on a good day.