Текст книги "Eye Contact"

Автор книги: Fergus McNeill

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

11

Thursday, 7 June

Harland was humming to himself as he turned off the roundabout and drove out of Portishead. He accelerated down the long straight road that led towards the motorway, enjoying the feel of the car. Over the trees, the towering red cranes at Portbury loomed up against a steel grey sky, dwarfing the thin stains of smoke that rose from the buildings at their feet.

The investigation would take on a different shape now. Someone from the Major Crime team would be over to see him tomorrow, and there’d be a whole new set of protocols and time-wasting. But he was still looking forward to it.

He allowed the car to coast up onto the flyover, overtaking a slow-moving lorry before turning onto the Bristol road and powering up the hill.

Blake’s face had been ashen when he’d told him. Finding a definite connection to another unsolved murder raised the stakes uncomfortably high. Neither of them had mentioned the words – serial killer – but the thought had been there, unspoken between them. Nobody wanted that sort of thing creeping onto his patch. But Harland felt the cold eagerness in his stomach, the guilt-laden thrill that he disliked so much. He needed this.

There was very little traffic this evening. He was making good time, and had to remind himself to slow down for the speed camera in Leigh Woods, changing down a gear and letting the car leap forward as soon as the wretched thing was behind him.

He would have to speak with Thames Valley CID, maybe go to Oxford, compare notes with the officers who’d worked the Erskine case . . . and then what? How far might this trail lead?

He flung the car through the steep bends on the hill down into Bristol, making the most of the road being so quiet.

Two bodies, almost a hundred miles apart. Two bodies that they knew of so far. No wonder Blake looked worried – this wasn’t petty politics any more, this was something serious.

His mood lasted until he hit the outskirts, but he began to feel the familiar gloom descending as he drew closer to home. The traffic slowed as he emerged from the underpass, gently imprisoning him again in the unhappy rhythm of the city. Driving up Coronation Road, he considered letting it carry him straight on along the river – he could go into town, maybe get something to eat – but it would only be postponing the inevitable. He had to go home sometime.

Sighing, he turned right into the warren of quiet residential streets and wound his way between the parked cars to Stackpool Road.

He pushed the front door shut and chained it behind him. Keys dropped in the bowl on the hall stand, jacket draped over the banister, then immediately through to the lounge to switch on the TV, driving the lurking silence away. He paused, willing his shoulders to relax, before wandering through to the kitchen.

It had been fish yesterday evening so tonight would be pasta – eating the same meal on consecutive nights made him feel uncomfortable about himself. He turned the oven on and slid in a piece of French bread to warm, then placed a pan of water on the stove. Even when his appetite deserted him, he made himself go through the ritual – cooking passed valuable time.

When it was ready, he sat at the kitchen table with his food, a book and a single glass of wine – he knew better than to risk more when he was in this sort of mood – reading until the light from the windows began to fail.

After the washing-up was done, he took what was left in his glass and stood in the back garden to smoke: Alice had never liked the smell of smoke in the house. It was dark now, and over the distant rumble of the city he could hear a girl laughing in the next street. Frowning, he went inside.

By eleven, it was becoming difficult to stay awake. Wearily he climbed the stairs and went to the bathroom, then walked along the landing, past the closed bedroom door and on into the spare room. He hung his jacket in the single wardrobe and dropped his clothes in the wicker basket, then gathered up the duvet and pillows and went downstairs.

The sofa bed opened out with a metallic creak and he arranged his bedding in the usual way before turning off the main lights. Settling down, he made himself comfortable, put the TV on timer and concentrated on the programme even though his eyelids were heavy. There was nothing on, just a documentary about architecture, but it didn’t matter. Anything, so long as his mind didn’t wander. This was how he survived, forcing himself to watch until, eventually, sleep claimed him and granted him peace.

part 2

SOUTH DOWNS

12

Wednesday, 13 June

It was difficult to see over the dashboard so he lay back into the seat, gazing up and out of the windscreen, watching sunlight flicker down through the trees. The motion of the car was comforting, with the steady rumble of the road beneath them as tall buildings slid gently by. And then they were slowing down, the tick tick of the indicator sounding as they pulled in to the side of the road.

They had stopped again. He looked up at his father sitting beside him, staring straight ahead with a blank expression. For a long moment they sat in dreadful silence, until a motorbike roared by, breaking the spell. With a deep breath, his father got out of the car and came round to open the passenger door.

It was a warm day and the pavement looked pale and dusty as they walked along. A cat was sitting in the sun, just a few steps into someone’s driveway, but his father hurried him on down the street – there was no time for stroking cats today. No time for anything.

They came to another telegraph pole – the same splintered grey wood as all the others. His father pulled out a piece of white paper, carefully covered in polythene, and began fixing it to the pole with drawing pins, his face an unfamiliar mask of fear as he smoothed down the clear film and pressed home the last pin.

Another one done. Large, uneven capital letters at the top of the sheet, telephone number along the bottom . . . and the dark, photocopied face in the middle.

He stared up at the face smiling out through the polythene in clean school uniform and smartly combed hair. It was the same photo that usually sat on the shelf above the fireplace at home. It was a photo of his big brother.

‘Come on.’

A large hand reached down to take his and led him back towards the car. The door was held open for him and he climbed in, settling back in the seat once more. A moment later, his father got in and wearily reached across him, grasping the seat belt and pulling it over. It felt tight, pinning him down into his seat. There was a click as the belt clip snapped into the slot, and he looked up. His father was staring at him, the expression slowly changing from worry to puzzlement . . .

‘Sir?’

Naysmith opened his eyes. Everything was suddenly very bright and very loud, and he became aware of a low rumble all around him. He blinked a couple of times and found himself looking up at a pretty blonde flight attendant in a smart red uniform.

‘We’ll be landing at Southampton in just a few minutes. I need you to put your seat back up for me, please.’

She had nice eyes.

‘Thanks for waking me,’ he smiled as he pressed the button to raise his seat. ‘I hate it when I sleep through my stop.’

She laughed and turned to walk back up the aisle. Naysmith watched her go, then rubbed his eyes and yawned. He checked his watch – 7.20 p.m. – before turning his attention to the window. A green patchwork of fields drifted up into view as the aircraft banked, occasional wisps of cloud whipping past the wing. Everything looked different from up here, bathed in the golden light of early evening. He leaned over, trying to identify the landscape that slid below them, searching for the coastline, motorways, rivers – anything he might recognise – straining at his seat belt to see better. It felt tight, pinning him down into his seat . . .

. . . and suddenly he remembered the dream, that familiar dream he’d not had for years. Was it all beginning again, those memories of another life encroaching on his sleep? He stared out at the tilting horizon and wondered what it meant.

A chime came over the public address system, followed by the captain’s voice saying, ‘Cabin crew, seats for landing please.’

Naysmith stretched and let himself sink back into the headrest. An omen, or simply a dream? Either way, there was nothing to do now but enjoy the ride.

He liked small airports. Everything was close together and the queues were short. Ten minutes after stepping off the plane and onto the tarmac, he was walking through the double doors into the main terminal concourse. Kim was waiting by the coffee bar, wearing a long charcoal jacket and jeans, her hair up. Her face broke into an excited smile when she spotted him and she ran over, greeting him with a long kiss.

‘Hey,’ he grinned after she let him go, ‘I’ve only been away three days.’

‘Well . . . I missed you.’ She gave a bashful smile, then brightened. ‘How was Amsterdam? How was your presentation?’

‘Bloody tiresome.’ He yawned. ‘The conference went well – picked up several new clients – but I had to sit through so many boring meetings. The Belgians were the worst – I took a couple of them out to dinner and it was the longest evening of my life. I almost pushed one of them into a canal, they were so dull.’

‘You poor thing.’ She slipped her tiny hand into his as they walked out of the building. ‘Sounds like you had no fun at all.’

‘I wish.’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear you behaved yourself.’

Two ambiguous statements. He slowed, searching her face and reading the glimmer of guilt that betrayed her meaning.

Other women.

‘Don’t start that again, Kim.’

She faltered, then looked down, long lashes hiding her eyes.

‘Sorry,’ she said quietly.

They crossed the road. Kim paid for the ticket and led him into the car park.

‘You’ve had a long day,’ she said as she opened the boot for his bag. ‘Can I drive us back?’

‘Only if you drive fast,’ he smiled, lifting his bag into the car. ‘I just want to get home, open a bottle of wine and curl up with you.’

‘I’ll drive fast,’ she promised.

He opened the passenger door and slid into the seat, yawning as he did so. Pulling the door closed, he reached up for the seat belt . . .

. . . and paused as his fingers touched it. His thoughts returned to the dream, to what it meant, to the game. Ideas began to form, a blur of exciting possibilities and challenges . . .

. . . but not tonight. For now it was still just a whisper, and he could push it away, force it to the back of his mind. Tonight he simply wanted to enjoy Kim.

He reached across and caressed her thigh as they pulled out of the car park and drove off into the evening.

Wrapped in a warm white bathrobe, Naysmith made his way slowly down the stairs. He yawned and pushed his hand through his hair as he walked through to the kitchen where the flagstone floor was cold and invigorating beneath his bare feet.

He switched on the kettle and took out a tin of fresh coffee, inhaling the dark aroma before scooping a few spoonfuls into the tall cafetière. Life was too short to drink instant coffee. Opening the bread bin, he took out a crusty loaf and cut four thick slices, dropping them into the toaster. Padding across to the fridge, he gathered up butter, marmalade and orange juice and placed them on the large wooden table. Then, yawning again, he picked up his phone and checked his email while he waited for the toast.

Kim wandered in, rubbing her eyes.

‘Morning, you.’ She tilted her head to one side, tangles of long brown hair spilling down over the shoulders of her baggy T-shirt. She wore a pair of white socks to protect her feet from the chill of the floor.

‘Hey, sleepyhead,’ Naysmith smiled. ‘Coffee’s on. Sit down. I’ll get it for you.’

‘Mmm, thanks.’ She shuffled over, gave him a drowsy hug and then sat at the table, propping up her head with her hands. ‘What time is your meeting?’

‘Ten,’ he replied. ‘There’s plenty of time.’

He plunged the filter down slowly and carefully through the coffee and poured two cups. Adding a splash of cream to hers, he placed it on the table, then moved behind her chair to massage her shoulders. She felt delicate and pliable in his hands, her skin pale and smooth to the touch.

‘Mmmm,’ Kim sighed, as she reached up and put her small hand on his forearm. ‘It’s nice to have you back.’

Naysmith smiled and turned back to the counter to put the toast on a plate.

‘Any news from Jemma?’ he asked as he sat down. ‘Did she make it over here in the end?’

‘Yes, she came round on Tuesday to keep me company. Actually, that reminds me: she invited us to have dinner with her tomorrow night. John will be there. I didn’t want to say anything until I’d checked with you . . .’

Naysmith poured a glass of orange juice for her, then one for himself.

‘That’s fine,’ he nodded. ‘Tomorrow’s quiet for me – just a few calls to make, and I can do that from here. Today’s the only proper meeting.’

Kim sipped her coffee.

‘What is it today?’ she asked.

‘Monthly operations meeting at Woking,’ he replied, without enthusiasm.

‘Are you driving or taking the train?’

‘Driving.’

She was quiet for a moment, studying him with those large hazel eyes.

‘I wish you weren’t,’ she said at last.

Naysmith glanced up at her.

‘You must be tired from Amsterdam,’ she continued. ‘I don’t want you having an accident or anything.’

He looked at her for a moment, surprised by the note of concern in her voice. It was oddly pleasing.

‘Nothing’s going to happen to me,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘I’m much too careful.’

He held her gaze for a long moment, then, smiling quietly to himself, continued his breakfast.

Kim ran her finger round the top of her glass.

‘Well, I still think it’s unfair that you have to go out today,’ she frowned.

‘That’s enough.’ The stern edge in his voice silenced her, and she looked down, biting her lip nervously. There was something about seeing her like this – suddenly timid and vulnerable – that quickened his pulse.

Naysmith swallowed the last of his coffee and stood up. Leaning over her, he kissed the top of her head, then gently lifted her chin so that she was looking up into his eyes.

‘We each do what we have to do,’ he smiled.

13

Thursday, 14 June

The heavy steel shutters shivered for a moment before crawling back up into the darkness. Naysmith eased the car under them and down the short ramp that led to the basement parking. As he pulled into his space, he noted the other cars lined up in the gloom beside him.

The rest of them were already here. Good. He disliked people being late.

He got out, smoothing down his shirt before retrieving his jacket from the hook in the back. Then, taking his bag from the front seat, he walked quickly across the low-ceilinged space beneath the office building. A magnetic fob on his key ring made a featureless grey door click open and he hurried up the stairwell.

‘Hello, Amy.’ He smiled as he breezed into the sunlit reception and dropped his bag onto the newspapers that covered the waiting-area table. ‘How’s your week been?’

‘Oh hi.’ She looked up from behind a curved wooden desk and returned the smile. ‘It’s been okay, thanks. You’re just back from Holland, aren’t you?’

‘Last night,’ he shrugged, ‘but you know I can’t keep away from this place.’

Amy laughed. She was a little quiet, but intelligent and very organised. Today she was wearing a smart cream blouse and had taken some trouble over her hair. Not particularly attractive but always well dressed, always professional – he admired that.

‘The others are already here?’ he asked, glancing up at the clocks behind her desk. There were three of them, each showing a different time, with ‘Woking’, ‘Hamburg’ or ‘Boston’ written below. Naysmith thought they were pretentious.

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘I think they’re in the boardroom.’

‘Okay.’ He picked up his bag. ‘I’m going to grab a coffee before I go in – would you like one?’

Her face lit up. Clearly it had been a while since anyone else had offered.

‘I’ve got one here,’ she smiled, pointing to a cup hidden behind her screen, ‘but thanks for asking.’

‘No problem,’ he grinned, opening the office door. ‘See you later.’

Coffee in hand, he pushed open the heavy door and walked into the boardroom. There was a polished oak table that ran the length of the room, with high-back chairs on three sides and a large video conference screen at the opposite end. As he walked in and took a coaster for his cup, the three people already seated greeted him. On the screen, a man wearing rimless spectacles waved and called, ‘Hey, Rob!’

‘Morgen, Andreas.’ Naysmith raised a hand in acknowledgement. ‘Are you running Hamburg on your own today? I don’t see Christof.’

‘No, but he will soon join us I think.’ Andreas smiled. ‘Everyone is there in England now?’

‘Yes, we’re all here.’ Naysmith took his seat and looked round the table. Fraser and Gina, the two directors, sat opposite him, while Alec, the permanently miserable project manager, was to his left.

Gina finished typing and closed her laptop. She was immaculately dressed as always, in a navy blue jacket, her dark hair in a smart bob.

‘I think we’ll get started.’ She smiled. ‘Rob, would you like to begin?’

Naysmith’s presentation went smoothly. He ran through the new opportunities from his visit to Amsterdam, then gave an update on existing clients and sales projections.

‘Looks like we’re going to hit our numbers for the quarter.’ Fraser nodded approvingly as he looked at the spreadsheet in front of him. He was a lean man in his early fifties, with short greying hair and a likeable manner. Naysmith got on well with him.

The morning ebbed away as the meeting dragged on. Andreas and Christof discussed business from the German office and then, after the arrival of a tray of sandwiches and cold drinks, Alec launched into a monotonous report on the status of the various projects that his team was working on.

Naysmith found his mind wandering. He began to think about his next game, anticipating the thrill of finding a new target. He yearned to be out of this room, out in the streets waiting for fate to present that next challenge. But it couldn’t be anywhere round here. Finding someone too close to his work or home would be foolish. He had to be patient.

Alec was still talking. The report he was giving sounded very much like the report he had given last month.

Naysmith wondered what sort of person his next target would be. He or she was out there now, the path of their life meandering blindly towards that instant when they would meet him and the game would begin. It fascinated him to think of them, being so unaware that they were on a countdown to such a significant moment.

He glanced at his watch and willed the meeting to end.

By three o’clock, he had escaped. Emerging into the strong sunlight from the underground car park, he at once felt invigorated and threaded his way out of the town centre before speeding north towards the motorway. Gina was always a difficult one to impress, but she’d been pleased by the numbers he’d presented today. She and Fraser would both give him a free hand now, which was ideal. Especially if he wanted to dedicate time to a new game.

Leaving Woking behind, he cut across country and soon joined the motorway. Pulling into the outside lane, he could feel the desire growing steadily inside him. He was wound tight with expectation and impatience, rebelling at the monotonous miles of green and grey sliding by. He yearned for that terrible rush, the heightened sense of awareness that flowed through him when he hunted. It was so strong in him now, he could barely contain himself.

A road sign indicated ‘Winchester’, next junction.

Winchester.

He felt a sudden calm, as though something inevitable had slotted into place. Smiling, he moved into the left-hand lane and turned off the motorway.

Winchester was somewhere he’d rarely visited, but as he approached the city centre he found himself warming to the place. Old buildings and narrow streets, trees and stone, not yet wholly overcome by the wretched creep of bland town planning.

He drove for some time without purpose through a knot of unfamiliar one-way streets. After a while, the road began to climb and he found himself breaking free of the city centre. Crossing a bridge, he instinctively turned right up a steep hill lined with a terrace of elegant town houses on one side and tall trees on the other. It was quieter here, away from the traffic, and he slowed down. Cresting the rise, a small swathe of green park opened up on his left – a tranquil oasis above the shops and offices. He drove on until he found a place to leave the car, then parked and walked back along the leafy road.

Tall trees cast long shadows in the afternoon sun and he strolled thoughtfully across the grass towards an old wooden bench. He sat down, running his fingers along the rough grey planks of the seat. A faint breeze stirred the dust around his feet and he leaned back, enjoying the cool air on his face as he gazed up at the cloudless blue sky.

It was perfect.

He shut his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun through his clothes. The rustle of wind in the trees mingled with snatches of birdsong, but there were also voices in the distance.

People.

The familiar wave of excitement washed over him as he prepared himself for the start of a new game. In a moment, he would open his eyes and walk back to the road, then on down the hill. As ever, the first person to make eye contact would be the one.

He smiled, listening to the distant voices for a moment longer, then opened his eyes, squinting for a moment under the sudden glare of the afternoon sunlight . . .

A child stared back at him.

Naysmith blinked. A little boy, clutching a brightly coloured ball, was standing there, some twenty yards across the grass, staring quietly at him. For a long, dreadful moment, everything stopped, the child’s unwavering gaze holding them together in frozen fascination.

No!

Three years old. Blond curls framed a round face. Large eyes and a small mouth. He wore a blue top with a picture of a hippo on it, jeans and tiny trainers.

‘Jack?’

Naysmith glanced round. Nearby, a woman with a pushchair had stopped and was calling to the child. Early thirties, five foot six, with a natural figure. She had straight brown hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, and a sleepy smile as she called to her son.

‘Come on, Jack.’

The little boy turned and scurried away across the sunlit grass, his mother already moving on along the path at an easy pace, unaware and unconcerned.

Naysmith watched them dwindle into the distance, unable to look away. Somewhere, beyond the trees, a clock struck four.

He sat there for some time. Nothing like this had happened before – it was something he’d never even considered. And yet, there were rules to his game, and they could not be taken lightly. The choice had to be random, which meant he had to accept the targets he was given. His fingers gripped the wood of the bench beneath him, nails digging into the rough underside of the plank as he struggled silently, alone in the quiet of the park.

No!

Suddenly getting to his feet, he strode away over the grass, his face contorting in an involuntary snarl.

Beyond the park, the road fell away sharply. On the right, a line of three-storey houses stood on a raised pavement reached via worn stone steps, looking out across the city in grand permanence. Naysmith walked quickly in the shadow of the trees on the other side of the street, a steep drop to a railway cutting visible through the bushes on his left. At the foot of the slope, a busy main road halted him and he stood for a moment, glancing around, looking up at the buildings on the corner as he waited for a lull in the traffic. His restless eye caught a road sign – Clifton Terrace. He thought back to where he’d found his last victim . . .

Clifton.

The coincidence set his teeth on edge. Everything he did was artfully random, without pattern or repetition. He played a serious game, controlling the situation, seeking out coincidence and eliminating it.

And yet, here it was. Fate was mocking him.

No!

His breath came faster now, and he found that he was clenching his fists so hard that it hurt his palms.

Fight back!

He looked around hurriedly for a moment, taking in the street, the bridge, the steep slope down to the railway line below . . .

Do something. Don’t cower like a startled animal – embrace the fear. Rush out and meet it head-on. Do something. Now!

He was staring down at the railway tracks. And then, placing a hand on the wall, he sprang up and over the rough brickwork. Muscles taut and pulse racing, he scrambled down the embankment, through the sickly aroma of nettles and ivy, turning his body sideways so that he could lean back into the slope and steady himself with his hand. The descent was surprisingly easy and he ran the last few yards to stop, panting, at the base of the cutting.

Do it.

Forcing himself to walk slowly, calmly, he made his way back under the shadow of the bridge, stepped up onto the oily bed of stones and over the first heavy rail. The rusted sides contrasted with the gleaming top surface, the corrosion ground away by the wheels of the speeding trains. Standing on a huge concrete sleeper between the two rails, Naysmith crouched down and bowed his head. Holding his watch, he waited for the second hand to sweep up to the top of the dial.

Five minutes. He would not move, for five minutes, no matter what. Come on . . .

He stared at the watch face as the second hand crawled past the twelve. It moved so slowly, taking an eternity to reach the one.

Five seconds gone. Six . . . seven . . . eight . . .

He wondered how many trains passed through here in an hour. How many minutes apart were they? He had heard none as he walked down from the park.

Ten seconds . . .

It was no good thinking about it. A train would come or it wouldn’t. But he would not move until it was time. He continued to stare at the watch.

Fifteen seconds . . .

A car horn sounded on the bridge above, the noise echoing oddly along the cutting. He closed his eyes, tapping out the seconds with his fingers on the ground. He pictured the watch face in his mind, tracking the progress of the thin second hand as it laboured on.

Thirty seconds?

What if he was counting too quickly? Or too slowly? He promised himself he would look when he got to that first minute. The count shouldn’t be too far out by then. He focused on the rhythm he was tapping out, forcing himself not to speed up, whispering each number in his head, keeping a smooth and regular pace.

Fifty-seven . . . fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine . . . sixty! Sixty-one . . .

He opened his eyes briefly and focused on the watch. He was counting in perfect time. Satisfied, he shut them again and began the long journey to the next sixty.

Steady rhythm, fingers on the ground, just keep it going . . .

In the past he’d vaguely wondered what would happen if he found a target he couldn’t pursue. Not one that eluded him – that had happened before and would probably happen again – but one that just shouldn’t be part of the game. For some reason he’d never considered the possibility that it might be a child. Now, as he stared into the abyss, he suddenly began to remember why.

Don’t think about that now!

A sudden breeze passed through the bushes along the embankment, rustling the leaves, but he didn’t look up.

Concentrate. Finish the forfeit.

He continued to tap out the seconds, rocking slightly as he counted.

Fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine . . . Two minutes.

His eyes flickered open, checking his watch once more. His counting was slightly behind – already the second hand was pointing downwards and he stared at it as it inched round towards the bottom of the dial.

Nearly halfway . . .

He willed it past the six, closing his eyes as he picked up the count for this, the third minute.

Thirty-one . . . thirty-two . . . thirty-three . . .

Softly, very softly, the rails began to sing.

At first it was vague – a distant ringing sound that he felt as much as heard. His count faltered and he strained to listen, but now there could be no doubt. Something was coming.

Shit.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, staring down at his watch, refusing the terrible urge to look up.

Fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine . . . Three minutes!

He would not move. His heart rate had spiked and he suddenly felt cold, but he would not move. If fate wanted to play, he would play.

Come on!

The two-tone blare of a train horn echoed along the cutting and reverberated under the bridge. All around him now the noise from the rails was growing, the vibration flowing up through his feet and into the pit of his stomach.

Come the fuck on!

He could hear the train itself now, feel its approach. The horn blared out again, closer this time, much closer. But he wouldn’t look up. He wouldn’t move.

The second hand seemed almost stationary. It crawled agonisingly towards the four-minute mark but somehow Naysmith knew he didn’t have enough time.

Fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine . . . Last minute.

He was counting down now. The oncoming rumble was getting louder and louder, and the horn blared out a third time, deafeningly close. His hand was clammy, shaking so hard that he could hardly read the watch. There was a sudden piercing screech as the train applied its brakes, but it was too late.

Naysmith stopped counting and bowed his head.

A gale swept up and over him, the noise surging to a terrifying crescendo as the train roared through the bridge arch, passing only a few feet away from him on the adjacent track.

Buffeted by the wind, Naysmith braced himself to avoid being sucked under, eyes screwed shut against the dust and debris that swirled in its wake. The sound, deafening for a moment, suddenly relented as the last coach clattered by.

He hadn’t moved.

He opened his eyes, struggling to make out the watch face, smiling as he saw the second hand slide up and past the twelve.

Five minutes.

The forfeit was done. Shaking, he got to his feet and looked round, seeing the train for the first time as it slowed a little way further along the track.