Don't Read Alone Read online

  Don’t Read Alone

  by

  Paul Finch

  Bestselling Author of Stalkers and Sacrifice

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

  © Paul Finch, 2013

  http://paulfinch-writer.blogspot.co.uk/

  © Cover Image and Design Steve Upham, 2013

  CONTENTS

  THE OLD NORTH ROAD

  THE POPPET

  GRENDEL’S LAIR

  HELL IN THE CATHEDRAL

  THE BALEFUL DEAD

  SOURCES

  THE OLD NORTH ROAD

  Forest of Lune: Northern England

  Drayton was perhaps fifteen miles west of Barnard Castle when he came across the wrecked Peugeot 306 on the verge-side.

  It looked to have come off the road at high speed: trails of melted rubber were smeared across the blacktop behind it, the hulk itself firmly wedged against the splintered trunk of an oak tree. Its bonnet was badly buckled, smoke and steam spurting out in jets through the shattered radiator grille. Only as he drove on past, however, did Drayton notice the girl standing beside the car.

  He hit the brakes hard, then threw his vehicle into reverse.

  A moment later he’d stopped and got out.

  The girl was relatively young, probably in her mid-twenties. She wore a short denim skirt, a faded denim jacket over a pink t-shirt, and brown leather cowboy boots. She had longish blonde hair, and was extremely pretty, with bright blue eyes, a turned-up pixie nose and sprinkles of freckles on either cheek. Drayton approached her slowly, aware that a lone guy advancing on a marooned woman out here in the middle of nowhere could be deemed threatening. The girl didn’t seem massively concerned. She was leaning back against the oak tree, hands in her jacket pockets.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi,” she replied, smiling.

  “Is, er … is everything okay?”

  She nodded. “It’s fine. Thanks very much.”

  “You’re not hurt at all?”

  “No.”

  He glanced at the Peugeot. As well as the damage done to the front-end, and presumably – by the gaseous emissions pouring out of it – to the engine too, three of its four tyres had ruptured and gone flat. The windscreen had spider-webbed with cracks.

  “Looks like the motor’s a write-off,” he observed.

  The girl nodded. “I think so.”

  Drayton couldn’t help feeling puzzled by her apparently relaxed attitude. “Have you got help coming?”

  Again, she nodded. “It’s all taken care of.”

  He glanced back at the wreck, noting the fresh smell of burn that still wreathed it, not to mention the widening pool of petrol forming underneath. This incident had only happened in the last couple of minutes, he realised. It scarcely seemed possible that it could all have been, how had she put it … ‘taken care of’. Not so soon.

  “So there’s nothing I can do?” he said, wondering why he was the one feeling awkward about this.

  “Nothing.” She changed her posture, placing one booted foot up against the oak tree behind, unconsciously striking a cool and very sexy pose.

  “Okay.” He retreated towards his shabby old Chrysler Sunbeam. “No problem.”

  Before he climbed back into it, he looked around, aware of the deep stillness in the surrounding woods. It was mid-July, and though still far off dusk, the sun was steadily sinking. Shafts of fading orange light slanted down through the heavy green foliage. In all directions, only ranks of silent tree trunks were visible, the majority of them thigh-deep in dense, tangled undergrowth. Birds still twittered, but those twitters were growing fewer and farther between; vague blue shadows were starting to spread under the leaf canopy.

  Despite the inclination he felt towards solitude these days, Drayton knew that he couldn’t just drive away. He strode back over to the girl. “Look, I don’t mean to be a pest. But … it’s probably not a good idea for you to be waiting here on your own.”

  She gazed at him, as if trying to discern whether or not he was simply being kind or maybe had ulterior motives. Then she smiled, in a faintly regretful sort of way. “It’s okay … I’m not on my own. My boyfriend’s with me.”

  “Oh … right.” Drayton took a step backwards. That explained things a little. Not that he could see any boyfriend in the immediate proximity. “Gone to find a garage, has he? I mean, I can pick him up on the way, give him a ride.”

  “No, it’s alright. But thanks anyway.”

  At forty years old, Drayton was experienced enough to know when somebody was trying to get rid of him. She was being awfully polite about it, but she clearly didn’t want him around. And perhaps for that reason, plus of course his natural-born stubbornness, he felt even less prepared to leave. “What’s actually happened here, love?”

  “We came off the road.”

  “Is your boyfriend hurt, maybe?”

  “No.”

  Her smile had now faded, to be replaced by something else – a blankness of expression, which only thinly concealed distress. It wasn’t as if she was in serious trouble – he could tell that much – but she clearly had a problem and was putting on a brave face, trying to cover it.

  “If you must know,” she finally said, her resolve cracking, “he’s gone after the man.”

  “Man?”

  She stood upright from the tree. Suddenly she looked tired, stressed. “Someone ran across the road right in front of us. We swerved to avoid him.”

  “And your boyfriend’s chased after him?”

  “Yes.” She half-smiled again. “Andy’s like that. Gets cross easily.”

  Drayton eyed the encircling woodland. The shades of evening were lengthening through its verdant depths even as he watched. “Probably not a smart move to go chasing some bloke. Not with no-one else around to help.”

  The girl shrugged. “You can’t tell Andy things like that.”

  Drayton got the impression that she’d already tried to but had failed.

  “I think it’s probably best if you just go,” the girl added. “Really, it is.”

  Drayton wasn’t normally given to helping people. He wouldn’t have called himself a misanthrope, but the recent end of his fifteen-year marriage had soured him immeasurably, and the injustice of Sandra’s decision to deny him access to the kids – now ratified by court-order – had just about extinguished the last flicker of goodwill he’d felt towards the rest of mankind. However, there was something about this girl that moved him. It wasn’t simply that she was good-looking, it was her predicament: stuck all the way out here, she was incredibly vulnerable, far more so than even she might realise. And from what Drayton had heard, this Andy – whoever he actually was – might only add to the problem.

  Drayton took the mobile from his jeans pocket. “Can I at least call someone for you?”

  Again, she shook her head. “It’s alright. Honestly it is.”

  “But I don’t like leaving you stranded. Barnard Castle’s the nearest town and that’s a good twenty minutes’ drive from here.” He glanced at his watch, seeing that the time wasn’t far off eight o’clock. “It’s getting late too. I mean, there may be nobody else along this road all night.”

  That was something she might not realise, he decided – especially if she wasn’t native to the region, which he suspected she wasn’t. This was the A66, the Old North Road as it used to be called. For centuries, it had linked the former administrative capitals of Penrith and Durham – separated from each other by fifty miles of trackless moor and rugged woodland – but it was now defunct, thanks largely to the motorway networks build over the la
st forty years. He himself had only happened to come along it because he wanted to call in at the remote ruin that was Laxholm Abbey.

  The girl meanwhile was now looking at him in a faintly hopeful way. Could he help me? , she was possibly wondering. Did he – this unkempt stranger, who was nearly twenty years her senior – have what it took to resolve her problem?

  At length, she decided. “I honestly think it’s better if you just go.”

  “Perhaps I should wait ’til your boyfriend gets back?”

  “That really isn’t a good idea …”

  “What’s this fucking guy’s problem!” came a sudden, aggressive voice.

  Drayton turned sharply. The man who’d just emerged from the trees was an intimidating presence. He was only about thirty years old, but of large, muscular build, and perhaps three inches taller than Drayton’s six feet. He was dressed in canvas pants and a white silk shirt that was open at the throat, showing gold neck chains. His head was shaved down to the bristles, and he wore a hard frown. In the parlance of the streets where Drayton had grown up, he looked as though he could “go a bit”.

  Immediately, the girl stepped between them. “Andy, this is … er ?”

  “Ralph,” Drayton said.

  “This is Ralph. He’s offered to give us a hand.”

  Andy, who was flushed and sweating slightly, regarded Drayton with undisguised suspicion.

  “Ralph,” the girl went on, “this is Andy, my boyfriend … who I was telling you about.”

  Drayton nodded. “Hi.”

  Andy didn’t say anything.

  “I’m Shirley, by the way,” the girl said, turning back to Drayton and offering her hand. “We were on our way to Edinburgh.”

  “Edinburgh?” Drayton was surprised. “Wouldn’t it have been easier going up to Glasgow and cutting across by the M8?”

  “We prefer the scenic routes,” Andy replied. He’d relaxed a little now, but his tone was curt.

  “Ah, right. So … looks like you’ve had a bit of a bump.” It was an inane comment, Drayton realised, but the atmosphere was distinctly awkward. “Do you want me to give you a ride somewhere? I mean, there’s bound to be a garage along here at some point.”

  There was brief silence as Andy considered this. He glanced fleetingly at Shirley, who, for some reason, looked as though she wanted to say ‘no’ to the suggestion, but finally opted to say nothing. She glanced down at the ground; wouldn’t meet Drayton’s gaze. Eventually, Andy nodded. “Not a bad idea … if you’re sure it’s okay.”

  “Yeah, course,” Drayton said, somewhat distracted by Shirley’s change of attitude, and wondering if he’d been too hasty. Who was this bloke, anyway, this bloke who went running after people through the woods? Had it been a momentary road-rage incident, or did he make a habit of that sort of thing?

  Andy meanwhile had turned and was walking back to what remained of his car. “If we’re coming along with you, there’s some gear I could do with bringing,” he said over his brawny shoulder. “Just for safe-keeping, you know.”

  “No problem,” Drayton replied. “I’ve got loads of room.”

  When Andy rejoined them, four large bin-liners swung from his fists. They were bulging, laden with cumbersome contents. Drayton unlocked the Sunbeam’s boot, but Andy didn’t swing the articles in as he might have done with sacks of clothing – he placed them carefully, evidently trying to avoid bursting them. Drayton noticed that each bag had been fastened with a thick twist of duct-tape, though he only had a glimpse of this, because once they were all in there, Andy slammed the boot closed.

  Soon they were driving, the two stranded motorists ensconced in the rear seat. Various untidy odds and ends, including an open sports satchel packed with Drayton’s current project, had had to be moved first; it all now sat in a disordered heap on the front passenger seat. They trundled along in silence, passing endless sun-lit glades.

  “Did you catch him?” Drayton asked, just to make conversation.

  “What?” In the rear-view mirror, Drayton saw his male passenger go sharply alert.

  “The bloke who crossed the road in front of you?”

  “Oh.” Andy seemed to chill again. “No, he’d gone. Stupid bastard … just running out in front of us. Fucking idiot could’ve ruined everything.”

  “Who was he anyway? A tramp?”

  Andy shrugged, stared out of the window. “Didn’t see him properly. Looked like he had khaki gear on.”

  “Khaki?”

  “Yeah. Camouflage stuff. Like a squaddie, or something.” A thought struck the younger man. “Are we near a barracks round here?”

  “I don’t know, to be honest.”

  “You sound like you’re from our part of the world?” Shirley said, in a transparent attempt to change the subject.

  “Preston,” Drayton replied.

  “Thought so,” she said. “I’m from Bolton. Andy here’s a Manc.”

  Drayton didn’t bother to mention that he already suspected that; the more Andy spoke, the whinier and more nasal his accent became. “You guys on holiday?” he asked.

  “Business,” Andy said.

  They drove on.

  “Hey!” Shirley suddenly exclaimed, making both men jump “You’re famous.”

  Drayton glanced into the mirror again, and saw that she was holding something up.

  “This is you, isn’t it?” she said. “On the back of this book?”

  He realised that she’d found Lore Of The Land , the last thing he’d had published. It must have been lying in the foot-well.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s a few years ago though. Fifty or sixty pounds, as well.”

  “So you’re a writer?”

  “For my sins.”

  “What … stories and that?” She was now flicking through the pages.

  “Not my own.” Drayton was less comfortable explaining this now than he had been back during his hope-filled youth. “I write non-fiction … assess legends, fables, that sort of thing.”

  “Wow!”

  “Don’t be too impressed,” he advised her. “There’s not much money in it.”

  He didn’t bother elaborating on that – on how his obsession with pursuing so non-commercial a genre had actually cost him rather than earned for him; on how stepping out of the rat race in order to spend his time writing, and being arrogant enough to assume he was so good that whatever he wrote, it would someday be recognised as a work of genius and bring him fame and wealth, had been self-delusion in the most dangerous sense of the phrase. Not that it hadn’t brought him a little bit of wealth at one point, though Sandra and her solicitor had neatly accounted for all that.

  “Says here you’re a family-man,” Shirley said, checking his bio.

  “Was,” he corrected her.

  “Oh.”

  Drayton didn’t bother elaborating on that either – on how his determination to work solely in the field he loved, even though he knew that the chances of making it pay were unlikely, hadn’t just cost him a potentially lucrative career, but had cost him his marriage as well.

  Sandra had endlessly nagged him to put his talent to better use; to write a novel or play, to produce something marketable that his agent – another past-fixture now – could have used to launch him towards the best-seller lists. But no, the usual obstinacy and pigheadedness had clouded his judgment. He hadn’t left the degrading world of nine-’til-five, he’d said, so that he could just become a slave for someone else. He was an author now, not a journo – that meant he could write what he wanted, when he wanted. He would stick with mysticism, his one true interest in life, resolute that he would make it work. But even he , Ralph Drayton, with his undeniable ability, and a vast, self-taught knowledge of his chosen subject, had failed to pull off that miracle. And at length, the pressure – of mortgage payments they could no longer afford, of a wife who now wanted to be at home with the children rather than working herself, of in-laws who’d started to think him a waster and a failure – had finally
killed their relationship.

  So here he was, at the start of middle age, embittered, lonely – and engaged in another futile quest for that one elusive project that might turn things around, knowing full well that he wasn’t going to find it. On the cheery subject of which …

  “Listen,” he said, “I need to stop soon. I mean, obviously I’ll drop you off first if we come to a village, but if we don’t, there’s a place I need to check out … just for research purposes.”

  Shirley leaned forwards. “Why, you writing a book now?”

  The attention of so pretty and, yes, so personable a girl – he suspected, when Andy wasn’t around – was flattering. Absurdly, Drayton, overweight and with a scraggy, greying beard and unruly, greying hair, began to wonder if her interest in him might owe to more than common politeness.

  “That’s why I’m all the way out here,” he said, slapping the satchel on the front seat.

  “Can I look?”

  “Be my guest. But it’s mainly notes … more like a dog’s breakfast than a finished text.”

  Shirley reached down towards it, only for her boyfriend to suddenly snap at her: “Shirl, sit the fuck down!” His tone was hard, ultra-aggressive; it was as though her burgeoning friendship with their would-be rescuer had suddenly worn out his no doubt microscopic patience.

  Drayton stared into the rear-view mirror. His own background was solidly working class, and briefly a more combative spirit arose. This passenger was bigger, younger and probably a lot fitter than he was, but the author had spent his entire adult life resisting authority, and he was damned if he was having the law laid down like that in his own car.

  “It’s okay, I don’t mind,” he said, quite firmly. “You can have a look if you want.”

  Andy met his gaze in the mirror, his face sullen but inscrutable.

  “Here,” Drayton added, grabbing up the satchel and shoving it backwards into Shirley’s hands.

  The two men watched each other for a moment longer, before Andy turned and stared out of the window again. Shirley meanwhile was now digging through piles of scribble-filled notebooks. She picked one up, and read the scrawled words on its cover: “Rediscovering the Green Man .”