Jason Willow: Face Your Demons Page 4

  ‘But if these people are as evil as you say…’ Jason began.

  ‘I don’t want to go into that any more either,’ Dad cut in. He brushed his floppy hair back with one hand. ‘What I will tell you is that the Brethren never stop looking for anyone who stands against them even after we retire. There are relatively safe areas we could have lived, protected areas such as Alan Brash’s town, but I thought if I could keep you two away from any part of that world, never meet any of its people or even know anything about it then you’d have a chance at a normal life.’

  Dad ran a hand through his hair again, took a slow breath and carried on. ‘The Brethren’s agents have somehow always managed to track us down eventually, even with Brash’s help to change our identities and move us all over the country but I always believed one day it would stop. Your mother’s death was the end of all that - it made me realise I’m not enough to protect you. We need Alan Brash’s organisation – the security it offers. I should have given in earlier…. perhaps if I hadn’t been so bloody stubborn your mother would still be alive.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Miranda murmured. She shuffled over and rested her head on Dad’s shoulder and closed her eyes. He put his arm around her and kissed her hair.

  The train began to slow down for a station and automatically, the three of them sat back from their windows and pulled down their various hats.

  The towns were getting bigger – thirty or so passengers edged forward out of the dusk to peer in through the glass.

  Jason chewed his lip – any one of those outside could be the next agent to be hunting them down.

  Low lights had come on in the corridor and an elderly lady in worn tweed shuffled past their compartment staring in at the three of them. She stopped, fumbled with the door handle then slid it open.

  Dad stood up immediately to help her with her small, wheelie suitcase and hoist it up on the rack above the seats.

  As he lifted it, the woman shot a hand out at his exposed heart.

  Jason was half way out of his seat before she said ‘Mind you don’t strain yourself, dear.’

  Jason made some half-hearted pretence of helping Dad with the case while steadfastly ignoring Miranda’s smirking.

  The old lady smiled a “thank-you” then tottered into the seat opposite as the train jerked forward.

  Jason sank back down and turned to stare out into the oncoming dark.

  He was getting paranoid.

  ***

  By nine o’clock the next morning they were driving through the Yorkshire moors.

  Two changes of train and a taxi ride had got them to Leeds airport just after midnight where they’d picked up their car. Of course, it had not been that straight forward. Jason and Miranda had hidden a half mile down the road from the open air, security fenced airport car park while Dad had disappeared into the dark. He’d appeared ten minutes later in their old Renault estate, picked them up and roared off. If any agents had access to airport surveillance tapes, they would not have seen a family of three leave the area.

  Too shattered to drive through the night they’d crashed in a Travel Lodge.

  Now, however, after a few hours of sleep and a very unhealthy full English breakfast, they were all feeling marginally more human. Jason gazed out over the open moor rolling passed in bright, morning sunshine and found it difficult to believe that only a few hours ago, he and Miranda had been fighting for their lives in Mawn’s darkening drizzle.

  Jason had become expert at putting bad things to the back of his mind if there wasn’t anything he could do about them. However, there was still so much he wanted to find out.

  ‘What was Grandfather talking about when he said I needed to be trained in my gift or something?’

  ‘That’s another thing I’m not going to tell you about yet.’ Dad said, concentrating on the winding road.

  ‘Has it got anything to do with Black flying off Miranda without anyone touching him? A Jakra technique - something like the inch-punch the kung-fu masters can do…’

  ‘Enough on that one, Jason,’ Dad said. ‘You’ll need to know about it soon enough but it can wait until then. Change the subject.’

  ‘But if it will help…’ Jason began.

  ‘Tell us about our new home.’ Miranda cut in, shooting Jason a warning look.

  ‘You’ll see it for yourselves in a minute,’ Dad said.

  The Renault hauled them up a particularly steep hill and then dropped down into a wide, part-forested, river valley.’

  ‘Ugh,’ Miranda said, ‘who dumped that town there?’

  In the centre of the valley, ranks of grey, terraced streets marched in towards a sprawling factory centre like hunched-backed miners trudging towards the pit. A sun-sparkled river skirted the town keeping well clear of the grime.

  ‘That will be Alan Brash’s Drunken Abbot.’ Dad said.

  ‘I hope our house is in that nice bit,’ Miranda said.

  Jason grunted in agreement. Beyond the drab mass of the town, the regimented streets broke around two low hills. Tumbling down and around the twin hills were ramshackle wanderings of fairy-tale thatched cottages, parks and even a village green. Miles of glinting security fencing divided the two communities.

  ‘That “pretty bit”,’ Dad said, ‘is called Darkston Village and actually, Brash did offer us a little cottage in there. I was honoured – that’s the original settlement, built around the same time as the abbey and he only houses his closest and most valuable employees there.’

  ‘Abbey?’ Jason asked. ‘I can’t see an abbey.’

  ‘That’s because it’s hidden behind the hills.’

  ‘And what’s that huge grey building on top of one of them?’ Jason asked again.

  ‘Ahh, that one’s for you, Son, you lucky devil. It’s called Silent Hill - Alan Brash’s private School “for the education and training of brewery children,”’ Dad said.

  ‘Brewery children – is that what all those factory buildings are in the town then – a brewery?’ Miranda asked.

  ‘Yep,’ Dad said, ‘a brewery and factories to make all the merchandise - Drunken Abbot nuts and pork scratchings, engraved glasses, party products and so on. Everyone in the town and village owe their livelihood to Drunken Abbot Industries and Alan Brash controls them all.’

  ‘There’s a bit on Wikipedia about how successful Drunken Abbot ale is,’ Miranda said.

  ‘There’s nothing about this valley on the net though,’ Jason chipped in ‘not even a satellite photo of the town on Google Maps.’ The two of them spent half their lives staring into library and hotel lobby computer screens. They never had their own internet connection of course – that would be far too easy to trace.

  ‘No, there wouldn’t be,’ Dad said, his jolly mood draining away. ‘Alan Brash has the money and power to keep the whole place pretty isolated.’

  Jason looked back at his new school as they dropped further down into the valley. The grey building loomed over the otherwise pretty village – an oppressive block of granite with scores of small, dark windows. ‘Yeah, but back to this Silent Hill school,’ Jason said. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘It looks like some sort of prison,’ Miranda said. ‘Glad I’m not going there in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Helping or not helping?’ Jason asked his sister.

  Dad glanced at him, a sympathetic smile tightening his lips. ‘It is a bit rough but Brash assured me that the rules are strict and the prefects there have quite a lot of authority – they’re the ones who really keep things in order apparently.’

  ‘Mmm, as if prefects ever do anything,’ Jason said, ‘It’ll be much easier if I just floor the first idiot who tries it on… they tend to leave you alone then.’

  ‘Just try to stay out of trouble,’ Dad said. ‘Brash did warn me that there is some… friction between the town kids and the umm… posh lot from the village.’

  ‘So I’ll be with the posh lot then?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Well not really. I did
n’t want us living completely in Brash’s pocket so he found us a place a couple of miles further up the river – a little hamlet called Darkston Wick. You’ll be able to see it in a minute.’

  ‘Great - some tiny little place is going to be dead – I bet I’m the only teenager living there!’

  ‘Brash said he lays on a school bus,’ Dad answered, ‘so I think there must be more horrible “yoof” about the place.’

  The road levelled out onto the valley floor, with a thick wood continuing to follow them on the right hand side. Perhaps a mile ahead the first Drunken Abbot houses rose out of the misty moor– their soulless, dark windows staring hopelessly out at freedom.

  Suddenly the wood broke around a small road. Dad quickly slowed down and followed it into the trees.

  ‘Damn – I nearly missed that turning the last time as well.’

  ‘Hurrah – we’re saved,’ Miranda breathed. ‘I’m sooo glad we’re not going any closer to that disgusting town.’

  Dad grinned across at her and put on his very bad, actor-luvvie voice. ‘Oh, I know, darling – I knew that living too near to some industrial slum would quite simply kill you.’

  Jason grunted and stared outside. Thick-trunked red oaks and slimmer ash trees crowded in on both sides of the narrow, twisting road, almost shutting out the morning sun entirely. The tree line broke for a moment on the right and a weed filled track flashed by. He twisted around to read a rotting wooden sign:

  Darkston Woods – Picnic Area

  Instantly the oak and ash closed in again to engulf them in a green filtered half-light.

  ‘Uhh, Dad - exactly how cut off from civilisation is this village?’ Jason asked.

  ‘You’ll see for yourself in a minute,’ Dad said.

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Jason mumbled.

  Six or seven turns later, sunlight flooded back into the car as the trees peeled away. Squinting while his eyes adjusted to the returned sunlight, Jason leaned forward to get a first look at his new home.

  Darkston Wick was just what Dad had called it – a river-crossing hamlet. Perhaps twenty thatched and slate roofed buildings faced each other on a street rambling alongside the river. A narrow bridge carried their road over the water and up into the heavily wooded valley side beyond.

  ‘Oh it’s so sweet,’ Miranda crooned as they dropped down and passed the first whitewashed cottage.

  Jason shook his head. It was a bright Sunday morning in the first week of the Easter holidays and there wasn’t a soul to be seen. ‘Does anyone actually live in this place?’

  Dad smiled. ‘We do… right here, in fact.’

  Chapter 5

  Dad drove through one of two matching gateways onto a horseshoe shaped driveway of raked white gravel and stopped. Five wide stone steps led up to double doors set deep in the shadows of a carved stone porch.

  Jason swallowed hard and stepped out of the car. He had to shade his eyes to take in the sun gleaming from two floors of Georgian windows and spotless plaster work. ‘No way can we afford this.’

  Dad smiled. ‘Actually, we can. The Old Mill is all ours - the magnanimous Alan Brash is renting it to us really cheaply.’

  ‘Why really cheaply, Dad - what’s wrong with it?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Nothing. We were just in the right place at the right time. Brash’s only recently bought the place – the previous owners left suddenly apparently and he snapped it up just a couple of months ago.’

  ‘There’s a little shop across the street,’ Miranda said. ‘It looks like something out of Dickens with those old bay windows.’

  ‘I bet everyone here is out of Dickens as well,’ Jason mumbled.

  ‘I know it’s a bit quiet here but it’s about as safe as we could ever hope for,’ Dad said. ‘There isn’t another town within forty miles of Drunken Abbot and Brash has surveillance and a small army of private security patrolling all over the valley. If any Brethren agents ever stumble across this place they will be… dealt with before we even see them. We shouldn’t have to move again.’

  ‘Good,’ Miranda said, ‘about time we had a quiet life!’

  ‘Yeah but not this quiet,’ Jason said.

  Dad ruffled his hair like he was five. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll meet some friends here or at school, Son, and I can take you into Drunken Abbot anytime – they’ve got a cinema, I think.’

  ‘Dad, I’m fifteen,’ Jason said. ‘I can probably make it into town all by myself.’

  ‘Fair point but let’s just wait to see how rough the place is, shall we?’

  Jason grunted.

  ‘Want to see inside?’ Dad said. He walked up the steps and unlocked their new front door with a ridiculously large key.

  ‘First choice on bedrooms,’ Miranda shouted, pushing in front of Jason.

  They burst into a huge entrance hall filled with chequered sunlight streaming through small-paned windows. Lustrous dark wood, worn smooth with age, gleamed from floors, walls and heavy old furniture and the dead eyes of foxes and stags stared down at them from stuffed heads hung high.

  ‘It’s like something out of Dracula,’ Jason said, grinning.

  ‘First choice, loser,’ Miranda shouted, already halfway up a curving staircase.

  Jason sprinted after her and they tore through seven bedrooms in a couple of minutes.

  ‘Ok,’ Jason said, breathless, ‘they’re all decent – you can choose.’ It wasn’t a huge sacrifice - all the rooms had huge beds, low beamed ceilings and real fireplaces.

  They walked back down the stairs at a more leisurely pace. Jason tried to imagine how many generations must have grown up within these walls, all silently watched over by the ancient house.

  They found Dad in an airy, flag-stoned kitchen. He was putting an old, black kettle onto a gas hob - for now, it seemed, shying away from tackling an iron Aga range which dominated one end of the room. They plonked themselves at a heavy oak table set in front of a huge, inglenook fireplace.

  ‘This place is excellent, Dad. Miranda didn’t even fight over rooms,’ Jason announced.

  Dad didn’t respond - something outside had caught his eye.

  Quickly Jason joined him at the kitchen window with Miranda a step behind. A beautiful, dark haired woman with perfect pale skin and dark eyes was staring in through their gates. She held Dad’s look for a long moment, then turned and walked slowly on into the village.

  ‘A neighbour, do you reckon?’ Jason asked.

  Dad continued to stare between the gateposts then reached for the kettle. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘She could have waved or something,’ Jason grumbled, ‘you know – to be a bit more welcoming to us new folk.’

  He stared out over the silent cottages. If the rest of the villagers were like that woman it was going to be a long, long Easter, trapped here in the village of the walking dead.

  ***

  Jason shut the front door behind him and breathed in the fresh clean air. Dad had finally released him from endless moving-in chores saying that he and Miranda would sort out the kitchen.

  He leapt down the stairs, crunched across the gravel drive and followed the path down one side of the house. It stopped at the edge of a little copse of ash trees to one side of the back garden. A manicured lawn ran down to the river to what Jason was really interested in – the three storey watermill rising out of the water.

  ‘Just my luck,’ Jason moaned as he trotted down the lawn. Every door and window on the watermill was boarded up. A small rowing boat caught his eye, however. It was moored against a narrow stone jetty that formed a breakwater around the mill.

  He jumped in and started rowing across the Darkston River – thirty metres wide at this point and lazy apart from a fast running channel funnelled under the mill-wheel by the breakwater. Jason moored the boat to a tree stump on the far side and trotted up into the trees.

  It was cool under the trees which rippled down the valley side in a series of low hillocks and bright clearings. This was the first chance he’d had
to be alone to really think about what had happened on Mawn and what Dad had said about…

  Crash!

  Higher up the valley side, half obscured by thick trunks, something tumbled down through several branches of a huge oak and hit the ground with a solid ‘thunk’. It lay perfectly still while twigs and leaves rained down around it.

  For a moment Jason hesitated. What if this was another agent? But Dad had said the whole valley was safe – guarded by Alan Brash’s private army and high tech security cameras.

  What the hell – he wasn’t going to live the rest of his life being afraid.

  Jason sprinted up the hill and stopped at the edge of a small clearing. The fallen thing was a boy, his face buried in the leaf mold and stocky shoulders heaving under a long mop of curly, dark brown hair. His black, “Meat Loaf Rocks” tee-shirt began to push up out of the mass of debris.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Jason ventured.

  The boy started, snapped his face out of the ground and rolled over to face Jason. Small brown eyes squinted out of a heavy-boned face. Jason guessed the boy was about his own age, perhaps a year or so older.

  ‘Ah, how very excellent – I am so happy to have had an audience for my little… accident.’ the boy said, sinking back down. His voice was quite deep, with a precise, slightly clipped accent.

  Jason moved a bit closer, not knowing if he should try to help him up. ‘Have you broken anything?’

  ‘Thank you - no. I have never felt better.’ the boy grunted. Jason stifled a grin – his accent sounded a bit like Count Dracula in a badly acted horror movie.

  The boy sat up slowly and brushed the hair back from his face. There was a trickle of blood from his forehead and the red smeared through the dirt all across his cheeks. He stared up at Jason through the dark tangle of his fringe.

  Jason edged closer. ‘Umm, maybe you shouldn’t move – in case your back is broken or something…’

  The boy raised one eyebrow. ‘I think that I may have noticed if my back was broken. Who are you?’

  ‘Jason, Jason Willow. We’ve just moved into the village today.’