The buried truth series one, part one, uneasy partners smashwords issuu version

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The Buried Truth Copyright Š 2017 Toby Bain All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, without permission from the author.

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Dear Reader, Welcome to The Buried Truth. Thanks in advance for taking the time out of your day to read this offering.

The Buried Truth is a drama/mystery series focusing on the adventures, flaws and dynamics of the two main characters – Blair Cox and Chloe Jacobs – and their work with conspiracy theory magazine Truth Serum.

As befits much of my writing, I have tried to develop the characters, create an interesting story, provide the odd comedic element, and leave you with the idea that you’ve learned a little something. Accomplishing this in 15,000 or so words is a challenge, and one of the main reasons it has taken so long to publish the first set of stories.

Each season consists of eight novellas. Oftentimes, this will be in the form of one overriding story, broken into separate investigations in each episode. So buckle up with Cox and Jacobs and enjoy the ride.

Please note, as an indie writer I have a very small team of proofreaders and editors. They’re great, but we all make mistakes. If you come across anything egregious, let me know and I’ll make appropriate corrections.

I especially welcome emails and endeavour to reply to all of them. Get in touch by emailing fans@tobybain.com.

Visit my website for FREE stories, news and information about upcoming releases. And, if you’re into opinionated fiction writers, read my blog.

On the website you can also sign up with my newsletter for exclusive stories, offers and information every few months.

Let’s not forget the various social media platforms too. I’m all yours at: Twitter: @tobybainwriter Facebook: www.facebook.com/tobybainwriter Instagram: @TobyBain Snapchat: TobyBain Happy reading!

T.B.

By the way, if you like this, buy it here.

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ONE Highland mornings can be merciless; lively enough to tear shreds from clothing. In this desolate part of Scotland, there remained a raw beauty in the way driving winds and rain maraud over the Highland mountains and through valleys, striking over places like Loch Arkaig – a stretch of placid water said to store ancient secrets in its eerie depths.

Had the weather been the only threat that morning, maybe Harris and Hugh McRae would have been saved.

They were entrenched on the soft slick ground along the fringes of Loch Arkaig. Both wore hooded windbreakers, a staple diet of the area. Through the waves of driving rain, they were transfixed by the shadowy peaks of the Highland mountains and by the elements skidding off its jagged surface like glancing blows to a jaw.

Hugh McRae lifted his head to the rain, caught a mouthful, and swilled it before spitting into a dank puddle by his feet. ‘Old men play golf in this weather, Little Brother,’ he shouted, slapping Harris on the back. ‘We’re too tough to let a wee bit of rain distract us from our mission.’ Having spoken for the both of them, he stomped off, metal detector leading the way like a keen sniffer dog.

Two minutes. Oh how Harris McRae resented such a short yet poignant break in time. He let out a weary moan. He’d slept little, been up playing a video game against some guys in the United States. At daybreak he’d been awoken by his excited elder brother and given just enough time to swig half a carton of orange juice before reluctantly departing.

The McRae brothers stood over six-feet tall. If the two redheads were Californian they'd be surfers, if they were New Yorkers they’d be basketball players. But they were Scottish, and in the Highlands these adventurous teenagers were at home exploring the terrain or hopping on mountain bikes and hitting the cross country and downhill trails. The brothers were dreamers who sought adventure by hunting for treasure in the lush banks and valleys surrounding the Scottish lochs. They also sought mystery. They knew all the ancient legends about monsters, and would often leer at Loch Arkaig dreamily as though a mere gaze could seduce the dark water into revealing its secrets. Rumour had it the Loch Ness Monster had spawned children, and these sprogs had turned every loch in Scotland into a veritable Monster’s Highway.

But that was tourist stuff. The brothers were here for the treasure.

Not just any treasure.

A few days ago they’d come to this same spot and found…something. The signal from the metal detector had promised much, but with the light fading they had returned home. Not before laying down a marker in the mud so they could find the exact spot once again.

A forlorn hope given the summer downpour.

Hugh trudged a few paces forward without conviction. ‘I’m sure it’s this way,’ he said. Harris caught up and tapped his shoulder, pointing in the opposite direction but Hugh relented. ‘Trust me on this, Little Brother.’

Harris turned away and paced over to a familiar looking patch of waterlogged earth, waving the smooth round face of the metal detector. Nothing.

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A far cry from a previous endeavour, when they’d found an 18 carat gold ring and pawned it for the money to buy two video games consoles.

This time they were chasing something a whole lot more valuable.

The treasure of Loch Arkaig.

Various rumours surrounded the treasure of Loch Arkaig. Some thought it didn’t exist and others thought it had been swallowed by the loch. Hugh McRae was certain the Jacobite gold – donated to Bonnie Prince Charlie by the charitable Spanish in 1745 − lay right here by the fringes of the loch. His theory was simple. Whoever had stolen it originally from Bonnie Prince Charlie had hidden it by the loch to collect at a later date.

The rain was now a trickle over the muddy ground.

‘Told you it’d ease.’ Hugh bellowed. ‘Now let’s get to work, Little Brother.’

Two bloody minutes!

From an early age Harris McRae had lived with the indisputable fact that Hugh knew everything because he was older. Two minutes older. The fact they were the same age, same height, cut no argument. Two minutes is two minutes. His twin wasn’t all bad. He didn’t insist on celebrating his birthday 120 seconds earlier. That would have been too much, even for Hugh.

Trrr-rinng!!!! Trrr-rinng!!!!

Harris beckoned his brother over. There was no more exciting a sound than the sweet chimes of a metal detector striking gold. After hurriedly retrieving their shovels from a sheltered area, the twins dug zealously. The squelchy top surface of slick mud gave way to firmer ground. A few feet of the dark stuff later, and still nothing. Whoever buried this treasure had done so with obsessive enthusiasm. And the twins would liberate it with the same gusto. Every now and then, the brothers would nervously scan the area in unison, certain someone would emerge from behind a ridge, or that a craft would float into view on the distant horizon and steal their treasure.

Laughing at such paranoia, they swapped elaborate stories about how to spend their share.

As Harris readied himself for another strike at the dirt, the sun burst onto the slick ground.

'Wait!' yelled Hugh. 'There! I see it!'

And so did Harris. It wasn’t gold and it certainly didn’t look like treasure. So what the hell was it?

Long before they’d entered the house with the object, Harris complained of dizziness. It was he who had excitedly held the strange metal sphere in his arms like a newborn while Hugh floored the accelerator of the car. He’d spent long, lingering gazes marvelling at the carved panels on the object as a beautiful stretch of Loch Arkaig rolled by. The object was the size and shape of a rugby ball with the mass of a concrete block. A heavyweight baby. It was made of a dull grey metal and peculiar triangular panels adorned its circumference. Each panel held a picture – similar to the hieroglyphics he studied. Both he and his brother agreed on one thing: they hadn’t seen anything like it before.

Once inside the house they went up to Hugh’s room, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking it in turns to inspect the object. Lumps of sweat burrowed into Harris’ eyes. His skin felt as 6

though it was melting from his face. Hugh handed over a tissue. The uncharacteristic act of benevolence didn’t worry Harris half as much as the concerned look on his elder brother’s face.

Harris McRae snapped his fingers. ‘I know exactly who to call about this. We’ll make a fortune.’

After the phone call, they sat around waiting for the inevitable offer to be made. Retirement to Balmoral Castle was just one of their fanciful options. As Harris McRae began to laugh at the suggestion, a wave of nausea rose from his stomach and cascaded from his mouth, spewing the contents of his liquid orange breakfast to the carpet. Mum will have a fit when she gets home from work, he thought. That was the last thing he remembered thinking before darkness fell over his eyes.

Hugh McRae would surely have sprung to his brother’s aid had he not passed out seconds after.

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TWO A special day called for a special breakfast. The sausages were grilled to remove all fat, the bacon fried and then finished off under the grill to garner a crispy rind. To that she added grilled tomatoes, mushrooms and baked beans for a healthy, hearty breakfast. Finally, the bread was sliced in half before being dropped into the undersized toaster, so it could toast evenly, without the ends sticking out from the buffers of the grilling pads.

Chloe Jacobs knew that on today of all days she should have been grateful for her life. She lived in a three-bedroom house in Croydon Arena, sandwiched between the bosom of Elmer’s End and East Croydon. However, at 23, she’d been chained to her bedroom for too long – married to a needy laptop and an iPad that drained all her energy and time.

As did the other woman in her life.

Jacobs trotted up the carpeted stairs of the house quickly while breakfast was still hot. She entered the bedroom with a broad smile, which soon turned to a frown when the covers on the bed peeled back, the mass of jumbled sheets resolving into the sneering face of an old woman who instantly protested at the plate being waved under her nose.

Jacobs felt her confidence crumbling. ‘Thought you’d care for something a bit healthier this morning, Gracie,’ she said in an uncertain voice. ‘There’s even that fresh orange you like so much.

“Squeezed from god’s orange groves”, according to the carton.’

‘You grilled the mushrooms,’ said the old woman, shaking her head gravely at the culinary offence. ‘I wanted fried.’ She had a face set in a permanent sneer and a voice that made every sentence sound like a virulent complaint, which it usually was. ‘Useless. Get out of my sight.’

As Jacobs wheeled away the woman barked, ‘You seem in a hurry today. Finally decided to divorce the computer and get a man?’

Swallowing displeasure at the jibe, Jacobs turned slowly and met the woman’s cold, unmerciful emerald eyes; the very eyes Jacobs had once been accused of having. ‘I have a new job.’ The words brought a stab of light into the darkness of 23 disappointing years. And she smiled, a defiant smile to counter that deleterious presence anchored in bed.

‘I guess dykes don’t have boyfriends,’ the old woman retorted. Then, as though just registering the implications of Jacobs’ words, she added, ‘A job! You didn’t tell me about no job.’

That was a lie, but arguing was futile. As soon as the acceptance letter hit the welcome mat in the hallway, the old woman had showed little interest in anything other than when her next meal was coming. A sigh of displeasure filled the stale air. ‘What time you gonna be home, dyke?’

Jacobs shrugged. ‘Around six.’

‘I have to be alone all day! Who’s going to look after me?’

Jacobs tried to hide the immense glow of pleasure from the old lady’s pain. Habit kicked in and she resumed the façade of trained nursemaid. ‘I left yesterday’s cottage pie in the oven, made up some banana smoothies and put them in sterilised bottles. I set out your medicine on the table in order of the time you should take each dose. Oh, and I got today’s newspapers.

They’re on the coffee table.’

‘That’s the least you can do, seeing how you’re living here rent-free.’

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Jacobs quickly retreated from the room, washed up, and checked the house for dust. Sleeping pills in the juice would see to it Gracie would spend much of the day in that rarest of states: peace.

The office building was located near Carnaby Street, a fashionable hub of the West End of London. In the foyer was a security booth where a couple of uniformed guards (paid to stare at computer screens for 12-hour shifts while listening to the radio and fighting the urge to sleep) perked up when she entered. She presented ID and an official letter from the magazine and signed for her security pass with a sense of triumph. Work! At last!

It was the first day of the rest of her life. She even hummed in the lift until she reached the office, scanned her pass on the wall panel, and threw open the door.

It was a large murky office, the curtains facing the door having been drawn against the sunlight. A crack of light exposed a lonely corner of the office, where she spotted an open safe.

The walls were covered with a mosaic of pictures. Closer scrutiny revealed them to be magazine covers with blurry UFO pictures and drawings of aliens, their dark almond-shaped eyes penetrating hers.

She felt a twinge of nostalgia. This was the home of Truth Serum magazine – a cavalcade of stories about chemtrails, Big Brother and other conspiracy theories.

How ironic, she thought, that the very secrets and lies Truth Serum needed to survive were created by the very governments and major corporations considered the enemy. The magazine inhabited a bizarre world where they fought for the right of ordinary people to know the truth.

All done with the comforting knowledge that conspiracies would never die because even if governments were 100% transparent there would remain the suspicion of cover-up.

The rest of the office was an oversized space centred by two desks jammed together to create an island among a sea of carpet. One desk had a lonely Apple MacBook in the centre while the other was dotted with fast food boxes in oriental writing, arranged around a prone body slumped over the desk.

And the body wasn’t breathing. Great, she thought, back to the classified ads and job websites. My first day and the boss is dead!

Ideas and time are powerful things. Both had given Blair Cox a mildly successful niche magazine, an online store, and a business that required his limited presence in the role of overseer. While poorly paid freelancers did the grunt work, Cox bundled their jigsaw puzzle of articles into a magazine that was distributed to various postal and email addresses around the globe. Even the merchandise in the online store was outsourced through dropshippers in China. Maximum profit, minimum effort.

Truth Serum was now 15 years old and had just printed an anniversary edition, a compilation of new stories and the best of the last decade and a half. The edition was a way of paying homage to all those wild theories that helped put Cuban cigars between Cox’s fingers and Columbia’s finest white powder up his nasal passage.

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But this came at a cost. Time had produced a considerable strain on Blair Cox’s body. He was now a big teddy bear of a man, worn down by cumulative years of work, worry, cocaine and a lack of anything healthy in between. He’d made it. And now he’d become that most imbalanced of species: a man with something to lose.

He was lost in the same dream: the king’s throne of money crumbling beneath him as he falls to the floor. It faded. Blair Cox felt a presence. His eyes fluttered to life.

She was standing by the frame of the doorway, eyes closed, her plump lips mouthing a silent countdown. She reached zero and opened her green eyes, fixing them first on the room and then on him.

The girl’s shoulder-length black hair, set-off against ghostly white skin with no make-up, gave rise to frightening thoughts of bloodsuckers and sorcerers. However, her smart suit put him slightly at ease, for she looked ready for a job selling mutual funds in the city, or shares in blood plasma to Count Dracula and family. To cap the professional appearance, she shouldered a brown leather satchel, which gave her body a noticeable sag.

‘Smells like you actually live here,’ she said with a light laugh, sniffing the pungent odour the open door had done nothing to dissolve. There was instant regret on her face. Too late. Cox already knew her type. Words dribbled out of her mouth with little thought. From synapses to speech instantaneously.

‘I only sleep here when I’m working,’ Cox retorted with a yawn. ‘Eight o’clock already,’ he said, checking the wall clock. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes helped clear his head a little. ‘Weekends go quicker than sprint races these days. Anyway, welcome to Truth Serum magazine…the choice of reading for conspiracy theorists, UFO hunters, and the government. You must be Chloe…

Jacobs...’ He’d spotted the bold writing of her name on the pass hanging from a lanyard around her neck. ‘I see security have given you the keys to the kingdom.’

‘They had the temerity to be awake,’ she said, before apologising for the breakneck speed of the reply.

Blair Cox levered himself from the cushioned chair. ‘Anyway,’ he said accusingly, ‘you’re early. I said ten, it’s eight.’

Cox scraped white dust from the table, tossed food cartons in the waste bin. There was nothing he could do about the smell of Vietnamese food, which lingered long after the memory of its sumptuous taste, and would do so even after a dose of an aerosol can. By this time, Jacobs had closed the door, deciding she was indeed in the right place. He scanned her fingerprints and registered them with the computer.

‘I’m an early bird,’ said Jacobs with nervous laughter as she scanned the office and appeared to be making covert plans for its rearrangement. ‘Thought I’d come in early to coagulate my thoughts.’

‘The office is usually more secure,’ said Cox, closing the safe and sitting down. He explained that the office had two Apple MacBook computers – usually stored in the safe and secured with biometrics and 24-character passwords. Secure Deep Web browsers and VPNs ensured the 10

internet connection was anonymous, secure and untraceable. Kill switch software disabled the laptops in the event of theft, erasing the hard drive.

Jacobs sat at the desk opposite while he rummaged around a drawer, sliding a dainty silver phone across at her. ‘Touch it,’ he said. ‘It’s not radioactive.’

‘Ah, so it’s true. You use the Nokia eighty-eight ten – a piece of history circa the nineties. My mother has one of these. Sliding case. No GPS. No camera. No video. No apps. The favoured communications device of pimps, pushers and prostitutes.’

Cox nodded. ‘I won’t ask which one your mum is. Bottom line, it’s a phone. It does phone things, like make calls and send text messages. If you must take selfies, have irreverent chats, or play games, then you’re out of luck.’

He pointed to a small fridge, which seemed to magically appear on his command. It was tucked in a corner behind the door. A packet of plain chocolate digestives, a kettle, and a jar of instant coffee stood on top.

‘What would you like me to do today?’ she asked.

Cox shrugged and gave a yawn. ‘I want you to learn your ABC. You know your ABC?’ ‘I like to think so.’

‘Go on then.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Deadly serious.’

Jacobs recited the alphabet. At G Cox, laughing uncontrollably, told her to stop.

‘The ABC of life today is simple: “A – assume nothing, B – believe no-one. C – check everything”. In this day and age, even reality TV isn’t real. So, when everyone is lying to you, suspicion and paranoia are rational responses. That’s why Truth Serum is popular.’

‘OK…so what do you want me to do today?’

Cox yawned again. A weekend of soaking his hefty carcass in the cushioned chair, pouring over stories for the next monthly edition of the magazine, and cuddling up to a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label showed few signs of wearing off. He shut his eyes. ‘You can edit the latest magazine. It’s on the laptop. Aside from that do what you want as long as it makes zero decibels.’

‘Actually,’ said Jacobs, ‘I thought we could talk about the future of the magazine.’ He heard a heavy slap on the table and cocked an eye open. Chloe Jacobs was leafing through a paper mountain. ‘I’ve evaluated the circulation and content of the magazine over the last couple of years, as well as how it’s marketed, and have come up with a number of suggestions.’

Cox shot to his feet, closed his eyes and raised his hands to heaven as though preaching to an entirely tangible altar. ‘Lord! Lord! What demon have you brought forth at this ungodly hour?

Please Lord, I have had my fill of these young people with their iPad and iPhone fetishes and their refusal to play by my rules. Lord, I command you, strike this Millennium Child down!’

Having had no prior warning of such antics, Jacobs watched open-mouthed as the man who she was going to have to call ‘boss’ opened his eyes and checked she hadn’t disintegrated into ashes.

Then Cox sat down again and composed himself. Making no reference to his outburst, yet tacitly justifying it, he said, ‘The magazine circulates at fifty thousand copies a month, that’s enough for me.’

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Now on familiar and less holy territory, Jacobs felt a surge of confidence. ‘But according to your last published accounts, the online shop only grosses ten thousand a month and your online magazine has only twenty thousand subscribers. If we enhanced our social media presence–’ He cut her off with a raised hand. ‘Not interested in online sales or social media. Aside from our website, the internet is where losers go to feel important.’

‘That just happens to be where the winners make money too,’ she replied. ‘In such things as recurring online subscriptions, and not just in sales of the physical magazine or in merchandise.

You’re throwing money away by having a physical magazine people often buy as a one-off.

People are well known to be creatures of habit and unreliable when it comes to paying by anything other automated payments from their account. You can’t rely on cash buyers forever.

The more online subscribers you can lock in, the more successful you’ll be. I’ve come up with various stratagems…’

Cox’s head throbbed and the clothes he’d marinated in over the weekend gave off a pungent smell, which he’d suddenly become conscious of. ‘Chloe, you do realise your assistant editor role is an internship?’ Suspicion filled his voice.

‘Which includes lunch and expenses?’ replied Jacobs.

‘After three months of office work, you’ll leave with a half-decent reference and a pat on the back or backside, whichever you prefer.’ Cox rubbed his thick palms together.

‘At interview you did say there was a chance of full-time employment and the post would include investigative work.’

‘Did I?’ He gave a laugh. ‘The bullshit we say at interviews, huh?’ He met Jacobs’ icy stare with a smile. ‘The role mainly involves editing the magazine and making sure it comes out on time.

‘We’ll see about the other stuff. Depends on how we work together.’ After a glance up at the wall clock, Cox’s lids folded over his eyes. He slumped to the desk, breathing heavily. ‘Wake me at ten.’

An incredulous Jacobs stared him down. The cleaner should’ve vacuumed you up after doing the carpet, she thought. At interview this same arsehole sold her a magazine on the rise, a magazine ready to charge forward and rebrand itself as a serious publication. She was to be the dynamic assistant editor. Not quite Batman and Robin or Lois Lane to his Clark Kent, but, she hoped, not far off.

‘Look,’ she said, voice increasing an octave, ‘I know the average lifespan of an intern here is shorter than a Taylor Swift relationship, but as I said at interview, this is my dream job and I’m in this for the long haul.’

He began to snore. As Blair Cox slept, she proceeded to tidy up the room properly, giving exaggerated motherly gasps of disgust while gathering the accumulated rubbish from around his tree trunk legs and under the desk.

When he eventually woke, he offered to make a coffee.

Chloe Jacobs was brought up on vanilla lattes made with freshly ground coffee beans. Such a stance had no kinship with instant coffee. As for tea, it was as appetising as sunbathing on Venus.

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‘If I had my way, instant coffee would be illegal,’ she said. ‘Served to prison inmates as part of their sentence.’

He rose to his feet. ‘While you throw away half the office, it’s time for me to give in to the calling of shower gel. I’m off home.’

Before leaving, he indicated the Apple MacBook on his desk. ‘The latest issue of the magazine is there. Proofread it for errors. Lead story is the Bigfoot attack in the Tibetan mountains and the alleged alien abduction filmed live in the Big Brother house in China.’

‘Now that’s what I call an eviction,’ Jacobs said. ‘But shouldn’t you be here to show me the ropes?’

‘You’ve read the magazine before. You know how we write.’

‘But–’ A shrill ring of the phone disrupted her protestation. Jacobs snatched it up and took the call that would change Truth Serum magazine and their lives forever.

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THREE Carnaby Street – a paved concourse flanked by single-unit shops – was busy with tourists. Coffee wasn’t yet on the menu for them, therefore Halie’s Cafeé was one of the few places where Jacobs could think and breathe. As she entered, the alluring smells of cinnamon and ginger evoked images of huge sacks of fragrant spices being lifted onto container ships from exotic locations.

The vapours effectively wiped away the memory of Cox’s rank odour. Aside from being the nearest sit down cafeé to the office, it was the type of place she often used to lounge in all day when she had money. It was spacious, with comfy corner sofas nestled along the rear walls, as well as free internet and tables large enough for a computer.

As the door closed behind her, Jacobs shut her eyes and counted silently. Satisfied she’d let the memory of the layout seep into her subconscious, she weaved between the tables and docile conversations to a man sitting alone on one of the corner sofas. He was of medium height and stocky build with thinning ginger hair, just as he’d described. Like Blair Cox, he was the type who would be no good running from an invading fleet of aliens, but he’d make an effective human shield from their weapons. Upon seeing Jacobs, he sprung to his feet and reached out a massive hand, shaking gingerly, as though she were fragile. Jacobs bit back by gripping his hand tighter, feeling a surge of pain from the band of gold between his fingers.

‘I’m William Pringle,’ he said in a grim Scottish accent. His tone reflected the seriousness of the call 30 minutes earlier. He glanced over her shoulder.

‘Mr Cox couldn’t make it,’ Jacobs said.

Not a complete lie.

Blair Cox had no interest in speaking with William Pringle, despite the urgency of the call.

‘We get tons of calls,’ he had said. ‘Groupies. Wannabe aliens. Cranks. If we met everyone we’d never get any sleep.’

‘Do you mind if I go?’ Jacobs had asked sheepishly.

And here she was, apologising for the absence of her boss.

‘It’s a shame,’ said William Pringle, burying his face in his hands for a split second to reveal a bald island in the centre of his ginger hair. He came up for air a few seconds later, adding, ‘It was really Blair Cox who I wanted to speak to.’ The waitress approached. ‘Coffee’s on me,’ he said.

Jacobs wasn’t letting go the chance to order a large marshmallow latte with a cranberry and pecan cookie on the side. The price of a listening ear. As soon as the waitress was out of earshot William Pringle apologised for the late notice. ‘Like I said on the phone, sorry for springing this on you. A client asked me to pay you a visit as a matter of urgency.’

Other than admitting to being a private investigator based in Scotland, William Pringle hadn’t said much on the phone. Nothing a quick check on Google couldn’t solve. From the PI’s website, she ascertained William Pringle was in his late fifties and an ex-police detective in Strathclyde.

His family-run private detective agency had a rating of 4.9 out of five on Trustpilot.

The PI pulled a briefcase onto his lap. The waitress came over but William Pringle didn’t seem to notice her placing a tray on the table, for he was too busy opening a folder and presenting Jacobs with a family photo containing a row of four smiling faces.

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‘The two teenagers are Hugh and Harris McRae. You may have heard of them.’ The PI paused as if for acknowledgement. When Jacobs shook her head, he continued. ‘A month ago their parents came home to find them missing.’

‘I wasn’t with Truth Serum back then,’ admitted Jacobs.

This seemed to disappoint William Pringle more than the non-appearance of Cox, for he put his head in his hands once again. Jacobs took a sip of the latte. The creamy marshmallow coffee was silky and sweet. Heaven in a mug.

‘Their parents hired me to find them,’ said the PI. ‘I’m here, Miss Jacobs, because the police have ended their interest in the case before it really started. I’m the family’s only hope.’ Spoken as though the weight of expectation was crushing him.

‘What does any of this have to do with Truth Serum?’

‘The truth, Miss Jacobs, no pun intended, is that I have absolutely no idea.’ He nodded in acknowledgment of her confusion. ‘What I know is Harris McRae was a fan of your magazine.’

She shrugged. ‘So? It’s not a crime.’ Years of ridicule at her emotional investment in conspiracy theories afforded her some authority in defensiveness.

‘It’s not very good though is it?’ Through disdainful laughter, he added, ‘Aliens, UFOs, conspiracy theories. Most of the pictures are either doctored, or so vague as to be meaningless.

Anyway, I’m not here to discuss the quality of your magazine.’ He dismissed the magazine with a wave of the hand and leafed through the folder. ‘In fact, I didn’t think of it until I came across something the other day.’

He placed a sheet of paper over the photo. ‘The twins’ phones were missing,’ he said. ‘The parents got a list of their calls.’ He pointed to a telephone number on the itemised list. ‘That’s the number for the magazine. Harris made a call the day he vanished.’

‘What of it?’

She got lost in the tastes and smells of coffee and the sounds of clanging cups and chatter from surrounding tables. William Pringle brought her back to the subject at hand with a light cough, directing her attention towards the itemised list. The records stated Harris McRae called from his mobile and spoke to someone at 9:03 for three minutes and ten seconds on the day he vanished.

‘Sure they didn’t just run away?’ she asked.

‘The police like that theory too. But it makes no sense.’ He tapped images of each twin in turn.

‘These two fine kids were preparing to go to university in a few months. They had long-term girlfriends.’ The PI shook his head. ‘Even in the unlikely event of that being the case, the parents still have every right to hire an investigator to look for them.’

An exciting thought came to Jacobs. She stifled it, at the risk of ridicule. Remember, she thought, this man hates the magazine. But she couldn’t contain herself. ‘And you think maybe they were...’

The PI looked a little confused. In a moment of revelation, he smiled and shook his head. ‘No Miss Jacobs, alien abduction isn’t on the table here, I’m afraid.’

‘Then what is it you want?’

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‘Do you keep recordings of phone conversations?’ he asked. ‘Anything you can provide would be appreciated.’ He clasped his hands together as if in prayer.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

She downed the remains of her coffee. William Pringle slid over his business card. He would remain in town for a day or so. As she left, Jacobs muttered a curse and trotted back. She’d left her cranberry and pecan cookie. And that was like leaving money on the table.

16

FOUR Jacobs had prepared a speech. Her boss had some explaining to do.

It was midday when Blair Cox returned to the office. She had to do a double-take. The shiny black shoes, suit and tie made him appear ready for a day as a stockbroker, though they were spoiled somewhat by being topped off by a casual jacket, several sizes too big, probably in order to accommodate his swollen belly. He’d also shaved. To her surprise, she found his round face not unpleasant. Extended from his large fingers were carrier bags with a dragon logo and a name: Ma-Ma’s Fine Vietnamese Food to Take Away. Coconut vapours trailed as he sat down.

‘You look like a new man,’ she said.

‘The last one didn’t smell too good,’ he said, peering around the office as though its tidiness were foreign to him. Then he sat down and dipped into the bags.

An excited Jacobs revealed details of her meeting with William Pringle, along with the rampant suspicion he was hiding something. However, Cox’s interest only stretched as far as nodding his head and yawning.

‘Do you remember taking the call?’ she asked.

‘Must have been your successor. We get a bunch of interns, each more incompetent than the last. Bunch of narky teenagers who think they deserve better because they have an iPhone and an attitude. I’m hoping my twenty-three-year-old intern bucks the trend.’

‘You took the call,’ she said bluntly, eyes searching his from across the table. The thing is, she thought, he really cannot remember doing so.

The magazine recorded all calls and stored them on hard drives and encrypted servers in countries where hackers from GCHQ and the NSA couldn’t poke their nosey tentacles. Certain countries may have forsaken Mother Russia, but Blair Cox could’ve kissed the Kremlin and its comrades for their secure servers. Within an hour of leaving Halie’s Cafeé , she’d waded through scores of recordings and downloaded the phone conversation that had taken place at 9:03 on the morning of the McRae twins’ disappearance.

She pushed a button on the MacBook. Cox’s voice filled the office. He was talking to a young Scot called Harris McRae, who seemed thrilled to the point of orgasm to be speaking to someone he called his hero.

That call had excited her more than anything she’d ever heard, which, as a 23-year-old woman in the prime of her sexual and social life, made Chloe Jacobs feel rather embarrassed.

The recording ended. Silence reigned.

Cox slid over a plastic bag of food. ‘As I’m vegan, whilst you work here, that means you’re a de facto vegan too. Eating animal products in the office is an offence on so many levels. By the way, you got vegetables, crispy seaweed, rice, and noodles.’

Jacobs closed the bag and furtively pushed it away, playing the recording again. Louder. So he couldn’t ignore it.

After confessing to be a huge fan of the magazine, gushing praise on Cox and everything Truth Serum, Harris McRae finally came to the crux of the conversation.

You guys give money for weird shit right?

Depends on how weird your shit is, Cox had replied.

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We got some seriously weird fucking shit here for you man. There was a pause. Did you hear me? Harris McRae’s voice rose, disappointed at the unreciprocated exhilaration. The boy’s excitement came dosed with something intangible, something Jacobs, for a few seconds, couldn’t place. Authenticity. That was it. Everything about his joy and angst were genuine.

Define “weird shit”, Cox had asked.

Harris McRae described a metallic object shaped like a rugby ball. Lots of pictures on it. The brothers had checked online sources and came up empty. This thing isn’t even on eBay. The idea of their find being exclusive enough to have not been cloned in a Far East factory made Jacobs laugh. The youngster continued to talk, revealing his passion for UFOs and conspiracy theories. He could have been a female version of Chloe Jacobs.

When the recording ended, she let the final words of Harris McRae permeate. Do you want it or not? he had demanded, the Scot’s patience broken by Cox’s inertia. Don’t try and act disinterested to drive the price down. We know you guys pay top dollar for alien stuff.

Blair Cox wasn’t acting disinterested. He was genuinely disinterested.

Cox laid down his chopsticks. ‘I remember it now. My bullshit detector was on full alert that day.’

As far as Cox was concerned, hoaxes were an occupational routine. The conspiracy industry suffered more than its fair share. People wanted to prove the existence of alien life desperately, and they couldn’t wait a 100 years for NASA to come clean on what was really lurking on the dark side of the moon. They invented aliens through photo-shopped videos, images and wild stories. Then there were the non-believers who were actually more dangerous. They were magicians who took great pleasure in showing their ‘evidence and then, with a gleeful smile, yanking the rug from under you by declaring it all a massive pile of garbage.

No way was Blair Cox falling for that again. So Cox had hung up without much thought, though not before holding out a thread of hope to Harris McRae. Email proof, he had said. I’ll get back to you.

Then the twins had vanished. A month had passed.

‘Where is this proof?’ asked Jacobs.

‘Ask the last intern,’ he snapped.

‘I did,’ she replied. His jaw dropped. She smiled cruelly. ‘Not really. I didn’t have to.’ She swivelled the laptop screen to face him. ‘I have access to the intern’s email. It’s not here. And from what I see you didn’t have an intern at the time, I presume because you invoked the wrath of the Lord on them. So I checked your email account.’

‘How? It’s unhackable.’

‘Really?’ she said, clicking on an attachment.

And there it was, a picture of Harris and Hugh McRae posing like a couple of sportsmen between their metallic trophy – an object with etched panels shaped like a rugby ball.

For a split second she saw something in Cox’s eyes that smacked of recognition; a seed of acknowledgement as if he’d seen it before, remembered it from somewhere. And not from this picture. Then the spell was broken and his deathly pale complexion brightened as he picked up

18

his chopsticks, addressing a long strand of crispy seaweed by tilting his head back and letting it fall into his wide open mouth.

‘I know exactly what we should do,’ Jacobs said. ‘We should go to Scotland.’

‘Your enthusiasm at carving through the magazine’s expense account is commendable, but not what I need. What I need is someone to get the job done, like editing the magazine. Which I believe I asked you to do earlier.’

‘One thing I’ll say is that when you adopt a bad habit you do so consistently. Had you bothered to check your emails you would have seen it was done over an hour ago.’ She forced a smile, one of a child conquering a parent.

‘Thanks Chloe.’ It was a small acknowledgement of her diligence, bordering on, but falling short of, an apology.

19

FIVE It was ten o’clock the following morning when the public address system advised them to fasten their seat belts as flight 570 was due to land. The upbeat announcement of the cold temperatures waiting to greet them in Inverness made Jacobs shiver. Apparently, celebrations were in order. Eighteen degrees and cloudy was akin to a heat wave north of the border, according to William Pringle, who had taken the same flight back when notified of their plans.

When Cox had called her yesterday evening, the idea of travelling north had been the last thing on her mind. Cox hadn’t credited Jacobs’ powers of persuasion for the change of heart, just said offhandedly, as though they were music agents going to a local pub to see a band, that the story ‘might be worth checking out’ and ‘would you like to come, Chloe?’

Try and stop me, thought Jacobs.

Instead, she wanted to put the decision down to a number of factors, all of which she’d laid out in mitigation the previous day. Harris McRae had been a great admirer of Blair Cox’s rags to riches story. Could he be feeling a touch of guilt about their disappearance and his cynicism in not following up the enquiry? Moreover, the human interest and the extra-terrestrial angles would lure eyeballs to the site. And clicks mean cash. Then there was another option: Blair Cox wanted to show her that he wasn’t such a bad person and was serious about making the magazine the best it could be.

She scoffed at this last, fanciful notion. The downhill trajectory of the publication over the past few years suggested otherwise. For instance, it hadn’t escaped her notice less and less special reports were being filed. Special reports required experienced freelance reporters and they were pricey. Many of the current articles were accounts from readers and amateur freelancers in India and South America, who were paid a pittance.

She felt a tap on the shoulder. William Pringle motioned for her to buckle up. As part of their agreement they’d exchanged information. Cox gave him the telephone recording, as well as the twins’ emails and photos. William Pringle provided access to his investigative file. The exchange took place on the plane, a place where neither party could back out of the deal.

It all seemed so exciting at first. Yet once the plane was airborne and the information exchanged, there was very little go on. The PI hadn’t done much. William Pringle’s investigation centred on the neighbours and the friends and family of the twins. The mantra was the same: the boys had no reason to leave and must have met with foul play.

Jacobs felt compelled to take him to task over something he had said during their first meeting.

‘You said the magazine was rubbish. I disagree. Do you know that a large chunk of our readership is in Scotland, which per head has one of the highest sightings of UFOs on the planet?

Have you heard of the Falkirk Triangle?’

The Scotsman laughed softly. ‘I can’t speak for my fellow countrymen, but me, I’m a wee man of God who occasionally dabbles in science. So when I read a magazine which centres its content

20

on frivolous conjecture over government conspiracies and speculation over lizard men disguised as humans, my sceptical side automatically surfaces.’

‘All we’re trying to do is shed light on the cover-ups that happen every day. There’s life beyond our world and governments have been covering it up for years. For instance, why did the moon landing tapes go missing? What did they really find out there? What colonies exist on the dark side of the moon? And how do you explain the object the boys were pictured with and their subsequent disappearance?’

As if looking for help, William Pringle glanced at passengers in a neighbouring aisle. Most were blissfully in their own world, typing on electronic devices, or else plugged into headphones.

Jacobs repeated the question and the PI shrugged. ‘I just know it’s not Little Green Men who took them. As for your magazine, little you can say will stop me thinking it’s nothing more than a geek’s version of The National Enquirer.’

‘Bullshit,’ snapped Jacobs loud enough for Cox, sleeping soundly in the seat next to her, chubby cheeks pushed against the porthole window, to shift his bulky frame. He’d spent the entire flight in slumber, not even unbuckling his seatbelt. Economy class seats just about contained his lumpy frame.

‘Look,’ she whispered, ‘we’re not asking you to believe in the Cottingley Fairies or the Solway Firth Spaceman. We’re asking you to keep your mind open to the possibilities that life exists on other planets.’

He gave a kindly smile. ‘Do you really think the object the boys discovered is from another planet Miss Jacobs?’

Jacobs sighed. ‘Of course I do. Take cattle mutilations, for instance. Cows in New Mexico have been discovered in fields having been dropped from a great height, perhaps from a space craft.

When examined they were found to have been surgically operated on, with the blood containing traces of radiation. Who, or what, was killing cattle with radiation?’

‘Little Green Men?’ he teased.

‘Look,’ she said, anger mounting, ‘it’s not unheard of for something from Outer Space to come crashing to Earth. Asteroids containing alien bacteria have been found here. According to ancient alien theory, humans may have been created as a result. Anyway, by all accounts, the aliens are little grey men, not green. And when are you religious lot going to figure out that believing in aliens and God are basically the same, the only difference is God has more hitchhikers on the bandwagon?’ She took a few deep breaths then added, ‘There’s a part-time job at Skeptical Inquirer with your name on it. Maybe you’ll do a better job of that than finding the McRae twins.’

To her surprise he smiled, a sad smile. ‘I guess I deserved that. The truth is I have very little to go on. That said, I was a little puzzled that, after initially refusing to see me, Mr Cox is now on a plane to Inverness. Any idea why the sudden change of heart?’

21

Jacobs shrugged, even though she was well aware of the answer. From the moment Cox looked at the photo of the twins with the object, he had seen something familiar, something he was keeping from her and William Pringle.

The Scotsman continued, ‘Well, whatever you do, don’t tell the McRae family any of your wild alien abduction theories. If you think I’m a non-believer, you ain’t seen nothing yet.’

Jacobs leaned closer to William Pringle. ‘This will be an informative, entertaining and insightful story,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Truth Serum will focus more on the truth in future.’

‘Then one day you may just have another subscriber north of the border.’

As the plane ground to halt on the runway she stole a glance at Cox, who had stirred and was wiping dribble from the corner of his mouth. From lazy slob to a half-decent boss. Twenty-four hours was a long time in the topsy-turvy life of Truth Serum. And she loved it.

22

SIX The journey through the Scottish Highlands in William Pringle’s Toyota Prius would have been pure pleasure but for the fact they were clearly being followed. A dark saloon car, its balding driver hiding behind sunglasses, came into view time and again, even when the traffic grew heavy. Cox and the PI saw nothing, shrugging it off so vehemently that Jacobs stifled any further protests.

Eventually the car dropped out of view and Jacobs began to recall those romantic dreams of going to Loch Ness and capturing ‘Nessie’ on film. The famous stretch of shimmering water in all its majesty rolled alongside the window as they cruised along the A82, as did the mountains.

They rose and fell at regular intervals, dark peaks piercing the milky skies and dipping beside the sodden banks of the loch. Even the rain couldn’t detract from Nessie’s majestic, wild and beautiful living quarters.

They were heading to Fort William, 105 kilometres from Inverness. The town, encircled by mountains, is the second largest settlement in the Highlands, and best known for being resilient enough to withstand a two-week barrage by Jacobite forces in 1746.

Pringle Private Investigators stood along a rain-drenched high street in Fort William. As they stepped under the plastic canopy at its entrance, William Pringle triggered the intercom. Dead bolts and locks were freed and a plump face emerged from a crack in the door.

‘Hi Jan,’ said the PI, before scampering through to the rear leaving them in a small reception area in the company of the aforementioned Jan; a bubbly teen who answered the telephone as if she were speaking with friends.

After scouting the interior – it was strewn with certificates and pictures of William Pringle hobnobbing with various celebrities – they sat down in the plastic seats opposite the receptionist.

Jacobs and Cox exchanged looks. ‘Did you see what I saw?’ he whispered.

Jacobs nodded. ‘Four security cameras outside the building,’ she noted. ‘Three in reception and a heavy security door with biometrics guarding the back offices. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s paranoid.’

‘But the question,’ said Cox, ‘is why a provincial investigator of missing persons and marital infidelity cases would be so paranoid?’

Upon his return, William Pringle led them out to his car, dodging any questions about why he’d returned to the agency and not gone directly to the McRae’s with a shrug. ‘Just wanted to add copies of your photos to the case file,’ he said.

Cox, already irked by the man’s vagueness and slightly annoyed at his insistence they pack their kit into his boot, forgoing a rental car, asked point blank about the excessive security measures in his office.

The PI turned to face them, poking his face between the headrests. ‘We’ve had a few break-ins lately. Nothing serious though.’ He changed the subject, voice brightening when speaking of the McRae’s. ‘You’ll love them…just don’t mention aliens and UFOs for goodness sake.’

23

As he drove, William Pringle saved them a Google search by revealing everything they needed to know about the parents of Harris and Hugh McRae. ‘They work as investment analysts in Fort William,’ said the PI. ‘They work hard, pay their mortgage on time, and are members of the Inverness Golf and Country Club.’ The PI had called them last night and they were excited about the new arrivals and the potential of extra interest in the case.

In the rear of the car, Cox and Jacobs exchanged looks. Never one to take the word of another, Jacobs confirmed some of his findings on her iPad and tapped Cox discreetly. There was more.

The parents had set-up a Facebook page for the missing twins. So far it had 1,500 followers.

Pathetic. ‘No wonder their disappearance barely made a splash, even in Scotland,’ said Cox, adding unnecessarily, ‘Even cat meme pages get more followers than that.’

A further search ascertained the McRae twins were active on social media, with the usual photos of the boys frolicking with friends. Both young men had active lives outside of studying and their girlfriends were stunning. She spent the rest of the journey zooming in and out of the photo sent by Harris McRae, studying the object in the boys’ possession.

You guys give money for weird shit right?

Weird shit indeed. She tilted the screen towards Cox and pointed to what looked like an elephant with a mask. ‘Looks like an astronaut,’ she said. ‘But what the hell is this object used for?’

‘Perhaps aliens invented rugby,’ bawled William Pringle, barely slowing at a corner before swinging the car back into a straight line.

‘My guess,’ Jacobs continued, ‘is the object is some kind of homing beacon, allowing extraterrestrials to locate our planet. But how did it get here?’

‘Have you seen 2001: A Space Odyssey?’ Cox asked. ‘No-one really knows how the monolith appeared. It just did.’

‘Of course I’ve seen it.’ Jacobs rolled her eyes. ‘Anyone who hasn’t seen it twice should trade in their sci-fi credentials. As for the object the twins found, I just want to know whose got it now.’

A smile spread across Cox’s face. ‘You remind me of someone I used to know. He had mindless belief in every scrap of evidence. I guess your problem is you haven’t been fooled enough to hold a healthy degree of cynicism.’

‘We complement each other perfectly then,’ Jacobs retorted.

The Toyota Prius swung into a wide street bordered by semi-detached houses that still looked fresh from the wrapper. They cruised by double garages fronted with immaculate lawns and trees that were no doubt spaced at exact intervals using a slide rule.

Jacobs’ phone rang. Gracie. Her finger momentarily hovered on the accept button before slipping it into her pocket, muffling the tune and letting it buzz itself out. Obviously, one sleeping pill wasn’t enough that morning.

They followed William Pringle up a paved path cut into the centre of the front lawn. Within a millisecond of ringing the bell the door swung open. Hugs were exchanged, until that awkward moment when Cox and Jacobs edged into view and were introduced. There was a warm, open

24

nature to the couple, in their late 50s, though they understandably wore the distant look of people whose thoughts were elsewhere.

Cox and Jacobs were invited into a bright living room and served fresh coffee as William Pringle gave generic details about the magazine. Jacobs was impressed. Marble table.

Chesterfield sofa. Leather Ottoman. These people didn’t believe in the false economy of low-end products. The homemade oatcakes weren’t bad too. The balance between sweet syrup and oats, finished with a light delicate crunch, made them impossible to dunk. Jacobs tried. A sodden piece fell into her coffee with a splash and floated on top. Cox shook his head. You can take the girl out of Croydon, but you can’t take Croydon out of the girl.

The investigator presented the parents with several glossy photos of the twins with the strange object. They had the usual questions about the object, which Cox declined to answer definitively, giving a vague, ‘They called us because they thought it was sufficiently weird for us to want to buy.’

Jacobs, tossing aside William Pringle’s warnings, was more forthcoming. ‘It could be extraterrestrial in origin,’ she said, deflecting his hard stare with a sweet smile.

‘Maybe this item could explain the strange things that happened on the day they disappeared,’ said Mrs McRae. ‘We told the police but they don’t seem to think so.’

The room fell silent.

‘What strange things?’ asked Cox. William Pringle fidgeted with his cup and took a long sip. Picking up on this Mrs McRae said, ‘You haven’t told them, Bill?’

‘The witness recanted his statement,’ said the PI hastily. ‘And with everything that’s going on I forgot to mention it.’

The parent’s learned that on the day the twins disappeared the street was cordoned off for a while amid the heavy presence of cars with darkened windows. William Pringle was asked to take a statement from the witness and pass it to police but suddenly the witness admitted to lying. A look passed between Mrs McRae and the PI. ‘You have my permission to reveal everything about the case to these two, especially given the lack of progress so far. It might give the investigation some fresh impetus.’

A few weeks ago the McRae’s might have baulked at the involvement of the magazine. Now they were willing to open their minds if it gave them hope of seeing their sons. They even wanted to know the likely scenario if their sons had indeed unearthed an extra-terrestrial object.

Jacobs went to speak and Cox cut her off. ‘Let’s not speculate just yet,’ he said. ‘We don’t know what the item is or if it’s even real.’

A hush came over the room.

‘We need to assume the object is extra-terrestrial in origin.’ Jacobs spoke up, pointedly focusing on Mrs McRae. Cox shot her a warning glance. Still she continued. ‘We’ll treat this like an abduction. To that end, can we see the boys’ rooms?’ She knew that there could well be

25

something in one of those rooms that would solve a huge piece of this puzzle. ‘We’d also like to look at that witness statement from the person who saw those cars,’ she added.

‘What are you hoping to find in their rooms?’ asked Mrs McRae. ‘Something invisible,’ replied Jacobs.

26

SEVEN A routine check detected something was definitely amiss at the McRae house. However, to find out where missing people are, you sometimes need to look at where they’ve been.

From the car park, empty but for a few tourists pottering about with cameras, to the loch itself – which held a silence so deep her thoughts seemed too loud, Jacobs felt a shiver of excitement and fear. The place was like a vast watery graveyard.

As they descended a steep path sloping down from the car park to the muddy banks of the loch, Jacobs felt certain she was being watched. Cox would have none of her paranoia. As they strolled around the mud she went into tour guide mode.

Loch Arkaig harboured its own monster myths. In 1857, the diary of Lord Malmesbury contained details of a creature – its head resembling that of a horse – floating on the surface of the loch. Like all good legends, the creature was never caught. No surprise really. The loch’s dimensions – 12 miles in length with a maximum depth of 300 feet – presented unique problems.

Cox mustered the occasional reply, congratulating her on knowing how to surf the internet.

Then the silence, like a living thing, would reanimate and overwhelm them.

‘Show some respect,’ said Jacobs. ‘We wouldn’t be in Scotland or by the loch if not for me.’

She was right. Earlier, at her instruction, they’d run Geiger counters over the McRae home.

The levels of radiation in the twins’ bedrooms were vastly greater than expected in a normal household.

‘Our instincts often let us down,’ Cox had told the couple, after completing the readings. ‘The worst thing anyone can do when they come into contact with extra-terrestrial technology is touch it.’

After a fruitless search of the rooms for evidence, the parents called a taxi while the PI went back to the office to retrieve the recanted witness statement.

According to Mr McRae, who finally found his voice as they searched the rooms, the boys only took up treasure hunting at Loch Arkaig because Hugh broke his leg riding a motor bike a few years ago. They wanted to take up more leisurely pursuits in the months he’d take to heal.

As Cox and Jacobs trod carefully around the soft mud and smooth pebbles alongside the loch, she could see why they loved the area. Civilisation took a back seat. No people. No CCTV. Just nature and a dodgy internet connection. Not quite the place to get a Geiger counter reading either, if their attempts were anything to go by. Cox spotted a small Scottish flag lying face-down in the mud. The Geiger counter went into overdrive. ‘Chloe,’ he called, ‘come take a look at this.’

Something else had caught her eye and though she checked the reading, paranoia distracted her.

At first they had appeared to be like any normal tourists – the couple gazing into Loch Arkaig with binoculars while leaning into the barriers. But, as Jacobs broke away from Cox, binoculars followed her movements. Her pulse quickened. That bald head looked pretty familiar.

Jacobs ambled up the slope towards the car park, calmly at first. Then at some point, as the couple backed off and made for their car, she lost patience and sprinted. She heard Cox call after her, even heard his heavy breathing as he gave chase. Amid a loud screech of tyres and exhaust 27

smoke, the car was gone. Yet when Cox caught up with her at the top of the slope, Jacobs didn’t look disappointed.

She held up her phone. ‘Their number plate said ‘cheese’.’

They took pictures of the high radiation area, then argued with the taxi driver about allowing their muddy shoes in the car, lost the argument, and travelled barefoot.

Jacobs often thought of herself as a superhero. She possessed senses that others did not; sniffing of lies and deceit was her superpower. A while ago she sensed William Pringle could not be trusted.

Nothing had changed.

The PI called in a favour with one of his ex-police colleagues. However, the number plate Jacobs snapped came up empty. No big deal normally. However, what disturbed Jacobs was the PI didn’t seem in the least bit interested in the photo, albeit grainy, that she took of the couple following them. They were at a cafeé next door to the agency office, browsing through the witness statement detailing the convoy of cars that flooded the area on the day the object was found.

Like much of the investigation, it was long on promise and short on results, containing nothing of use.

‘So you see,’ said the Scotsman, closing his folder, ‘I have next to nothing.’

As William Pringle left his seat to pay the bill, Jacobs turned to Cox. ‘His investigation is bullshit,’ she whispered. ‘I had this funny feeling ever since I got here about him and now I know what it is. He isn’t even trying to solve the case. He’s just going through the motions.’

‘Women’s intuition?’ asked Cox. ‘Or maybe you’re just paranoid. Why would he come to London if he had no intention of solving the case?’

‘He was told to come by the parents.’ Jacobs unzipped her iPad from its sleeve. ‘Let’s dig a little deeper into the life of our ex-detective. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s some government stooge – like that Nick Pope.’

The PI returned a few minutes later. Sensing a change in mood, he asked, ‘Everything all right?’

Jacobs asked why he was dragging his heels with the case.

Pringle looked uneasily around the cafeé . It was empty but for the patron washing up behind the counter. If the PI was worried about being heard, the coffee machine made enough gurgling to drown out his words.

‘I’ve been on this case less than a month. These things take time. I’ve done pretty well considering the police have been no help.’

‘You’ll do yourself an injury, all that patting on the back you’re giving yourself,’ said Jacobs.

The PI shrugged. ‘The McRae’s are good people. I’m just not sure I can give them answers they need.’

‘Does your inability to trust us have anything to do with this?’ She presented her computer screen. Upon taking in the headline, DETECTIVE INVESTIGATED IN DEATH OF WIFE, William Pringle gave a sigh.

‘You people don’t know the half of it,’ he said.

‘Then help us to understand,’ said Cox. 28

‘I’m not talking about my wife’s death. I’m talking about why I really came to London.’

29

EIGHT William Pringle fought the steering wheel of his car around the hills and curves of Fort William, driving over the speed limit for much of the journey, which was fine if he’d employed his brake pedals once in a while. Or even once.

‘If I wanted a near-death experience, I’d go on a diet,’ said Cox, tensing his body in preparation for the car to swing into another corner.

They clung onto various parts of the car’s interior for dear life, Cox’s ample stomach straining at the seatbelt. Any wrong move from William Pringle and the rear seats of the vehicle would be their tomb. Everything became a blur. They watched a set of red lights whizz by. Cox checked the rear window to see if they were being followed. Jacobs likewise.

‘You can slow down now,’ said Cox dryly, ‘I think we lost that invisible tail.’ Though he’d tried to act nonchalant, setting an example for the intern, his coolness faded with every bead of sweat dotting his trousers.

As the scenery became greener and the houses bigger, the car slowed. Cox was able to breathe easier, even taking in the soothing scent from a lavender air freshener hanging from the driver’s mirror.

‘Nearly there,’ said the Scot. It was at this point he chose to apologise and tell his story.

Detective Sergeant Bill Pringle was once a superb police officer. He was married to his childhood sweetheart and had two children. Life wasn’t perfect – too much month at the end of the money, even on joint salaries.

Then Sage Pringle was diagnosed with motor neurones disease – a debilitating musclewasting illness. At her peak she ran marathons and was very active. Within months she’d become a bed-ridden grump, unable to perform the simplest bodily functions without help.

After a pause to check the mirrors, the PI continued with his story. During her illness, the couple had taken a trip to Switzerland. Sage didn’t return alive. Soon after that, his own life unravelled. He was suspended pending an investigation into whether a crime was committed on British soil. His mistress, a fellow officer, threatened to reveal bedtime secrets, forcing him to resign. At the same time, his adult kids left home.

He became a PI soon after resigning, specialising in missing persons and infidelity between spouses. ‘I know a lot about both subjects.’

His son and daughter were now back on speaking terms with him, having joined his business.

They lived in Fort William, meaning he got to take his grandchildren to nursery five times a week.

Cox’s body jolted this way and that as the car was hurled into a few more corners and they gained speed. William Pringle seemed unworried about getting stopped. ‘You used to drive for the police,’ stated Cox. ‘I took every course,’ answered the investigator with immense satisfaction. In the same breath he apologised if he seemed to be going fast.

By this time, the number of questions in Jacobs’ head threatened to blow her mind. The main one was answered almost telepathically by William Pringle. ‘You want to know how someone 30

with so much experience at missing person’s cases could seem so inept on this case? This one’s very different.’ He shook his head. ‘Very, very different.’

Jacobs wasn’t the only one who noticed the number of security cameras on the front and sides of William Pringle’s house, as well as the iron grill on the front windows. Somewhere in the background a set of dogs were barking in unison at some invisible threat. They stepped over the threshold, into an eerie silence and a tang of fresh pine. William Pringle motioned them up a set of stairs directly opposite the front door.

At the top of the stairs, the investigator stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. Fixing them with a solemn look he said, ‘I need you both to promise you won’t tell anyone about what you’re going to see. If you can’t do that, I’ll say goodbye and take you both to the airport.’

Cox nodded. Jacobs felt her throat clench, voice strangled in the excitement. All she could do was nod. Before unlocking the door, the PI added, ‘This is my safe room, where I keep all my important files, backed to the cloud, with biometrics as well as encryption so no-one but me can get access. I’ve seen what hackers can do if they get a foothold into your system. This is where I keep the secrets no-one but me needs to know.’

‘Are you saying that sometimes you don’t tell clients the whole truth?’ asked Jacobs, astonished.

The PI fixed her with an icy stare.

‘How long have you been in the conspiracy theory game, Miss Jacobs?’ he asked.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She checked the screen and pressed ignore. Gracie would have to speak to the answerphone. ‘Four years,’ she answered, catching a surprised glance from Cox. ‘And you Mr Cox?’ ‘Around fifteen.’

The PI nodded. ‘I was an officer for longer than both of you put together. When I was working in C.I.D. I gave bad news to families hundreds of times. One family lost a teenage son in a fire, fifteen he was. It was an accident, some kids mucking around in an abandoned chemical factory.

Do you think his devout parents really needed to know that their beloved son had been on a gay tryst when he died? They felt bad enough about not knowing his whereabouts. Telling them the full truth would’ve broken their heart. They already had enough guilt to last a lifetime. The same goes for the wife who finds out her husband is not only seeing another woman, but they like to sodomise animals. Does she really need to know everything?’

‘You sound like a politician,’ snapped Jacobs. ‘Always deciding what people should and shouldn’t know, as though we can’t handle the truth.’

‘How naïïve the young are.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘You’re just a mere baby at all this. One day you’ll understand. The truth can hurt…the unadulterated truth can kill. Sometimes you have to dilute the facts. This room is the one place that doesn’t happen.’

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NINE Though the blinds were drawn against the afternoon sun, bright streaks of light were cast across the sofa and computer desk in what was a perfectly rectangular room.

They followed William Pringle to the computer desk, flopping into the sofa as he booted up the machine. It was positioned in such a way that Cox and Jacobs could see the computer monitor clearly over the PI’s shoulder even as he sat down. A framed photo – husband and wife flanking two children – stood proudly on the desk.

The boot procedure incorporated passwords for every file, according to the PI. Locked rooms. Top-level computer security. What secrets was William Pringle hiding? What was he preparing to reveal?

After the screen flashed to life, the PI hovered the cursor over a video file. Then he gave a long breath, and turned to face them.

The most exciting event ever to take place on the McRae’s street was the filming of a TV show some years ago. The locals hated it. Once the circus left they got on with their everyday lives. At the time the twins vanished there wasn’t quite the same inertia. The people were no different to anyone else these days. If they encountered something strange in their lives they had a tendency to record it. He turned around and clicked the video icon.

The dim light in the room and her anticipation made it feel like the opening of a blockbuster film. The footage was quite obviously taken through a set of slightly parted curtains, and a dark narrow border both sides of the screen gave it a voyeur quality. It was taken from an upstairs room because the elevated view allowed the camera to dip down towards the string of dark vans lining the pavement. Then the screen focused on the McRae house.

A canopy, no more than a narrow plastic tunnel stretching from the pavement to the front door, was the object of attention from several people clad in radiation suits. The picture panned towards the vehicles lining the streets, fixing on number plates, then, ominously, on men and women in dark suits with serious expressions as they stalked up and down the street while talking into headsets.

At one stage, a pair of eyes looked straight into the camera lens, held its gaze for a moment before turning away. The camera never flinched. Whoever had taken this footage was not only the victim of Jacobs’ jealousy but also had the balls or the idiocy to stand firm under pressure.

Other than the odd intake of breath in the background, sound was conspicuous by its absence.

The screen returned to the scene inside the makeshift tunnel just in time to catch two stretchers being wheeled through. It zoomed in as they were slid into a van backed onto the entrance where the front drive met the pavement. Suddenly, one man gestured at the open curtain and seemed to be pointing right at the camera. A colleague followed his gaze. The screen turned black.

‘Is that all you have?’ Jacobs asked.

The PI nodded. ‘That street is inhabited by elderly people. It was early morning and most were either in bed or probably saw what was going on and didn’t want to get involved.’

‘When did you get this?’ asked Cox. The PI turned in his chair. ‘A few weeks into the investigation.’

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‘Have the parents seen this?’

‘No.’ ‘They have a right to know the truth,’ snapped Jacobs.

The look on the PI’s face told her it wasn’t as simple as that. When William Pringle had canvassed the neighbourhood for witnesses he found out about the video and was given a copy.

After taking this to his ex-colleagues currently serving on the police force, he was told in no uncertain terms to leave the investigation well alone. His trepidation was heightened when the gentleman who had taken the footage was involved in a car accident soon after. ‘He recanted his statement and won’t talk,’ said William Pringle. ‘Because he thinks the accident was a wee warning.’

It had to be a covert shadow government operation, thought Cox. Such people could turn the public into The Walking Blind with subtle coercion. Cover-ups were their stock in trade. The boys had found something extra-terrestrial and were transported to quarantine where they would be tortured, interrogated, and likely killed.

‘At least they’re still alive,’ Cox said more to himself. Then to the PI, ‘What’s your next move?’

The PI gave a sigh. ‘This is my next move.’

It wasn’t the secrecy of the police that bothered William Pringle. It was something more personal. The Scotsman wiped his eyes. Ever since taking the case, the PI noticed subtle things only an ex-detective could. Faint footprints on the front lawn under the windows when he left for work in the morning. The suspicion he was being tailed. The agitation of the dogs when he returned home. Scuff marks on the locks. Nothing that would stand up in a court of law. Then came the break-in at the agency, where nothing was actually stolen. Everyone has a breaking point. His came soon after.

He showed them a picture on his computer.

It was a very ordinary photograph. A frontal shot of two kids in the back of a car with the PI in the driver’s seat checking his phone. In any other context the photo would be a pleasant reminder of the bond between generations, but this had been taken without permission by an unknown third party. The massive security at his agency and the ridiculous security measures William Pringle had taken at home suddenly didn’t seem so ridiculous.

‘Have you managed to catch anyone on the CCTV cameras at home or work?’ asked Jacobs.

The PI shook his head. ‘Just the odd silhouette or obscured face. Sometimes the cameras black out for a wee while and switch on again when they’re gone.’

‘That’s not surprising,’ said Cox. ‘If you’re dealing with a shadow government agency then they’re subtle, like ghosts. Their threats are psychological rather than physical. All the locks and bolts in the world will do you no good. If they want to get inside your house they will. And if they find out about the video it’s only a matter of time before these little piggies huff and puff and blow your house down…with you in it.’ Cox paused and gave a wry smile. ‘That’s the real reason you came to London, wasn’t it?’

The investigator suggested going downstairs for a coffee.

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As they sat in his living room, a shrine of framed portraits to his wife and family during healthier and happier days, the hiccupping of the percolator and the smell of fresh coffee filled the room. William Pringle entered soon after.

Jacobs, recognising the photos, waited for the PI to sit down before asking, who they were.

‘That’s my son and daughter,’ he replied.

It wasn’t long after this announcement the aforementioned son and daughter entered the house, introducing themselves and apologising for following them. Things had been getting kind of weird of late and their father wanted someone to watch over the visitors. He couldn’t have some ‘accident’ happen to them on his watch. It was just unfortunate that Chloe Jacobs seemed to have inhuman powers of observation and a touch of the devil in her green eyes, which scared the brother and sister combo away from Loch Arkaig. With his two adult kids in the room, William Pringle then went on to tell them exactly what he wanted from the duo.

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TEN As the plane took off from Inverness Airport, a thick haze hung over the town. To take her mind off Cox’s belligerence, Jacobs tried to engage him in chatter about the magazine. Her focus was to get him to agree to something. An overhaul of the website. A focus on true stories. Anything. She couldn’t leave Inverness with empty hands.

Blair Cox loved a clicheé , hated change. ‘If it ain’t broke don’t fix it,’ he had said back at William Pringle’s place.

‘But why wait for something to break?’ she had replied.

Now he was in slumber, only a few minutes into the short flight.

She tapped his shoulder, forcing him awake. ‘I didn’t give you the porthole seat so you could fall asleep on me. Look, I understand the struggles you had when you founded the magazine. It’s like your baby. But it could be so much more. Every parent needs to set their child free, to let it grow.’

‘Spoken like a veteran of many pregnancies. Not.’ She ignored the jibe and gave a list of businessmen who had run their companies into the ground through unwillingness to embrace change.

‘More internet philosophy,’ he said with an exaggerated yawn.

‘William Pringle’s offer has given the magazine a chance to go in a new direction,’ she said.

He grudgingly agreed with this.

Ever since William Pringle had laid down his offer, along with a tray, coffee mugs and oatcakes, Jacobs was excited and frustrated. The PI wanted to pass over the McRae twin’s case to Truth Serum. Lock, stock and barrel. The ex-police officer’s radar was emitting a clear signal of danger. So concerned was he about the tacit threat to his grandchildren, the PI wanted nothing more to do with the case.

Faced with his tantalising offer, Cox’s response was to leave and get back to his cosy life of earning six figures a month. Even great coffee could not remove the bitter taste of his refusal.

Jacobs had argued against his position, even as the PI drove them to the airport. Argued as they strolled through the terminal and onto the plane, chipping away at his flimsy objections until he came out with the one argument she couldn’t counter: he just didn’t want to get involved.

The plane hit a spot of turbulence. Cox wiped his brow. As if to answer all her protestations, he said, ‘Whoever was harassing William Pringle knew he’d cave in to a little intimidation.’ This became a prelude to Cox admitting he was past the point in his life where he wanted to put himself in physical danger.

‘That’s the exact reason we should take this up.’ Her voice became a passionate, throbbing whisper which attracted the attention of the hostess. After a polite request to keep her voice down, Jacobs whispered, ‘This is the type of tyrannical behaviour we should be standing up against. It’s the why Truth Serum exists.’

Blair Cox fell asleep for the final leg of the journey into Gatwick. No prodding could wake him.

The final, as yet unspoken, leg of her argument, was to point out the alternative. When asked

by Cox what would happen if they refused to take up the case, William Pringle had laid down his cup with a grave expression. ‘Give it a trial period of a few weeks. I’ll make sure payment for 35

your time and expenses are taken care of. We’ll draw up an agreement. I’ll give you all my notes, the video, everything. I’d love you to say yes. But whatever you decide. I’m no longer working this case.’

‘You’ll just give up on the McRae’s?’ said an incredulous Jacobs, crushing the oatcake in her grasp. It fell into her coffee.

And once again Blair Cox knew better. Cynical minds think alike.

‘It’s worse than that,’ Cox said. ‘He’s going to unofficially give up on the case while officially telling the family he’s doing all he can.’ There was a surprising measure of anger in Cox’s voice.

‘You can’t take money for a service to be rendered and not render that service,’ he insisted.

But the ex-detective was adamant. He had a family and wanted to be with them until a ripe old age. And he had guilt. Every journey to school with his grandchildren and every happy moment with his family came with a sincere wish for Sage Pringle’s vicarious participation. He didn’t need a lecture on the virtues of pursuing the truth. He needed to feel safe, and he knew that no number of deadbolts or security cameras would keep the dark forces at bay.

‘You could always go to the media,’ said Cox. ‘I thought I did,’ came the caustic reply. ‘If I went to the mainstream media this would all blow over once the authorities denied everything. In the end it would achieve nothing. Maybe it’ll galvanise a few crackpots. The idea of coming to you was to elicit a deeper, more clandestine level of investigation into the twins and the object they found. Also, if the boys are still alive, wouldn’t going public place them in more danger? Isn’t it better for them to be off the radar and out of the mainstream news?’

After landing at Gatwick and finding his car, Cox switched on some music. Layers of saxophone were drowned out by Sade wondering when she was going to make a living. The traffic was all bright lights and impatient honking. At a red light he turned to Jacobs, ‘I know you don’t agree with my reasons…’ he paused as the light changed and the vehicle pulled away. ‘…But if you’re going to make it through your internship and beyond, I need you to trust that my reasons are not made on a whim. There is logic behind them.’

Jacobs, who had found a perfectly engrossing smear on the window to look at, gave a nod.

‘There’s something I wanted to ask you when we first met,’ he said, after a period of silence.

‘You do that thing where you close your eyes and count on your fingers whenever you enter a room. You did it in the office, at the McRae’s house and in William Pringle’s house. Why?’ ‘The same reason you always fall asleep when you’re motionless for more than sixty seconds.’

‘Remember to add sarcasm in your next CV, Chloe. You may need it sooner than you think.’

‘I call it a willingness to tell the uncomfortable truth,’ she replied. For Jacobs, the uncomfortable truth, one she dared not admit to Blair Cox, was that despite her resentment at his lack of risk-taking, she needed Truth Serum more than the magazine needed her. There was little choice but to go along with his tendencies.

Croydon Arena beckoned. As she was about to exit the car, Jacobs turned to Cox. ‘Observation,’ she said. Cox pulled a confused face. ‘I read it in a book once – a paperback. I do read books and not just computer screens. Anyway, that’s why I close my eyes whenever I visit a 36

room for the first time. I’m taking in my surroundings. It improves observation skills. The truth is that without it I literally wouldn’t be here today. See you tomorrow, Blair.’

‘So it wasn’t women’s intuition then? Always thought that was bullshit.’

She laughed. ‘Spoken like a true man. Women can sense things a mile away, but men are too distracted marking their territory or thinking about ‘mating opportunities’ to use intuition.’

‘And yet I’m still very happy being a man, thanks.’

‘There are doctors that can help with your affliction.’ She gave a scissors motion with her fingers.

‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should be a woman. The period pains. Mood swings. Endless afternoons shoe shopping. The constant insecurity about my looks. Oh, and the coup-de-graâ ce: childbirth. Preceded by nine months of looking like you’ve downed 20 beers a day.’ He gave a smile. ‘Where do I sign up?’

‘You’ve thought about this far too much,’ she said, wagging a finger. ‘Someone must have broken your heart. The way I see it, if I ever have to think too hard about why women are the superior sex, then it means we’re not. Good night, Blair.’

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ELEVEN Wash dishes. Cook. Clean the kitchen. No, not a typical evening shift at the local fast-food outlet, but a typical evening shift for Chloe Jacobs. Add washing clothes and grocery shopping to the list, and it would seem the average worker on the average wage could afford a chuckle at the expense this unpaid lackey.

‘Where the hell were you,’ barked Gracie as Jacobs set a tray on the bedside table. ‘I tried phoning.’

‘Brought you some tea and those malted milk biscuits you like.’ Translation: the sooner you get sipping the less I have to hear your voice. The old woman lay sprawled across the bed, the sounds and flashing images of another TV reality show occupying her senses.

It had taken a few sips for Gracie to fall asleep. Jacobs found herself doing that a lot lately, feeding the nightly dose of sleeping pills to her in the sweet tea. When the old woman drifted into slumber, Jacobs kissed her on the forehead. ‘Night mum.’

With the dragon out for the count it was time to withdraw to her own lair.

The first thing Chloe Jacobs had bought when she had the money was an Alienware laptop.

Fast, reliable, and what else would someone interested in sci-fi and conspiracy theories use? In the absence of an eligible partner, Chloe Jacobs, aged 23, was married to a computer 21 years her junior. In her room – the walls a monument to Mars and the galaxy – the laptop fired up a Deep Web browser and in no time she was searching the internet for similar pictures to the device the McRae brothers were pictured with before they disappeared.

On the internet you can find anything. She once downloaded an obscure Small Faces album for her mother. The grating tones of Rod Stewart had put her in an unusually buoyant mood for a day or so. If Rod ever came within shooting distance of Croydon she’d tranquilise him and tie him to the end of the old woman’s four-poster bed. Online searches for an artefact similar to that found by the McRae twins proved less fruitful than a search for 1970s pop music.

She made an entry in her diary despairing of her life. Despairing of Blair Cox. He was in charge of something that could be so much bigger. Truth Serum was docile and frivolous, but it had the potential to be huge, if a more demanding driver were behind the wheel to take it to its limit without the fear of crashing. “Youth may be wasted on the young”, she wrote, “but status is wasted on the passive”.

A soft moan seeped through the walls. Just Gracie snoring in her sleep. Perhaps dreaming about Rod Stewart, or her daughter getting a man. A tram whirred by, the constant whistle of steel on track a pleasant distraction.

She found something that made her heart smile. Her face and name had been added to the magazine’s website as an assistant editor, albeit with the “intern” tag. She explored various UFO and conspiracy forums, finding nothing even close to the artefact in the picture. She switched off the light. Posters of the Moon and Mars dissolved into darkness, replaced by the silvery glint of the constellations from stickers on the ceiling. Chloe Jacobs shut her eyes, preparing to enter the

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place where her dreams became reality, to boldly be abducted by aliens and be taken where noone had gone before.

Carnaby Street is an animal that always keeps one eye open. Bright lights. Lots of jovial, intoxicated people. All with money. They used the pedestrianized shopping district as a conduit between Piccadilly Circus and Oxford Street. Nearby, inside the office of Truth Serum, Blair Cox devoured a meal of crispy seaweed noodles and vegetables, mushroom rice and an onion and tomato chutney tofu burger – Ma-Ma’s Vegan Mighty Meal.

This celebratory meal came once a month just before a new issue was sent to the printers. As he sipped a soya latte, he wondered why he hated himself so much when there was plenty to love about his life and his achievements. Even the polished (and quite frankly superb) edition of the latest magazine hadn’t boosted his spirits.

Deep down he knew why. It wasn’t his refusal to take the burden of the McRae case from William Pringle, or the disgusted hangdog expression on Chloe Jacobs’ face when he’d made the decision. It was because she was right. This case was the real deal and the magazine needed a kick up the backside. It was a joke, its stories accurately reflecting how he felt about himself.

He slid out an ancient copy of Truth Serum from the filing cabinet. Mint condition. Probably still only worth face value.

The smooth white pages had barely aged. Nearly fifteen years ago, an exclusive article appeared inside the magazine about an object that was found in Russia by locals who had since disappeared, presumed dead. The article had eyewitness testimony and an elaborate depiction of the object that was found. It matched the object found by the McRae twins. That story made minor ripples in conspiracy circles.

Blair Cox picked up his Nokia 8810 and called William Pringle. ‘Your offer still stands?’ he asked.

After the call, Cox spread a line of coke on the desk and took out a £50 note.

‘One small line for a man…’ he said in a voice nothing like that of Neil Armstrong.

Maybe he’d find the object. Maybe he’d find the twins. Maybe it wasn’t too late to love himself again. The voice of doubt inside his head tried to convince him he’d just committed an unspeakable atrocity; that life was great as it is and the McRae case would bring nothing but trouble, stir up resting demons.

Cox served up another line of coke and then slipped out of the office into the bright lights and perennial buzz of a Friday night in the West End of London, letting his thoughts do battle in his head. By Monday, one set would prevail.

END OF PART ONE

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One The glare of headlights gave way to blinding darkness. Two lanes narrowed into one daunting country road, a road familiar during the daylight but which was now shrouded in darkness.

Each desperate stride was accompanied by the roar of an engine alongside a nonchalant promise through a loudspeaker. ‘You can’t run forever…we have men up ahead…’

It wouldn’t be a chase much longer. They were closing. They had to be. Even with a head start, four wheels beat two legs every time. So the scorched lungs, collapsing legs, and eyes burning with tears would all be for nothing.

The vehicle gained ground once again, as though tired of indulging in the game. Harsh spotlights floated on grey concrete, focusing on their prey. They pierced through the night, illuminating a sign embedded into the side of the road. SORRY YOU’RE LEAVING MANNINGTREE. It was brighter now, bright enough to notice the dense shrubs and their claw-like thorns flanking the road. A brush with those was like diving into a room filled with hungry lions.

With hope at its lowest, a gap in the wall of thickets and brambles revealed itself. It was small.

There would be pain, but was it any worse than getting caught? The jury was out on that one.

The discomforting throbbing from being clawed in a thousand tender places was unlike any other pain.

And the hiding place didn’t assure safety.

Spotlights scanned the area and a throbbing beast of an engine growled nearby. However, they didn’t know where the prey was and they didn’t follow into the bushes. They weren’t masochists.

But who – or what – were they? An earlier image from the town sprang to mind. The trucks.

The men. Their threats. Images from a confusing evening were strangled by the pain of ploughing through the dark web of brush and thorns. This had to lead somewhere, and anywhere was better than what had been left behind.

TO READ IN FULL BUY THE BURIED TRUTH, SEASON ONE, PARTS 1-4 here.

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