Badlands, p.1
Badlands, page 1
Badlands
Gary Kruse
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Kruse
Artwork: Adobe Stock: © pbnash1964
Design: Services for Authors
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or darkstroke except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Dark Edition, darkstroke. 2022
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For Nicole
About the Author
Gary Kruse began writing after seeing The Craft in the cinema and wondering who would win in a supernatural royal rumble; the girls from The Craft or those terrors of Santa Carla, the Lost Boys.
All these years later, he’s still writing about outsiders, broken and found families and coming to terms with who you are.
Living in Hornchurch, Essex with his wife and two sons, Gary writes around his day job in sports and leisure. His short fiction has been published in print anthologies and on-line, and his story, Hope in the Dark, won the Writers’ Forum magazine story competition for the November 2021 issue.
His dark suspense novel Badlands was inspired by the wild North Cornwall coast around St. Agnes.
Acknowledgements
Badlands started life as a note on my phone on 28th August 2017 and here it is, all shiny and new and ready for the world. It’s been a long road to get here, and it couldn’t have happened without the support, help and advice of a whole raft of people.
Firstly, thanks to Laurence and Stephanie at darkstroke for their editing advice, the cover design and also being beacons of advice and support throughout the publishing process.
Thanks also to the wonderful community of darkstroke authors who have welcomed me with open arms and even liked a few of my annoying tweets/Insta posts. You’re all sorts of awesome and I’m humbled to find myself amongst such a talented bunch of authors.
To my Mum, Denise, Glenn, Harriet and Felicity, thanks for your support and also thanks to all my wife’s family for the fun and madness. I’d name you all but I’m on a word limit here!
To my wife Nicole, and my sons Ewan and Alex. I love you all. This is for you.
Badlands
PART ONE
Chapter One
Limbs sore, eyes gritty and dry, Willow stumbled along the deserted country lane, her hair a wild mess of red dreadlocks, black fire tattoos up her arms, an ear-spacer the size of a two pence piece stretching her left earlobe.
Her heavy Doc Martens scuffed the cracked and pitted tarmac, and every step was quiet agony, the straps of her rucksack scraping and digging into the raw skin on her shoulders. Her clothes – a black vest top and grey cargo shorts – were rumpled and covered with the grime of three days travel. So close now. So close. A warm breeze stirred the trees and bushes that lined the lane. The July air was full of the song of blackbirds and sparrows, robins and starlings, punctuated now and then by the screams of gulls.
Ahead, a raven swooped from the slate roof of an old chapel. It landed in the heat-haze shimmering over the bitumen, next to the gory mess of road-kill that had once been a fox. Screeching, it began to peck at the bloodied lump. Feeling like road-kill herself, Willow shambled to a stop.
She dropped her shoulders and let the rucksack fall to the floor. Breathing deep, she pressed her hands into her lower back and jammed her hips forward. The muscles down her spine pulled tight. She winced, released and breathed again, wrinkling her nose against the tang of stale sweat and body odour, fingers gently probing the red skin on her shoulders. Crouching, she dug a metal flask from the side pocket of the rucksack, swigged stale water from the bitter-tasting rim and almost gagged as she swallowed.
Along the road, the raven flapped as it circled the corpse looking for fresh meat. Willow tucked the water bottle back into the rucksack, watching the great bird. Sliding the straps of her vest top back up her shoulders, she stood, reached into the pockets of her cargo shorts, and pulled out her phone. The home screen showed Willow before the dreadlocks and tattoos, before the spacers.
Chubby faced. Frizzy brown hair. Arms draped across the shoulders of the two girls on either side of her. On her left, Zoe, defiantly unsmiling, Goth-ed up, looking like doom and misery. On her right, Ellie, bright-eyed, braces, white hoodie and black leggings and flat-soled trainers. Sadness swelled in Willow’s chest as she peered at the two girls in the picture. Both were dear to her, both estranged from her, one permanently, the other…
With a sigh, Willow unlocked the phone, checked the last text she’d received, the one that had sent her running home. There were no new messages from the anonymous sender. The calls she’d made to the number remained stubbornly unreturned.
Hearing the distant drone of an engine, Willow glanced up. The country lane ran straight for half a mile, and a 70s style VW camper-van in white and beige trundled towards her. Pocketing the phone, grabbing the rucksack by its top strap to spare her sore shoulders, Willow stood and jammed out her thumb. A longboard rattled on the top of the van. Shafts of sunlight sparkled on the windscreen.
Behind her, the raven screeched and flew across the chapel, over the long-abandoned graveyard towards the engine house of the old mine in the distance. Willow stepped back into the verge.
The van kept coming, no sign of slowing. Resigning herself to having to complete the journey on foot, she lowered her thumb, and went to turn away.
The van squealed to a halt, the longboard straining against the straps. The rear of the van lifted slightly, then settled on the clunky suspension. The driver, a young guy in wayfarers with a floppy black fringe, leaned over and wound down the passenger window. The smell of dope wafted out.
“Where are you heading sister?” He grinned, his teeth impossibly white.
“Aggie,” she said.
He nodded, unlocked the door and pushed it open with his fingertips.
“Hop in.”
***
“You came running back from the other side of the world cos of one lousy message?”
The driver’s name was Max. He was hunched over the steering wheel. He flicked a sidelong glance in Willow’s direction. Outside, hedges flashed past, the air hissed and growled as it whipped by the open window. A blunt smouldered between the fingers of his right hand.
“It’s not just a lousy message,” Willow said. “It means more than that.”
“It’s a long way to come on a whim.”
“It’s not a whim. It means Ellie’s in trouble.”
“But you don’t know what sort of trouble?”
“Well, no...”
“So surely there’s easier ways of finding out.”
“She’s not answering her phone,” Willow said. “Or replying to my messages.”
She’d tried both the mystery number that had sent the text and the old number she had for Ellie but had got nowhere with either.
“She must have mates you can call. A boyfriend?”
Willow shook her head. Zoe would’ve known where Ellie was, the ghost of grief whispered. She blinked it away and reached into the side pocket of her rucksack. She pulled out a thick, loose hairband, gathered her dreadlocks behind her neck, and tied them back. Max braked, and the van slowed as they approached a sharp bend in the lane.
“I told you. We’ve been out of touch. I don’t know her mates anymore, or if she’s even got a boyfriend.”
The van lurched as they turned.
“What about your parents?”
She rubbed the spacer in her ear. “What about them?”
“Have you spoken to them? I mean, they’ll know if something is up.” Max nudged the accelerator and the van lurched forward. The country lane gave way and opened to fields on one side and the first houses of St. Agnes on the other.
“No. I haven’t.”
“You think it may have been an idea to call them before you made a mad dash halfway across the world?”
“Can’t.”
Max blinked at her. “Can’t?”
“I don’t have their numbers anymore.”
“What did you do, lose them or something?”
“Deleted them.”
“Why’d you do that?”
Willow sighed and leant forward, jabbing the radio on. “You always this nosy Max?”
“Just curious is all.” He shrugged and looked ahead.
An awkward silence stretched between them. Max dragged on the blunt and exhaled towards the open window, but the rush of air wafted the smoke back in. The van slowed to let a passing car through, then trundled forward. Ahead, the road dipped towards a roundabout.
“Look, I’m sorry yeah?” Willow said after the silence became unbearable.
Max half-turned and jerked a shoulder.
“I’m being an ungrateful cow.”
“Yeah, you got that right.” He half-smiled, and she smiled back.
She picked at a thumbnail and looked down at her lap. Max checked the mirrors and braked as they approached the roundabout.
“I don’t like talking about it.”
“It?” Max extended the blunt to Willow. She took it with a smile of thanks, inhaled deep, relishing the scratch of smoke on the back of her t
“My past,” she said. “My family.”
“No worries. And you’re right, I guess. It’s not my business.”
He spun the steering wheel hard, turned down Quay Road. Max negotiated the van through the oncoming traffic and the pedestrians clogging up the narrow lane. Tall trees cast long shadows across the tarmac. The side of the valley made an impenetrable wall to their right. Willow swallowed hard against the sudden rush of memories. Some came with the warmth of nostalgia. Others however… Maybe it was the memories, or the fact that Max didn’t know her. Or maybe it was the dope loosening her tongue. Either way, Willow had a sudden urge to confess.
“I did things,” she said.
“Things?”
“I hurt people. I hurt Ellie.”
“You mean physically?”
Willow shook her head. “The last time we spoke I told Ellie she was dead to me.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“When was that?”
“Three years ago.”
“Three years!”
Willow nodded.
“Damn.”
“She was pregnant.” Willow peered out of the passenger window.
A pack of surfers trudged past, wetsuits half unzipped, hair dripping seawater down their back, high on stoke, laughing amongst themselves.
“The dad was my ex.”
“Damn,” Max said and exhaled, then handed her the blunt again.
She took it, dragged hard to kill the pain twisting inside her.
“You got any idea where she is now?”
Breathing out smoke, Willow shook her head.
“No. All I’ve got is a couple of numbers.” She passed the blunt back. “And my ex.”
The thought of contacting Harrison made her stomach flip.
“Where you gonna stay?”
“I’m hoping they’ll have a room at the Spars,” she said.
Max nodded. “And if not?”
“Guess I’m bedding down in a shop doorway.” She scrunched her nose up. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
As they got closer to Trevaunance Cove, the valley opened up. Houses sat at its foot or nestled on its sides. They reached a complex of art studios, and Max turned into a gravel car park. As he braked, Willow lurched forward, seatbelt straining to hold her, then slumped back.
“Well, sister,” Max said, sniffing and leaning on the wheel. “You’re home.”
He’d parked so they were overlooking the cove. The setting sun was lost behind the hills to her left, but it cast a warm yellow glow over the coarse grass and purple-brown heather on the hill across the valley. Rugged granite cliffs plunged almost vertically down into a triangular slither of turquoise ocean. Nestled at the foot of the hill, the walls of the Driftwood Spars glowed white. Disco lights flashed within, and the throb of music drifted up the valley on a summer breeze that carried the rich, pollen perfume of summer flowers. Despite the lingering heat of the day, a shudder ran through her body.
“Thanks for the lift.” She unbuckled her belt. “What do I owe you?”
Max waved her away.
“It’s on me,” he said. “I was coming this way anyways.”
“You sure?”
He nodded. “Just hope you find her.”
“Yeah.” Willow gazed hard at the cove, her mouth a grim line against the pain and anguish surging within her. “So do I.”
She hefted the rucksack onto her shoulders, wincing as the straps buffed the sore skin. Smiled at Max and for a second the apprehension lifted.
“Thanks again.”
She slid back the door. It gave a metallic shriek as it scraped along its runner. Willow hopped down, her boots crunching on the gravel, and slid the door shut again.
“Stay safe, sister!”
With a wave, Max gunned the engine. Willow stepped back. He reversed, braked, then clunked the gears, and gave a final wave goodbye as he drove back towards the exit, the longboard on top jolting and straining at the straps as the van trundled over the divots and potholes, then turned onto Quay Road.
As it vanished from sight, Willow turned back to the cove, shifting the rucksack to try and ease the pain in her shoulders. A heavy weariness burned her muscles. All she wanted right then was a soft bed and hot shower.
She peered at the coast path that wound up the steep sides of the valley opposite. At the top of the rise, the path carried on across the cliff top, but she remembered the second path, hidden from view, the one that doubled back towards the centre of St. Agnes.
It was the one that led home. There would be a hot shower there and a bed; a bed in the room she’d shared with Ellie. But there wouldn’t be a warm welcome.
Maybe Ellie was there right now, safe and sound and chuckling at the little game she’d played on Willow.
Unlikely.
She’d check, of course, to make sure. But not right away. Only as a last resort if she didn’t turn anything else up.
She’d risk speaking to Harrison first. Maybe he could point her in the right direction, if he didn’t scream in her face and tell her to go to hell. With luck, she’d find Ellie and get out of here again before her father ever knew she’d returned.
Chapter Two
Willow squeezed through the crowds gathered outside the Driftwood Spars. She ducked into the main bar. It had a low ceiling crossed with dark wooden beams and old ship wheels above a stone fireplace. Behind the bar, a petite barmaid with an untidy bob of bleached blonde hair buzzed between the till and the pumps, taking orders with a smile, a look, a raise of the eyebrows. Beside her, a tall, ruddy-faced man with wiry grey hair belly-laughed at a customer’s joke as he pulled a pint of blood-red ale. He wore a rumpled white shirt that pulled tight over his swollen stomach, straining the buttons. The gold lights on the wall and the thick red carpets made the room feel cosy yet claustrophobic.
Willow slipped her rucksack off her back and carried it by the top handle as she weaved through the crowd towards the bar. Harsh laughter, booming voices, and the smell of sweat and alcohol swamped her. From the adjacent room, the thud of drums and rumble of bass pulsed through her stomach. A gap opened up at the bar and Willow slipped through.
She rested an elbow on the sticky wooden worktop. The old guy next to her did a double-take as he took in her dreadlocks, the dark spacers in her earlobes and the fire tattoos up her forearms. In the other room, the music subsided, and cheers and applause spilled through the door.
Movement in the corner of her vision snagged Willow’s attention.
A rakish man leant against the rough stone wall next to the fireplace. He had hollow pits around his eyes and an untidy beard the colour of wet sand, a long thin nose, and shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. As he sipped his ale, he peered over the rim of the glass and his gaze met hers.
Her heart jolted, and the breath caught in her throat.
Willow spun away. She glared at the dark oak bar.
Why him? Why here?
She glanced back.
He was frowning now. He had one hand in the pocket of his skinny jeans, the other cradling the ale glass. He wore a loose-fitting grey-black t-shirt and a Celtic cross on a long leather thong that hung around his neck.
“Help you, love?”
Willow turned back, and her heart jolted again. Her cheeks flushed. The barmaid stood before her, wiping her hands on a red and white tea towel. She had ice blue eyes and a barbed wire tattoo on her right bicep. A thin nose ring pierced her left nostril. Her cheeks glowed like she’d caught the sun.
Willow swallowed, and tried to smile. “I’m looking for a room for a couple of nights.”
The barmaid frowned, cocked an ear to one side, and leant closer as the music kicked up again in the next room. She wore a black apron over a baggy grey Metallica shirt and denim shorts.
“Sorry, what was that?”
Willow stood on tiptoe to lean across the bar. She caught a whiff of the barmaid’s rich floral perfume and the hint of sweat.
