Page 51 of The Cut

Dark, ominous clouds shifted across the moon; the rain was holding off for now, but a storm was brewing.

The streetlamps reflected off the wet tarmac as Ben swerved into the centre of the road.

At the corner of Barton Rise, he headed down the hill, past the ancient Hanging Rock and out towards Blackstone Mill.

He stepped on the accelerator. Why was she doing this to him?

He needed to hurry; Karine had Lily and Nate bound to some macabre performance.

God knows what she had in store for them tonight, but his worst fears were coming to the surface.

She was out of control. If she even laid a finger on either of his children …

he flinched at the thought of what he would do to her.

At the top of the hill, he could see that the road was flooded at the bottom.

‘You’re a bad influence on me, Ben Knot.’ For a second, Annie was sitting right there in the seat next to him. Had he been the bad influence, or had she?

‘I dare you.’

His foot found the accelerator and he plunged the car forward into the deep water of the ford.

The vehicle juddered and the emergency brakes locked.

The car aquaplaned for a second like a boat, then stopped as the edge of the tarmac road, under the water, slammed against the chassis.

The car span in the flow and then water began to seep in through the door.

‘Shit … shit.’ Ben slammed his hands against the steering wheel.

He opened the car door and stepped out into the cold, waist-deep 284 water.

Slowly, he waded across to the other side.

Soaked to the skin, he staggered out on to the road and began to run, his clothes clinging to his body, weighing him down.

It was about half a mile from here. Moving uphill, he was drawn towards the stone chimney of the mill in the distance.

There were bright lights glowing from behind the building, silhouetting the mill in the foreground. She was waiting for him.

With each step, he could feel something sinking inside him; the incline was steep, but he imagined himself descending into the darkness again.

His legs felt heavy, as if they were filled with lead.

He knew this path; he’d walked this road so many times before.

As a child, at school on that terrible night, yes, but also on many other night-time pilgrimages to the place where it had happened.

Tonight was different. He could sense her waiting.

He could already feel his fingers around her throat.

He wanted so badly to silence her. He wanted to punish her for what she was doing.

The kissing gate at the start of Cheney End was barely visible and the water from the breached brook lapped over the top.

By the time Ben reached it, the flood was up to his knees.

He stepped up on to the wooden stile and swung a leg over, splashing back down on to the concrete pavement that led to Doggers Dive.

If there were cars there tonight, they would surely be underwater.

As the path wound gently upwards towards the car park, the water receded.

Ben stood looking across the field towards the willow tree with the rope swing, where Annabel Maddock had made daisy chain crowns.

The chimney stack of the mill thrust ominously into the sky.

Ben squinted into the distance towards the very top of the Crow’s Nest. High in the tower, a bead of light, no brighter than a candle, guttered in the shadows.

Someone was up there. He plunged forward across the soggy marsh of the waterlogged meadow towards Blackstone Mill.