Fleet - The Wrong Kind of Clouds

The Wrong Kind of Clouds

Amanda Fleet

Also by Amanda Fleet

Lies That Poison (UK)

Lies That Poison (US)

Copyright 2016 Amanda Fleet

The moral right of Amanda Fleet to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

For all those who believed in me

Tuesday Morning

T here it was. The face of the boy he had been searching half the world for, popping out of the computer screen like a firework exploding. A wide smile; the rippled scars from falling into a fire coursing down the right side of his face; a missing left incisor. Patrick had been hunting him for weeks and there he was, in Chicago according to this blog.

Patrick ran a stubby-fingered hand through his thatch of blond hair, pushing it back from a long forehead. He sucked his teeth, picked up a pen and added email Moyendatell him Limbanis in Kent and Mabvutos in Chicago to the growing list of things to do that perched at the side of his laptop. He wondered how Moyenda would take the news.

He glanced at his watch, closed down his laptop and picked up his dirty coffee cup. Crossing his flat in three steps he reached the tiny kitchen that led straight off the lounge: too small to swing a rat in. Even his slight frame filled the place, making it feel claustrophobic. The blank spaces on the walls of the flat depressed him, but it was just stuff that had gone and maybe life was too full of stuff. Once, he might have dreamed of a bigger place, full of the trappings of consumerism, but this poky, ground-floor cupboard had to do. It wasnt as if he had a choice.

He peered through the grimy window as he filled the kettle, staring out at grubby communal bins and the desolate industrial buildings beyond the road. His brain was still on the little boy in the blog and how the hell a street kid had got from Africa to America. He scraped out the last few grains of coffee and lobbed the empty jar into an overflowing yellow crate. It bounced back out. Patrick sighed, retrieved it and shoved it into a cranny between several beer bottles, then he picked up the whole crate, perching it against his hip as he manipulated the door. He tottered towards the chest-high recycling bins, glancing up at the leaden skies showing between Edinburghs crowded buildings, his brain whirring. How had Mabvuto got to Chicago? Not under his own steam, that was sure. He opened the lid of the bin and started tossing in the bottles, the enclosed yard amplifying the cacophony as the glass splintered, the sound riding over the rat-tat-rat-tat of a long goods train heading slowly out of the city. As Patrick reached the bottom of the crate, he hefted it upwards to tip in the last few shards and his shoulder deflected something solid just before a searing pain ricocheted around the back of his head.

He sprawled to the ground, yelling out, trying to look behind to see his attacker.

I can get the money, he cried. I really can this time!

The man had raised his arm again, a club silhouetted against the monochrome sky. Patrick scrabbled forward. Using one hand to propel himself, he groped in his pocket with the other, feeling for his mobile. A blow landed on his ankles. The man grabbed at them. Patrick kicked back, his heel connecting with his attackers chin; the hold on his leg died. He scrambled away, his feet slipping on broken glass, bringing him crashing down heavily on his hand and almost knocking the phone from his grip. He could see the gate to the street; it was open. If only he could reach it. The tinny sound of ringing distracted him briefly as he scuttled behind one of the bins.

Patrick? Jesus, this had better be good!

His eyes widened. How had he called her ?

Movement in the corner of his eye made him turn. The thug was getting up. He stared at his phone.

Summer? Please. You have to help me!

His voice rode over hers, urgent and panicky. He crabbed sideways, keeping the bin between him and the man, his eyes flitting between freedom and his approaching assailant.

Theres no escape, you little fuck . The heavy face sneered at him.

Patrick? What the

Help me!

The man reached him. He kicked the phone out of his hand and stamped down, crushing it into splinters of plastic and electronics. Patricks stomach tightened and fear curdled as he saw a thin smile twist the edge of the brutes lips. The man brought his arm down, his weapon arcing perfectly to connect with Patricks skull.

You stupid bastard! he spat as Patrick slumped against the fence, a stream of blood trickling over his face and dripping steadily on to his shirt.

Patrick stared dully, willing his body to move, but he felt like he was made of string. Crippled, he watched his attacker glance around briskly; then he was heaved on to his shoulder like a sack of coal. Patrick could smell the mans sweat, feel the scratch of his shirt against his face. He opened his mouth to yell for help but all he could manage was a faint croak.

He was carried through the open gate to a van backed up close with its rear door ajar. Snorting and grunting with the effort, the man opened it, dropped Patrick on the floor of the van and swiftly bound his wrists behind his back with a cable tie, tightening it viciously before repeating the manoeuvre on his ankles. He rolled Patrick into the centre of the van and slammed the doors shut.

It had all taken less than five minutes.

***

Summer Morris stared at the phone, rain dribbling off her hat and down her neck. For some time now, she wouldnt have pissed on Patrick if he was on fire. Why the hell had he called her?

She tipped her head back, glared at the clouds and sighed heavily. Her short nails clicked on her phone as her emotions kaleidoscoped with colours she hadnt felt for months, before fracturing into the hue of a day-old bruise. She recognised the colour as apprehension.

Hello! You have reached the mobile for Patrick Forrester. I am either on a call or unavailable right now, so please leave me a message and Ill get back to you as soon as I can.

She sucked in a quick, impatient breath.

Patrick? What the hells happening? Are you okay? Its Summer. Call me back.

She hung up and clutched the phone in one hand, wrapping her other arm around herself as she sat on the waterproof rug, drawing her knees up to her chin.

Call me back, you bastard. This had better be some kind of prank.

It hadnt sounded like a prank. It had sounded horribly like something violent had just happened to Patrick. Summer stared at the rolling hills and glittering loch before her, drumming her fingertips against her knee, for once oblivious to the beauty of her surroundings. She uncoiled long, muscular legs, rearranging them impatiently next to her tripod and camera. The mizzle wormed its way under her collar; the clammy grass was starting to breach the edges of the square she was sitting on.

I really dont have time for your games, Patrick, she muttered, shrugging her shoulders to dislodge the damp.

Her thoughts ran back over the phone call. Was it a game? Was it real? If it was real, what the hell was she expected to do? Why call her? Why not call the police?

Why call her ?

Summer scrabbled in her camera bag to retrieve the notebook she kept there. She balanced it on her knee, pulled the top off a pen with her teeth, and started to transcribe what shed heard, working quickly. A muffled voice. Speaking English or a foreign language? Not sure. She closed her eyes, screwing her face up as she concentrated. A train in the background? Traffic noises? A train. Yes, definitely a train. The other voice male, deep, no more than one? What were Patricks words, his tone, his emotions? What had happened? Had he been hit? Was that last sound his phone being destroyed or was it something horrible happening to Patrick? She wrote as swiftly as she could, trying to capture everything while it was fresh and raw, and then leaned back and reviewed the notes. Should she call the police? Her guts twisted at the thought. What could she tell them if she did? Where was Patrick when he made the call? She closed her eyes, listening to it again in her head. His flat was near a train line. The noise had kept her awake at nights. A million places were by a train line. He could be anywhere.