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Book 2: Elizabeth Cage

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Occult & Supernatural; Thrillers; Supernatural suspense; Suspense; Paranormal

Synopsis

The second novel in the gripping supernatural thriller series from international bestselling author Jodi Taylor. Betrayed, terrified and alone, Elizabeth Cage has fled her home. With no plan and no friends, she arrives at the picturesque village of Greyston and finds herself involved in an ages-old ceremony that will end in death. And that might be the least of her problems - the Sorensen Institute would very much like to know her whereabouts. And Michael Jones is still out there, somewhere, she hopes. No matter how far and how fast she can run, trouble will always find Elizabeth Cage. Readers love Jodi Taylor: 'Jodi Taylor does brilliant, strong female heroes, and Elizabeth follows on from Max in the St Mary's series' 'I look forward to another adventure with this quirky and perfectly matched pair ' 'Hold on to your seat and close your eyes if you dare!' ' Gripping and full of curious plot turns' 'An on-the-edge-of-your-seat thriller where no assumptions can be made'

Release date: January 1, 2019

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 369

Sample

Prologue

My name is Elizabeth Cage and I’ve never done anyone any harm in my life – at least, not intentionally. But I have what some might call a gift. I call it a curse. Let’s call it a talent. I can see things. No, not dead people – although I have seen dead people – I see something else. I see people’s colours.

Years ago, when I was a child, before I’d ever heard the word aura, I called it a colour. Everyone has one. A shimmering outline of colour that constantly changes shade and shape as they react to whatever’s going on around them. Everyone’s is unique. Some are a distinct shape, thick and clearly defined. Some colours are rich and strong and vibrant. Others are pale and insubstantial. Sometimes there’s a dirty, dark patch over their head or their heart and that’s never good.

Sometimes, friends or family, people who are close, have similar colours. Colours that are related in the spectrum. You may have noticed that there are people for whom you feel an affinity. That’s because your colours are similar. Some people repulse you. You feel an urge to keep your distance. You might not know why, but your colour certainly does.

Your colour tells me things about you. Things you might not even know yourself. Things you might not want others to know. Give me ten minutes and I can tell you whether you’re happy or sad. I know if you’re lying. I know if you’re afraid. I know if you’re bluffing. You don’t have to say a word, but you’re telling me just the same.

I don’t know how Dr Sorensen found out about me but he did. He runs a clinic – ostensibly a rest home for those rich enough to be able to afford his very discreet services, but that’s just a front. He works for the government.

I’d never actually heard the phrase ‘psychological warfare’ until Michael Jones explained it to me, but apparently that’s what Sorensen does. He devises ways of misleading, deceiving and intimidating people. And don’t fall into the trap of thinking he confines these dubious activities to ‘enemies of the state’. According to Jones, he’s pretty indiscriminate in his targets. Sometimes our friends can be more dangerous than our enemies. He’ll have a go at anyone he’s told to. And, from my own experience, he’s not above using his resources for his own ends either.

He’s an expert on people’s behaviour, which is what makes him so dangerous. He can predict how people will behave under certain conditions and how to manipulate them accordingly. He can tailor-make propaganda tools. He can advise on how to mislead, deceive or even intimidate anyone he’s instructed to. He seeks out other people’s vulnerabilities. And not for good reasons.

I know he has plans for me … As Michael Jones once said, ‘My God, Cage, we could sit you down in a room full of world leaders and you could tell us everything we needed to know. Who’s lying. Who’s afraid. Who isn’t …’

Except I didn’t want to be sat down in a room full of world leaders. I just wanted to live a quiet life. I didn’t ask to see these things. It’s not a gift to know what people are thinking. And it’s definitely not a gift to see those shadowy figures, half in this world and half out of it … I just wanted to ignore it and move on from my husband’s sudden death and I thought I had. I thought I had found a friend. Someone I thought might, one day, become much more than a friend. Michael Jones was big and competent and damaged. His colour should be a rich mixture of reds and glowing golds, but by losing someone he’d lost his own way. He was vulnerable. And that bastard Sorensen had exploited that vulnerability and used him to get to me.

It was Jones himself who told me what he’d done. It was Jones who gave me the opportunity to get away. Jones who told me to run while I still could.

I had no choice. I had to escape this web of Sorensen’s making.

So I ran.

Chapter One

I stared out of the big black window. The darkening sky and the lights in the railway carriage meant that, for most of the time, all I could see was myself. I gazed at this other self and my other self gazed back again. My face was a pale blob surrounded by darkness. Actually, that’s not a bad metaphor. A small white face surrounded by big black nothingness.

I was in trouble. I was in so much trouble. I’d been running for three days now, although it seemed much longer. I could barely remember a time when I wasn’t hurtling through the night on a half-empty train or rattling down strange lanes on a rural bus boarded at random.

My strategy was simple. To keep moving. If I never stopped moving they’d never be able to find me. Whether that was true or not, I didn’t know, but I found the thought comforting. Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving. The words ran through my head in time with the clack of the train wheels.

I couldn’t afford to fall asleep. I had to stay awake and keep checking my fellow passengers. I had to watch for anyone leaping on at the last moment or look out for someone who might be discreetly paying me extra attention. At any moment, I expected to hear the shout, ‘That’s her,’ or feel a heavy hand on my shoulder. Or hear the sudden screech of brakes as a car pulled up and I was bundled inside before I had a chance to call for help.

I’d begun well. I’d run from my house in Rushford, suitcase in hand, down the hill and across the bridge. In a blind panic I might have been, but the sensible part of my brain took me to the bank.

Inventing some family emergency – I don’t know why I did that. I kept telling myself I had no need to account for my withdrawals, but it seemed I couldn’t help it – I withdrew as much cash as I could without awkward questions being asked.

From there, I pushed my way along the crowded post-Christmas pavements, heart thumping with fear, always looking over my shoulder, desperate to reach the railway station.

Mindful of the ever-present CCTV cameras, I kept my face down and, to the bemusement of the ticket clerk, bought a one-way ticket to Edinburgh and then another to Penzance. I was hasty and frightened and I dropped things and my hands were shaking and I knew he would remember me. Just for good measure, I used my credit card to buy the tickets. I was certain they would be monitoring my bank account.

From there, I trundled my suitcase into the Ladies and turned my coat inside out. It looked odd but that was the least of my worries and now it was silver instead of black, which was the best I could do for the time being.

Leaving the Ladies, I left the station as well, heading for the bus depot next door. I counted three buses down the line and jumped on the fourth. I had no idea where it was going to but that wasn’t important. It was the going from that was so vital.

I jumped off the bus at the next town and did exactly the same thing again – three buses along, catch the fourth, jump off that one at a randomly selected stop – and do it all again.

I ate sandwiches of varying quality as I went. I slept in snatches, sometimes only for seconds, waking with a jerk at strange noises or sudden braking. Or I huddled, too cold to sleep, on hideously cold metal seats in bus stations. The ones specifically designed to prevent anyone ever being comfortable on them. I had no idea where I was most of the time. I kidded myself this was a good thing. That if I had no idea where I was then neither would anyone else.

And always, I kept moving. I never stopped. After three days, I was exhausted. I smelled. I looked dreadful and felt worse. Three days seemed a very long time and they hadn’t caught me yet. Was it possible I had escaped? Had I actually managed to get away? And for how long could I stay away?

It was when I was alighting from my umpteenth bus on its way to somewhere unknown that my legs gave way. I struggled to a nearby bench and sat down heavily. People were looking at me, probably thinking I was drunk or on drugs or both. This had to stop. I hadn’t been well when I’d run from Michael Jones and now I was making myself really ill. I’d done headlong panic – now I needed to slow down and think carefully. I’d run from the past. Now I needed to plan for the future.

I emerged from the bus station into a busy but anonymous town. Traffic roared past in several different directions. I stood for a while, getting my bearings, while people streamed around me on the pavement. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to go. Except me. There was a large department store opposite and I trundled shakily across the road to use their facilities. They had a very nice restroom and I washed as much of me as was possible and scrabbled in my suitcase for something else to wear.

I’d only packed for the Christmas holiday – and what a long time ago that seemed now. Almost another life – so I didn’t have a great deal of choice, and then I realised I was in a department store. They sold clothes. And toiletries. And I had money. I could hear Michael Jones’s exasperation. ‘Really Cage, you’re not bright, are you?’

I bought another pair of jeans and a couple of t-shirts and warm sweaters. And a beanie. All in greys and blacks. I had gone off colour forever. Colour had been the curse of my life. And I bought a new coat as well. I asked them to cut off all the labels and changed in the toilets.

Examining myself in the mirror, I looked completely different. The beanie covered my hair and a scarf covered my face. I was pleased with the result and this gave me enough confidence to sit in their café and gulp down a hasty bowl of soup and a sandwich. I was huddled in a corner, as out of the way as I could manage, but when someone dropped a plate it frightened me so much I nearly jumped out of my skin, and the urge to move started up again. I stuffed down the rest of the sandwich and headed back to the train station where I bought a ticket for the first town whose name I recognised. I wouldn’t go all the way. I’d jump off at a random station and do it all again.

Keep moving. I had to keep moving.

Anyway, here I was, staring at myself in a blank window, wondering what I was doing, where I was going, and what on earth I was going to do when I got there.

Chapter Two

I exited the train station to a downpour. It wasn’t just raining – it was hurling it down. Grey rain cascaded from the sky and bounced off the pavements. It gurgled from downspouts and spread across pavements. Cars splashed through oily rainbow puddles. The sky was dark and overcast. This was rain that wasn’t going to let go any time soon.

I stood under an awning and looked around me. The street lights were coming on. People hurried past, entangling their umbrellas in their race to get out of the wet. The carpark was rapidly emptying as those travellers lucky enough to have someone to meet them were whisked away to warm homes and warmer welcomes. The last taxi disappeared and I stood alone in the rain.

On the other side of the car park, an engine started with a throaty cough and a single-decker red bus – the only splash of colour in the entire afternoon – opened its door with a hiss. Passengers filed slowly on board.

I didn’t even stop to think, splashing across the car park and dragging my by now quite battered suitcase behind me.

The driver looked at me. ‘Yes, love?’

His colour was a soft dove grey, tinged with fawn and pink. In a way, he reminded me of my dad.

I cursed myself for an idiot. I hadn’t thought to look at the front of the bus. I had no idea where it was going and if I asked he might remember me. For all the wrong reasons.

‘How far do you go?’ I asked. Same question, but slightly rephrased.

‘Greyston,’ he said, printing out the ticket before I could say anything else. The decision had been taken out of my hands. It would seem I was going to Greyston. Wherever that was.

The bus was crowded but I was able to get a seat at the back on the right-hand side – and no one could see me from the pavement there. We wove through the traffic and I watched the other passengers disappear one by one. I don’t mean that anything sinister happened to them, only that they got off and, after we left the town, no one replaced them. The interior was very warm. The lights were bright and reflected off the drops of rain running down the window.

I kept an anxious eye on my suitcase, parked in the rack near the front. It wasn’t much but it was all I had and without it I would be in trouble. No – I was already in trouble. I would be in even worse trouble, although it was hard to see how that could be possible.

The bus bumped and lurched is way down ever narrowing country lanes. The journey seemed endless, which bothered me not one bit. I was warm, I was safe, and there was no sign either of Michael Jones or Dr Sorensen so it could go on forever as far as I was concerned.

It didn’t, of course.

Eventually there was just me and a young woman only partly visible behind the most enormous rucksack on her lap. Her colour was a mingled turquoise and blue – rather pretty, I thought.

She turned to me. ‘Greyston?’

I nodded. As if by not speaking I wasn’t committing myself. As far as I could tell, this was just a friendly enquiry. I made an effort to be polite. ‘Are you going to Greyston too?’

She pulled her scarf away from her neck. It was hot on the bus. ‘Well, you have to make the effort for the New Year thing, don’t you?’

‘Mm,’ I said, not wanting to say the wrong thing.

‘Yes, I always come home for the New Year. We all do.’

I assumed she meant members of her family and said no more.

The rain eased, the sky lifted slightly and I rubbed a patch on the steamed-up window and tried to catch a glimpse of the outside world. I saw a jumble of lights reflected in the wet road and that was about it. The bus slowed and splashed to a halt. The driver called, ‘Greyston,’ and switched off the engine. Wherever Greyston was, plainly we had arrived.

He busied himself with a clipboard, checking off figures and ticking boxes, and paying no attention to us. My fellow passenger nodded farewell, said, ‘See you on New Year’s Eve,’ collected her gear and disappeared into the night.

I made my way slowly down the bus and hauled my small suitcase from the rack.

The driver looked up. ‘I go back in ten minutes, pet.’

‘Is there nowhere here to stay?’ I asked in sudden alarm, wondering if, like Jane Eyre in her headlong flight, I’d been dumped in the middle of nowhere and would nearly die of exposure and starvation on the high moors.

‘I think the pub puts people up and there’s a small guest house.’ He jerked his pen – presumably in the direction of this guest house. ‘On the other side of the green.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, preparing to step down. Of course I had to get off. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life yo-yoing between town and village because that wouldn’t be strange at all, would it? Should one of Sorensen’s minions come looking for me with even the simplest query, ‘You haven’t seen a woman, have you? Behaving oddly? You know, a bit strange?’ and a positive forest of hands would point in my direction. Besides, I could see by his colour that the driver meant me no harm. He was simply a kindly man making sure I had somewhere to go on a wet night.

I thanked him again and stepped out into the darkness.

There’s something very disorienting about arriving in a strange place after dark and I’d criss-crossed England so many times over the last few days that my sense of direction was more tangled than a ball of wool after a couple of kittens had been at it.

There was some sort of village green ahead of me so I skirted it, carrying my suddenly heavy suitcase. It felt strange to be travelling under my own steam, rather than sitting still while the scenery whizzed past of its own accord. And there was the silence too. Everything seemed very quiet. I suddenly missed the throbbing diesel engine of my bus.

I struggled on, trying to keep my shoes dry, pulling up at the only three-storey building around the green. The windows were lit, giving it a welcoming appearance. The sign over the door read, appropriately, ‘Travellers’ Rest,’ and the outer door was open.

I walked up the path, pushed open the inner door, stepped over the threshold, and knew at once that I had made the right decision. This was everything an exhausted traveller could possibly desire.

A real fire crackled in a real fireplace, with three or four armchairs set invitingly around it. A low coffee table carried a selection of today’s newspapers, all carefully folded. A number of amateur watercolour landscapes hung around the walls. A tall bookcase was jammed with colourful paperbacks. In the corner, a small reception area had been built. It was empty at that moment, but someone had to be around because a very tempting smell was wafting into the room from behind a door marked ‘Kitchen Staff Only’.

Some might have sneered at it but I thought the homely, slightly old-fashioned atmosphere was wonderfully welcoming. The whole place promised clean, lavender-smelling sheets, claw-footed enamel baths and home cooking. All of it exactly what I would have chosen for myself.

I suspected there would be no TV in the bedroom and that while there might be a TV lounge, there was definitely no WiFi. I’m not one of those people who believe the government is watching us through our own electronics – although going on my past experience, I do suspect that one day I’m going to end up wearing a helmet made of tin foil to stop them listening to my thoughts – but at this moment, this lack of contact with the outside world was very reassuring. I was, to use an expression, at the arse end of nowhere and very happy to be so. I couldn’t run forever and it was time to rest and take stock. I had to run smart – not far.

I let my suitcase fall with a thud. It was heavier than it had been when I set out to spend Christmas with Michael Jones and just before my life had fallen apart, but for the purposes of providing for the needs of a fugitive, it was pathetically inadequate. As it hit the highly-polished floor, however, the kitchen door opened and a woman came out.

She was extremely tall and slender, wearing a severely cut black dress and jacket that emphasised her dark good looks and highlighted her pale blue eyes. I caught a glimpse of gold jewellery at her wrist and neck. She looked respectable and competent and fitted in perfectly with her surroundings. I felt a great relief. If the place had been awful I’d have been in real trouble, but it wasn’t – it was lovely.

Her colour, a very striking combination of blue and turquoise with a little purple around the edges, swirled gently towards me.

‘Ah, there you are,’ she said, as if she’d been waiting for me, and I assumed she had seen the bus come in. ‘You’ll be wanting a room.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

‘Certainly. For how long?’

‘I really don’t know how long I’ll be staying. Not for very long, I think.’

‘You’ll stay for New Year.’

It wasn’t a question but I was too tired to notice. And it was warm in here. And something smelled delicious. And for all I knew I might be staying for New Year. Why not? I’d only been running since the day after Boxing Day and it seemed like forever. Another world ago. A normal world. A normal world that I’d once inhabited.

I hadn’t played any major part in this normal world, but I’d been married to a wonderful man. His name was Ted and he hadn’t been handsome or dashing or exciting, but he’d been everything to me. We’d lived quietly because that was what we liked. He, because a quiet family life was all he ever wanted, and me, because I could use marriage to hide from the world and pretend to be normal.

To Dr Philip Sorensen, the rather nasty man in charge of the Sorensen clinic, I was some kind of asset to be acquired. He’d kept me in his clinic, against my will, and I’d only escaped with the help of Michael Jones, who, it turned out, had his own agenda.

I’d accepted his invitation to spend Christmas with him because I thought … well, never mind what I thought. Even now I cringed at what I’d thought. He was acting on instructions from Sorensen. They’d taken advantage of my absence to search my house and plant a number of surveillance devices. In my house. In my lovely little house where I was supposed to be safe.

Every time I thought of it my mind filled with images of angry snow and I had to force myself to calm down, because I’d seen the damage that could do. I’d seen the sinister, swirling snow that could consume us all.

Anyway, that was Sorensen – keen to avail himself of my talent. I, on the other hand, was really rather keen not to be availed of. Hence the flight from my home, my world, everything. And now I was here.

She moved around behind the desk. ‘Have you come far?’

Paranoia kicked in again. Why would she want to know that? Her colour curled around her, gentle and welcoming. Soft tendrils reached out towards me, but I told myself this was only the natural curiosity of a proprietor ensuring her latest guest wasn’t a homicidal maniac or escaped criminal. Or, in my case, avoiding sinister government agents. The question was simply a polite enquiry and I should pull myself together and answer it.

‘Yes,’ I said, and then wondered if she would wonder at someone who had obviously been on the road for some time, only to arrive at an obscure village in the middle of nowhere, so I lied. I was doing that a lot these days.

‘I missed my train, caught another I thought was going in the right direction – which it was – but it didn’t stop at my station so I jumped off at the next stop, tried my luck with a bus and somehow ended up here. And now I seem to have been travelling for ever and I’m very tired.’

She smiled sympathetically and pulled out the register. ‘Well, I’m sure we can help with that.’ She opened the book and I studied her as she flipped through the pages.

‘We have three rooms,’ she said.

‘Is anyone else staying here?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘We don’t normally have guests at this time of year.’

I remembered the backpacker on the bus. ‘There was someone who came in on the same bus as me.’

‘Oh yes. A dark girl. With an enormous backpack.’

‘Yes, that’s her.’

‘Ah, that will be Joanna. She always makes an effort to be here at this time. We all do.’

For a moment, her colour flickered. Only for a moment and then it was gone. I had imagined it. I put it down to tiredness.

She handed me my key. ‘Room Three. It’s at the front and you’ll have a nice view out over the green.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll bring your case up for you.’

The room was lovely – everything I could possibly want. It was all done out in shades of creamy yellow and pale blue. Like everything else it looked slightly dated but very clean and comfortable. Two long sash windows looked out over the green. She drew the curtains, shutting out the rainy night.

‘You won’t be able to see them until the morning, but your room looks out over the Three Sisters.’

‘Does it?’ I said, politely.

She laughed. ‘You haven’t heard of our main attraction then?’

I shook my head.

‘The Three Sisters – our group of standing stones?’

I shook my head again.

‘Well, we’re not Avebury or the Devil’s Arrows, but we’re very proud of them anyway. Legend says they were here long before the village was built. Three women lived here, all alone until one day one of them became sick or injured or something, and a passing man tended her. Why he was in this out of the way spot, who he was, or where he was going is unknown, of course.’

She was bustling around the room and turning down the bed.

‘Anyway, he stayed. He provided for them and they provided for him. It’s been that way ever since.’

She wasn’t quite telling the truth but I assumed this would be the tourist version. The nice version. The one that omitted blood, pagan rites and sacrifices.

‘They’re fine examples of prehistoric menhirs and popular with sightseers. We get quite a lot of visitors in the summer.’

‘But not at this time of year, I imagine.’

‘Oh no, not at this time of year.’ Her colour had brightened as she talked about the stones.

‘They must be very good for business.’

‘Indeed they are. We look after the stones and they look after us. As it has always been.’

She showed me the small bathroom with towels laid out ready. I might never leave this place. I could have a bath, swill out my underwear, change into nightclothes and sleep. Comfortably. In a bed. I felt sleep tugging at my eyelids. I was nearly dead on my feet.

‘You look so tired,’ she said kindly. ‘Why don’t you have a bath and we’ll serve your supper in your room. You’re our only guest so it won’t be a problem. Shall I get Becky to bring it up in say, thirty minutes?’

‘That’s very kind of you. If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘We want you to be comfortable.’

I made myself ask politely. ‘Who’s we?’

‘Well,’ she said, laying my key on the bedside table, ‘there’s the three of us. My name is Veronica, Veronica Harlow. Becky, my daughter, you’ll meet later, and my mother, Miriam Harlow, who isn’t too well at the moment, and is staying in her room.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

She shrugged. ‘She’s had a long life. And she’s said to me, more than once, that she’s ready to go. I often think we know our own time, don’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, uncomfortable. ‘I’ve never thought about it.’

‘Young people never do.’ Her colour reached out towards me again. I stepped back and went to open my suitcase, hoping she would take the hint, which she did.

I had a bath, luxuriating in the warm water. I would have liked to take longer, but mindful of Becky bringing up my supper, I climbed out very reluctantly and put on my pyjamas and dressing gown. My room was gently lit and warm. This time yesterday I’d been on a train, hurtling towards yet another unknown destination. Tonight, I was warm and safe. I sat in the armchair and curled my legs around me.

I hadn’t realised I was so tired. I looked at the jumble of clothes in my suitcase. I’d sort it all out tomorrow. There was plenty of time. I’d stay a few days and gather my resources before … before what? Where was I going to go? I couldn’t run forever. I had money but it wouldn’t last indefinitely and the second I shoved my card in the cash machine they’d know where I was. I couldn’t find somewhere permanent to live without getting a job. And I couldn’t get a job without an address. Or an NI number. I know there are people who live off the grid – and very successfully, too – but I wasn’t one of them. I wouldn’t know where to begin.

All my doubts and fears came rushing back again, threatening to overwhelm me. I pushed them away. I was tired. That was all. There would be a solution somewhere. There always was. All I had to do was find it.

Becky brought up my supper. I disliked her immediately and it was mutual.

I was astonished that someone as physically and mentally dominating as Veronica Harlow should have such a small, spindly and insignificant daughter. Unlike her mother, whose long, thick, black hair was swept up in an elegant bun, Becky’s was thin and mousy and hung around her face. Her eyes were so pale as to be unnerving. I looked at her and thought – weak, but resentful with it. Her colour was the same as her mother’s, but more muted, and trembling around the edges, with just a hint of modern orange. Did our Becky have a rebellious streak? She certainly wasn’t happy about something and for some reason, that resentment seemed to be focused on me. I wondered if perhaps she’d planned a night out and the sudden arrival of an unexpected guest had put paid to that.

The food was excellent. Cream of mushroom soup, lamb chops and lemon tart. There was a slightly old-fashioned feel to the menu and the crockery, but it was all delicious.

I fell asleep ten minutes after finishing my meal. I just had time to leave the tray outside, lock the door, climb into the soft, warm bed and that was it.

I dreamed and it frightened me.

Reality ripped itself apart in a maelstrom of blood and deat. . .