PROLOGUE
Fire. Blood. Screaming. The town was ablaze and no one could save it. The girl was frozen to the spot, watching flames as tall as people ravage the street. Heat seared her face. Thick black smoke choked the air. She stood, mesmerised, at once enchanted and horrified by the carnage before her. A terrible shrieking on her left pulled her attention from the burning houses. A man in his thirties writhed on the ground, hands raised in defence, as three knife-wielding figures in red devil masks stabbed his chest, stomach and face. On her right, a middle-aged couple sat slumped in the front seats of a silver estate car, silently staring into space. The front of the vehicle was burning, yet neither adult tried to escape.
Someone, she did not see who, let out a terrible, guttural wailing that grew to a crescendo then was immediately silenced. The girl sniffed the air, smelled ash and burning meat. She tasted sea salt and death. Looking down at herself, she saw the T-shirt and jeans hanging from her malnourished, pubescent body were caked in dirt and blood. The blade in her hand had been wiped clean. It was as if she were in a dream or underwater, a viscous film separating her body from reality.
She stared at the blazing houses, saw a front door open and a burning man stumble out. She watched him take two silent steps before collapsing to the ground. She should have felt horror, disgust, but she only felt a vague awareness. The man was dead because of her. And so was the one in the street and the couple in the car. And all those people down at the seafront. She was responsible, along with the others. But for what benefit? She had been given the answer, over and over again. It had been drummed into her like a mantra until she could recite it in her sleep. To show the world what a dangerous thing it was. To demonstrate how chaos was a terrifying, unstoppable force. To prove that the innocents in this cruel world could be just as vicious and unforgiving towards the people who longed to hurt them.
But standing there, death and violence swarming around her, the girl questioned the point of it all. She heard their leader’s voice in her ear. ‘We are clearing a path to the New Dawn so that we may cross over.’ The girl had never understood the meaning behind those words, but now, despite the haze that blanketed her mind, despite the numbness that slowed her limbs and kept her heartbeat steady, she understood exactly what they meant. She just didn’t know if she was ready.
Someone was calling her name. Footsteps were approaching.
‘Hey! What are you doing? Come on, we have to go.’
Slowly, she turned. A boy stood before her, similar in height and build. Like hers, his clothes were soiled and bloody, and his face was obscured by a red devil mask. But she knew exactly who he was.
The boy held out a hand. When she didn’t take it, he gripped her by the wrist. ‘Everyone is gathering in the wood. They say it’s time. But I don’t want to cross over. I want to go home!’
He pulled off his mask and dropped it to the ground. And there he was. Her kin. Her everything since they’d shared their mother’s womb. And he was as terrified as she was numb.
The boy tugged the girl’s arm, but she did not budge, even when he begged her with his eyes.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ he said. ‘Don’t you get it? If we stay here we’re going to die. Do you want to die?’
The girl shrugged. The boy lunged at her, tearing off her mask and tossing it away.
‘No!’ he bellowed. ‘I’m not going to let that happen!’
He pulled on her arm again. When she still didn’t move, he took her by the wrist and began dragging her along the street. The girl did not fight back, but she did not help him either.
They passed more destruction. More bodies and burning things. The boy’s breathing was heavy and erratic, each terrible scene making him babble under his breath. The girl was afloat on a sea of nothingness. Even though the knife in her hand had been cleaned, blood was still smeared on the blade, close to the hilt.
Up ahead, a car skated around the corner, tyres screeching on the tarmac as it shot towards them. A woman was behind the wheel, her expression twisted with terror, and in the back seat a girl no older than five or six years old. The boy leapt to the side, dragging the girl out of the vehicle’s path. Then they were on the move again, the boy pulling the girl along, the girl staring blankly.
Reaching the end of the road, they turned right and began climbing the hill. The boy slid to a halt. The girl slammed into him. Up ahead, more figures in red devil masks and bloody clothing were making their way towards the wood. He twisted around and saw more masked figures close behind.
The boy wailed and looked back at the girl with desperate eyes.
‘Where do we go?’ he cried. ‘How do we get out?’
She stared at him, offered another shrug.
‘This way!’ one of the masked devils called, pointing up at the hill. ‘Salvation is at hand!’
And then hands were upon them, helping them along, guiding them to the top of the hill, towards the wood, where the New Dawn was waiting. Where they would finally cross over.
The boy was helpless, too weak to fight them. Too scared to say no. But he did not loosen his grip on the girl’s wrist. Soon, they were cresting the hill, where they were swept along in a sea of red, leaving the town behind and entering Briar Wood. Even from up here, they could feel the heat from the fire below and smell the stench of death.
The girl stared at the army of masked devils that surrounded her. Something stirred inside her body, beginning to wake. It started with a tightening of her chest, followed by a quickening of her heartbeat. Her stomach convulsed, as if she’d swallowed a bird and now it was trying to get out. What was this feeling?
They were moving deeper into the woods, feverish chatter reducing to a low hum. The girl was breathless now. She stared at the boy’s terrified face, at the clearing up ahead, where they would enter the New Dawn.
‘No.’ The word was a whisper. The first word she had uttered since the first life had been taken. ‘I don’t want this.’
She squeezed the boy’s hand, who looked wildly around him. He squeezed back. The girl’s heart thumped in her chest. Blood rushed from her extremities, towards her brain. She tried to move to the left, but the crowd surged around her.
‘Let me out,’ she said, her voice a little louder this time. ‘I need to get out!’
And then she was shoving with her shoulder, pushing people out of her way while dragging the boy behind her. No one tried to stop her; every masked face was pointed at the clearing. The girl pushed and shoved, all the emotions she had been suppressing suddenly flooding her cells. Panic choked her. Tears sprang up in her eyes. Crushing guilt threatened to drag her to the ground. But she pressed on, cutting a path through the bodies, the boy following closely behind.
And suddenly they were free. The girl fell to her knees, panting and sobbing. The masked mob continued on, oblivious to the deserters.
The boy placed a hand on her shoulder and said, ‘Get up.’
But she could not move.
‘What did we do?’ she moaned. ‘What did we do?’
Pulling her to her feet, the boy gripped her shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter now. If we stay here we’re going to die. Do you want to die?’
The girl shook her head.
‘Then get moving.’
Taking her hand, the boy turned away from the clearing, away from the town. Then froze.
A masked devil stood before them, blocking their path. She was bigger than them, older. She carried a sharp looking sickle in her left hand.
No one spoke. The boy pushed the girl behind him. He would fight to the death if he had to, would happily lie, bleeding out, if the last thing he saw was his sister escaping to freedom.
He quickly scoured the ground, looking for a rock or stone that could be used as a weapon. The devil reached up and removed her mask, and they saw she was no devil at all. It was Julia, one of the older teens, who had always been kind to them. Who, like the boy, had always hovered on the perimeter.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Julia pressed a finger to her lips.
‘If you want to leave,’ she said, ‘I know a way out.’
The boy and girl stared at her, then back at the clearing, where hordes of red devils were now gathered, impatiently waiting for the arrival of their revered leader. In the near distance, the low wail of sirens could be heard.
Panic flickered in Julia’s eyes. She turned to leave.
‘It’s now or never,’ she said. ‘I’m not waiting.’
The girl tugged on the boy’s hand.
‘Can we trust her?’ she said.
The boy shook his head. ‘We can’t trust anyone. But we’re still going with her.’
And then they were on the move, ducking and weaving between the tree trunks, away from the clearing and the insanity that lay within. Away from the burning town and its dead and dying inhabitants. Away from the Dawn Children and life as they knew it.
‘It’s going to be all right,’ the boy said over his shoulder, attempting to sound reassuring. ‘Everything is going to be fine.’
But even before they had left the wood, skipped across the road, and slipped into the neighbouring fields, the girl knew that nothing was fine. And never would be again.
Chapter 1
Summer had arrived in Cornwall and, for once, had not brought rain. The sun was the colour of honeycomb, rich and golden, the azure blue sky marred only by occasional contrails from passing jet planes. The green waters of Falmouth Inner Harbour were calm. Hundreds of moored yachts with pristine white sails swayed gently to and fro on the surface. They had been arriving in droves for days, in anticipation of Falmouth’s regatta, a full week of fleet racing and shore-side events, which included an annual street carnival and pink wig parade. Also arriving in droves were holidaymakers. On the Prince of Wales pier, hundreds of brightly dressed tourists milled up and down beneath strings of colourful bunting, snapping photographs and eating ice cream. Every few minutes, a ravenous gull would swoop down to snatch tasty treats from unsuspecting hands. The birds had waited patiently for the holiday season to begin. Now that it was here they were not disappointed.
Blake Hollow watched the summer day unfold from the small window of her third-floor office. She was sweating profusely, the portable electric fan in the corner doing little to appease the heat. Air conditioning was as rare in the UK as the white rhinoceros, although Blake fancied the rhinoceros would handle the rising temperature better than her. Her black jeans and boots were not exactly helping, but she had compromised and worn a grey short-sleeved T-shirt. She had even tied her dark hair in a ponytail, which was something she rarely did because it left her feeling exposed.
Much to her chagrin, Blake had recently turned forty, and she’d been having all kinds of intrusive thoughts ever since. Should she finally trade in her battered old Corsa and treat herself to a new car? Should she finally try to settle down with someone even though she was perfectly happy alone? Or should she get a dog for company, or worse still, a cat? Had she achieved enough at the age of forty? Was she happy with her career as a private investigator? Was she successful enough? Had returning to Cornwall after years away been a smart move or the worst mistake of her adult life?
All of these thoughts and more left Blake anxious and wary; emotions she thought she’d finally buried since Dennis Stott had last month finally been sentenced to life in prison. Blake had been the one to apprehend the serial killer, had almost become his eighteenth victim but had escaped with a knife wound in her shoulder and lasting nerve damage in her right hand. She had waited a year and a half for his crimes to go to trial, which included the murder of Blake’s childhood friend. Now it was all over and Stott would rot behind bars until he was dead. Now Blake was meant to forget about him, maybe even rid herself of the terrible images that still plagued her at night. And yet she couldn’t.
She peered down at the ice cream vendor at the foot of the pier, who was handing out cones and glistening ice lollies from his cart. Blake’s mouth watered. But there was no time for ice cream. She had an imminent appointment with potential clients.
Blake checked the analogue wall clock. 1:59. As the minute hand struck twelve, the room filled with a loud buzzing. She arched an eyebrow. In that instant she had learned two things about her prospective clients before even saying hello. First, that promptness was important to them. Second, that their intentions were serious.
Crossing the room, she reached for the intercom and buzzed them in, then stood waiting as their footfalls on the stairs grew louder. She quickly checked her appearance in a small wall mirror and brushed a few lunchtime crumbs from her T-shirt. Silhouettes loomed on the other side of the door glass, where stencilled letters announced: Hollow Investigations. She waited for them to knock before opening the door.
Standing before her were a man and a woman who looked to be in their fifties, although Blake already knew from running background checks they were both in their mid-forties. But that was grief; it not only tore apart your heart, it aged you quite cruelly.
‘Ms Lander? Mr Teague?’ Blake said, even though she already knew who they were.
The woman smiled. The man gave her a sheepish look.
Stepping aside, Blake welcomed them in and directed them to the two chairs in front of her desk. She offered them iced water or coffee. Despite the heat of the day, Owen opted for coffee. Bronwen asked for water. As Blake set about making the drinks, she observed her potential new clients.
Owen Teague was dressed in dark trousers and a crisp white short-sleeved shirt, with just one open button at the neck. He was of average height and build, with a slight paunch. He had dark hair that was beginning to recede, with flecks of grey at his temples. His body lacked tone and his skin was sallow, signs of an unhealthy man who needed to take better care of himself. In spite of his obviously poor health, Teague sat with a confident posture, spine straight, eyes forward. Yet Blake could see a wariness in the way he repeatedly adjusted his shirt collar, and in the way his tongue unconsciously darted out to touch his upper lip.
Standing, Bronwen Lander barely reached five feet tall. Sitting, she looked almost childlike in her knee-length summer dress and red sandals. But there was nothing childlike about her demeanour. She sat upright, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded neatly in her lap, glancing furtively about the room. Like her husband, she had dark hair, which was cut short, but that was where the similarities ended. Her complexion was tanned and glowing, her shoulders and limbs sculpted and lithe. This was a woman who enjoyed the outdoors and valued her health, and who clearly put time into it. Unlike her husband, if Bronwen Teague was anxious about being here she showed no outward signs.
Finished making the drinks, Blake set a mug and a glass before them, and took her seat on the other side of the desk. From her background checks, she’d discovered that Owen Teague worked as a warehouse manager for a supermarket in Launceston, while Bronwen worked as a bank cashier in Newquay, where she also lived, in the same house she and her now ex-husband had once resided. Their marriage had lasted fourteen years and had ended seven years ago. In the second year of their marriage, the Teagues had become parents to twins, a girl named Sandra—Sandy for short—and a boy named Morgan.
It was why they were here today. Because of the twins.
‘So, how can I help you?’ Blake’s notebook lay open in front of her, her favourite pen resting on top.
Owen Teague and Bronwen Lander glanced uncertainly at each other, as if psychically deciding who should speak first. It was quickly decided that Bronwen would do the talking.
‘As you know,’ she began, her voice soft but by no means meek, ‘we’re here about our children. They’ve been missing for eight years now. Eight years, four months, twenty-three days.’ She glanced at her ex-husband, who nodded but remained silent. ‘The police gave up on them a long time ago. The case is still open but no one is looking for them. I suppose it’s because they’re adults now and have a right to anonymity. But we haven’t given up on finding them. We never will.’ She glanced at Owen, who gave her another rallying nod. ‘Today is their twenty-first birthdays. It feels so wrong to still not know where our babies are or if they’re okay. That’s why we’re here.’
Blake leaned back slightly on her chair, which creaked. ‘And you’re hoping I’ll be able to find them.’
‘We’re hoping you’ll try. That’s all anybody can do, isn’t it? Try?’
Blake did not disagree with the sentiment. ‘Tell me about how your children disappeared. I’m aware you will have gone over this countless times with the police, but I’m a fresh pair of eyes and ears, so please try not to leave anything out.’
She already knew some of the details, but it was always important to hear it first hand from potential clients. They could provide information that news archives could not, small intricacies that might not seem important to them but could lead to case-breaking revelations.
Taking a long sip of water, ice cubes clinking against the glass, Bronwen Lander retold the story of the day her children disappeared.
Every so often, Blake would interject, asking questions or confirming facts, while jotting into her notebook, but mostly she let the woman speak. Owen Teague remained quiet, his expression hardened and stony, years of torment and guilt buried just beneath the surface in a shallow grave.
Morgan and Sandy Teague had been twelve years old at the time of their disappearance, which had occurred eight years ago on Saturday, 14 April, an unusually sunny day after weeks of rain. There had been no family activities planned that weekend. Their parents had been having relationship problems for some time and were dealing with it by avoiding each other as much as possible. Which left Morgan and Sandy to entertain themselves.
After several weekends of being stuck indoors, the nearby park beckoned to them. With neither parent around to ask for permission, Sandy had left a handwritten note on the kitchen counter, informing them of the twins’ intended whereabouts. Brother and sister had left the house together. Never to return.
It had been confirmed the twins had made it to the park. Eyewitness accounts had placed them there between 11 AM and midday. One woman had seen them talking to a small group of children and young people aged between ten and eighteen, and a young white man who could have been in his early twenties. The group did not seem threatening. In fact, the woman remembered seeing the twins laughing and joking with them. She’d thought nothing more of it at the time, until photographs of the twins had appeared on the regional evening TV news.
Armed with the eyewitness’s statement, the police scoured local CCTV footage and located the group on the outskirts of Newquay, seemingly leaving the town on foot. Morgan and Sandy Teague were still with them. The young man in his early twenties became an immediate person of interest, then very quickly a suspect. Great effort was made to identify him, including several public appeals for information. It wasn’t until Morgan and Sandy had been missing for more than a year that the man’s identity had finally been revealed.
His name was Heath Monk.
Blake looked up from her notes. ‘Why does that name sound familiar?’
Shifting on her seat, Bronwen stared at her hands and shook her head.
‘Do you remember what happened at Devil’s Cove?’ she said.
There was a long pause before Blake spoke again. ‘Of course. I don’t think anyone will ever forget.’
