Blackmail In The Night - 1. The Tale

Music filled the flat one late afternoon when the message light on the phone blinked. No bleep or buzz because they'd been turned off. Ferdinando Sor requires practise and concentration. Whoever it was would have to wait until the piece concluded to my satisfaction. Finally, I propped the guitar up against the digital piano and rescued the phone from on top of a heap of sheet music.

The screen showed a message.

Come at once! Help! It's urgent!

There it was: the short, mystifying text from an unknown number. I stared at it for a few seconds, re-reading it with increasing puzzlement before the brain got into gear and started to present possibilities.

Wrong number? Unlikely; an urgent call like that would've gone straight to someone in their contacts list. … A prank? That made me think straightaway of Lex. He's my ex-boyfriend. Fuck, but Lex liked his pranks, the more puerile, the better. That was one of the main reasons for our break-up. I have a sense of humour – quite a good one – but with him, patience ran out. No amount of reasoned argument or bad temper could make him see that damaged, broken possessions had to be replaced. And at too great a cost.

We hadn't spoken for months; in fact, any contact was avoided by blocking him. He kept on texting – nothing malicious, just unwanted. Why on Earth would he suddenly decide to play a prank? None of my other friends are that way inclined, thank god. One finger hovered over the delete button as another message came in from the same number.

It was a link to a photo-sharing site, nothing else. Logging in, three photos appeared, all attached to an unknown account and a recent one at that. Peering at them only confused me more: a forbidding, ruined fortress; a bleak, treeless landscape; and a stone-built cottage or small farmhouse. … If somebody wanted to mess with my head, they succeeded. The images looked like a scout's location-shoot photos for a bad horror movie. That fitted with the original message but otherwise didn't make sense.

After staring at them, a finger moved towards the back arrow. For some reason instead, it tapped on the photo of the cottage. There, amongst all the technical litter, was the geo-location data. From the co-ordinates given, Google Earth worked its usual magic, followed by Maps. Hasty scribbles on an empty sandwich carton were the only aide-memoire. But still there wasn't any clarity. If the images were from Lex, it was baffling. He was no more likely to take a holiday in the Anglo-Scottish Borders than I am to go skiing.

My family come originally from one of the counties on the English side of the border. It's depopulated, wild, largely cut off from modern travel, and has a blood-soaked history of wars and banditry. Whatever. There'd be no action until some more facts appeared. Was someone with the same name bankrolling a film production or something? Nice to know they had money. The images went in the bin.

A return message seemed a good idea.

That you, Lex? WTF? You high on something? I'm not leaving here without proof, you bastard. And if it's another of your pranks, go fuck yourself.

The location was hardly close by – hence the unfriendly tone of the message. I have a second-hand car which serves as a runaround, but a trip that length was likely to result in a visit to the repair shop and a warning text from the bank. And anyway, who was gonna pay for the petrol? A five hundred mile round trip wouldn't be cheap.

Message sent, I settled back down with the guitar. That recital in the local community arts centre was only a couple of weeks away. After a couple of scales to warm the fingers up again, the soundscape changed to the Walton Bagatelles. In the pause after the first one… Ping! Of course, the bloody phone wasn't on silent. The sound didn't match either of the two apps recently employed. It was for an instant-picture chat service Lex used all the time. He loved it, of course: sexy, teasing images that self-destructed? Just his idea of fun.

Leaning over, a hand stretched out and grabbed the phone – more to shut it up than anything else. What is it about blinking lights that makes you do something you shouldn't? Instead of putting it on silent again, I unlocked it. The app opened, primed with the right log-in, and displayed what was going on. A picture sat there: a dark blue kagoul, draped over the back of a chair in a kitchen by the look of it. Possibly in the stone cottage seen previously. And? … How many people owned one of those, for fuck's sake? Pfft. The image vanished.

Next, a pair of fake ear stretchers, black and gold, placed on a glass shelf in a bathroom. Yes, Lex had a pair of those; he liked the look but not the thought of holes in his ears. Before it could be inspected more closely, that image too disappeared. Then someone held up a wooden pendant shaped like a bass clef – another thing that Lex owned. All that could be seen were the ends of two fingers. They weren't Lex's. How many people were there – wherever 'there' was? If Lex had someone with him, what the fuck were they playing at?

This made a prank more likely. Had he found himself another boyfriend and this was their idea of passing a slow afternoon? … Well, if that message hadn't put them off, they obviously had me down as an easy play. A muted phone might've allowed playing to resume, but thirst became more important. It was a pleasant day for November, sunny and still autumnal, so a walk to the pub would be nice. A half or two in the pub garden would assist in wiping all thoughts of my ex.

One hand went out to the phone, but a second thought left it there. Lex could continue spinning his web to his heart's content. He'd soon get the message this fly wasn't planning a visit. Anyway, a phone wasn't essential for the pub. Debit card, house keys, and jacket – that was it. Some peace and quiet appealed, but hooking up was an option if someone sexy made an appearance. That's how to do it – in person, not through some app. Not much on offer in the way of ambience back home though: a small one-bed flat is all I can afford to rent. For some reason, a deeply ordinary degree in English Lit. hasn't opened doors to a lucrative career.

“See you at the pub this evening?” … “Great!” … “You too. Bye, sweetie!” One final kiss, and then the front door closed behind my overnight guest.

What. A. Night. God, I was knackered. Dan was a good find and sweet, as well. We left the pub after a bit and went clubbing. Neither of us was dressed for it, really. Still, we danced ourselves to a standstill. Then thoughts turned to other things, and we ended up here. … Fun sex, and he could really kiss. Kissing him back was great. Would it last? That's why the pub seemed the right place to meet up again. This time we'd talk properly; find out if we fitted together well in any other way.

Ten o'clock and still in bed. Who cared? It was the weekend. One hand stretched out for the phone and, of course, it wasn't there. That reminded me of the previous afternoon's goings-on. Hopefully, Lex got the message – as it were – and the phone could be employed without any weird shit going on.

Leaping out of bed wasn't on the cards. Careful, considered leverage took place until my backside perched on the edge of the mattress. As expected, since there'd been a shower and the odd wipe-down or two as the night progressed. Condoms would be on the next shopping list. The ones we used should've had cobwebs on them, it'd been so long. And more lube.

Having rescued the phone from where it lay abandoned, I went back to bed. There wasn't anything much to get up for. The lock screen displayed so many notifications, it was a joke. Dan's message demanded some attention first; adding him to my contacts came a close second, unique notification tone and all. A short, sexy reply was soon on its way. Saying 'Thank you' is important.

Before starting in on the other notifications, the wretched picture-chat app bleated. As if of its own volition, a finger tapped on the icon. This time, it wasn't a photo; it was a video instead. Accepting it, my stomach clenched; things could be changing, possibly for the worse. Anyway, the vid got going. Someone's head and shoulders appeared, their features largely concealed by a balaclava. I turned the sound up high and tried to concentrate.

Whoever it was spoke in a flat, non-descript voice. “Tom Charlton, you have forty-eight hours to find your friend or he'll be in trouble. Big trouble.”

Things certainly had worsened, for fuck's sake. Couldn't Lex and his new boyfriend think of anything more original than that? I nearly turned the phone off, removing the bother of replying, when it kinda jumped out of my hand, bounced off the bedside table, and smashed into the old-fashioned radiator. At least that way, it stopped the screams. The awful, heart-stopping, sickening sound of a terrified animal being abused. Only it wasn't an animal, was it?

An empty stomach rebelled; a rush to the bathroom was followed by stale alcohol and bile being vomited into the toilet bowl. Ears still rang with panicked, agonised squealing, though the flat was silent. The initial shock caused such a violent twitch that the handset flew from my grasp. Retching over, loo flushed, then a stagger back to the bedroom. The phone lay by the radiator, smashed. Dead as a fucking dodo.

Standing there, focussing was difficult. Was it real? That hideous row must've come from somewhere. It didn't sound pre-recorded. … Were there more than two people? Was it still a hoax? Could an actor produce such terror and anguish in a voice? So many questions. OK, Lex was a pain in the arse but that – that was sick. … Did those sounds come from him? Whoever was involved, a sense of shared humanity should've moved anyone to action. If I did nothing, that soundtrack would be forever in my head.

Why weren't the police called immediately? Yes… A good question, and one without a good answer. They wouldn't easily believe what sounded like a bad movie plot. It may have progressed beyond that in my mind, but them? Budget cuts, lack of manpower… Imagine going to the local station – assuming it opened on a Sunday – and taking them through such a tale with virtually no proof. Whatever the penalty was for wasting police time, I didn't want to experience it.

A functioning phone, with my sim card in it, was essential. Frantic scrabbling failed to uncover the tweezers which were the only thing to get the card out. Tidiness is not a strong point. Finally, they re-appeared in the bath. For five minutes, the air turned blue until the card came free. It was carefully stashed away: losing something that vital would not be a good idea.

Clothes and other basic necessities were collected in double-quick time and shoved into a couple of bags. By coincidence, the next day or two were my own. Only just remembering to lock up, the car awaited. First stop, a Polish-owned convenience store down the way. Hopefully, they stocked some unlocked, sim-free phones. Then a trip up North beckoned.

Several hours later, the car slowed to a halt in the middle of nowhere. Lost. Completely fucking lost. It's alright for those people who have their sat-navs and state-of-the-art, in-car whatevers. A crap, junk phone with no signal was hardly an adequate replacement. It wasn't exactly a planned trip. A phone should work anywhere, shouldn't it? Living in a city, everyone takes a good signal for granted, together with fast downloads and omni-present wi-fi. Lesson number one.

Taking a break at a service station on the way, the phone downloaded those apps needed to stay in touch with whoever they were. Having done that, of course, there wasn't a peep. Which meant what? Who knew? Time went by, regardless of whether somebody phoned, sent video messages, or not. Phoning people… Of course, Dan expected us to meet up in the pub again that evening, but now it wouldn't be possible. Typical. Our conversation was perfectly friendly: he sympathised with my predicament – a family emergency – but we didn't make any other arrangements. Would his eye be caught by anyone else during my absence?

Unfortunately my phone lacked the necessary off-line map. Even if the thought had occurred, the wi-fi on offer crawled the distance. Those incomplete, scribbled notes from earlier in the day would have to suffice. As it was, delaying there meant it was gonna be dark soon. The single-track road meandered around, without any signposts worthy of the name. The car had survived so far, but numerous potholes waged a constant war against it. I turned off the engine and got out before walking up a slight slope in search of a signal. Of course, there wasn't one, but the lights from a nearby farm stood out.

Rattling over the cattle grid, the car drew up outside a typical Northumbrian farmhouse: oblong, plain, and functional. A knock on the door caused voices to be raised inside. After a while, an older, gnarled guy in shapeless cords and a jumper opened up.

He peered out into the night before looking in my direction. “Ye lost, lad?”

A smile might put him at his ease. “Yeah. Trying to find...” How to describe the place? Apparently, the small stone dwelling didn't have a name.

Producing my scribbled, cardboard notes, the farmer took them before retreating to find his glasses. There was no question of being invited in.

He returned. “Aye. Ah know it alright.” A faintly suspicious look appeared. “What ye goin' to be doin' there like?”

A breezy note crept in. “Oh, just up for a long weekend. Or rather, staying for a short break.” The correction flustered me. “Fancied some fresh air.”

“Hmm...” He handed the notes back. “Won't be much else to do up there this time o' year.”

He dictated directions which were duly added to the scribbles.

“Ye best keep the door locked, mind: there're livestock rustlers about. Lost two of me best ewes the other night.”

Quite why he told me that wasn't clear. With a nod, I thanked him and got in the car.

Some twenty minutes later, my destination came into view. Turned out it was the right road, just been going in the wrong direction. Was there anything planned for this moment? No. Maybe the reality of it still lacked conviction. For all those genuine fears earlier in the day, it smelt somewhat of a hoax – or even some sort of bizarre revenge. Well, my entrance wasn't exactly stealthy: gunning the engine to get past some of the cavernous potholes, all the time with headlights blazing.

I turned everything off and sat alert, waiting. There were no other vehicles, no tyre marks, no lights on in the cottage. In fact, no sign of any disturbance at all. Some moments' hard listening revealed not a sound apart from myself in the silence of a late-autumn evening. At least the weather was decent on the way up, but the gathering clouds from the north hinted at a change.

Getting out of the car, I stood for a few moments taking in the atmosphere. Gut instinct told me nobody was around, and there hadn't been anyone for some time. If that instinct was right, then the place would be locked up, and the car a hard bed. But there again, why else flaunt the picture if it wasn't meant to be found? And were those other photos taken here? The ones of Lex's stuff, supposedly.

Moving closer, the architectural style rang a bell. With an unco-operative memory, it took a minute or two to dredge up the answer. Ancient stone walls were as weathered and thick as any castle's, yet it was only a small farmhouse. The answer popped up: it was a restored and converted bastle. And why were such fortifications needed? Well, if you lived in this neck of the woods in Tudor times, you'd have spent most of your time being afraid of the Scots or the Border reivers. Or both.

This was lawless territory where cross-border banditry was rife. The locals used the ground floor to protect valuable livestock, while they lived isolated on the defensible first floor. In the conversion, windows had been put into the walls on the lower level while retaining the arrow slits on the upper floor. Modern rooflights let in the sunshine to what otherwise must've been a dark and claustrophobic existence.

Making a cautious approach towards the front door, the expectation was what? Everything. … Wired, a hand raised the latch; the door opened easily and quietly. OK, so that was one problem solved. The feeling no-one had visited in ages was complete bollocks. Who unlocked the door, for fuck's sake? Nobody with any sense would've left it so that any marauding hiker, cyclist, or sheep could take up residence. Stepping over the threshold, eyes gazed at the sheer thickness of the outer wall – seventy, eighty centimetres of solid stone. That pointed even more to it having been built for defence.

The air inside wasn't musty and damp – it smelt looked-after; not warm particularly, but fresh. Holidays spent with my parents in various cottages over the years allowed some insight. It wouldn't have taken very long for an unheated stone building to feel damp. Of course, no torch had been packed, so it was necessary to turn on the lights. Doing so seemed to threaten exposure. Was that irrational? I still closed the curtains and the kitchen blind before looking around. The cottage appeared prepped for its next occupants. Everything was clean and tidy, empty in the way that no lived-in place ever looks like. There were no stray teaspoons in the sink or old teabags in the bin to indicate that somebody called in recently, however briefly.

The feeling of being observed rankled. Was this what a lab rat with a new task felt like? All the stuff was still in the boot; it needed rescuing. Standing by the driver's side for a few minutes, eyes adjusted to the deep blackness. Using the faint light from an intermittent half-moon, they strained in the search for any tell-tale pinpricks of light. There wasn't much to hide behind: the few trees in the vicinity were stunted, distorted by the prevailing wind. Nothing. Again silence prevailed, apart from a thudding heartbeat, and a gathering breeze. It was useless. A chill set in, so I grabbed the bags and headed indoors. Tea was required. Kettle filled, it was time to explore upstairs while it boiled.

I hauled the clothes bag up the free-standing spiral staircase and emerged from the ancient hole in the floor just outside the bedroom. Now, of course, it had a guard rail – god, think of the compensation claims from all the people who fell through. … Here, the floor was wooden, unlike the stone slabs down below. The prepped theme continued: a made bed together with a stack of towels perched on the vanity. At the moment the bag landed on the floor, the room's temperature dropped suddenly, as though a blast of cold air had passed through. There weren't any windows open. A fleece would have to do until such time as the heating could be turned on.

The skylight showed the night to have become darker, blacker, somehow. Maybe it was the increasing cloud brought in by the wind. While turning to go to the bathroom, the front door opened, only this time the hinges creaked and groaned. Adrenalin spiking, a yell nearly rocketed down the stairs until the lack of any draught brought it up short. There was no sense of the outside coming in, let alone a person. OK, it was the end of an exceptionally bizarre day, most of which flummoxed me completely. Head shaking at such frailty, a peer down through the erstwhile trapdoor offered the conviction that nobody had in fact come in. Back to the desperately needed bathroom facilities.

Hands and face washed, a study of the glass shelf above the sink was next to see if it featured in the photos. A snort from a horse downstairs made me jump. Heart pounding, both ears worked overtime. More animal snorting and snuffling, and the sounds of something being eaten, munched. Then it all faded away. The place somehow became mine once more. Tired, hungry, bewildered – the best cure for aural hallucinations was probably that tea and an early night.

A cautious descent followed. Everything appeared to be as before. Then a thought formed. Had Lex or whoever installed some kind of sound show? Bastards. The previous twenty minutes had really freaked me out. It's not easy to search for something when you don't know what it is: sound installations can involve all sorts of hidden kit. A swift search of the living room didn't reveal any signs of recent additions, changes, redecoration. Nothing. Going back upstairs didn't trigger anything either.

Of course, that way madness lay, so a hot drink became the focus. The kettle had long since boiled, but it hardly mattered. A few sips of the anaemic drink improved my health somewhat. Mug in hand, I got the new phone out and waved it around to see if there was a usable signal. Yes… yes, yes? No. Leaving it on the table didn't seem to help, either. Why somewhere with no effing signal? Was the phone on the wrong network? Coverage was patchy in rural areas but still… Then an eye spotted the internet router, right next to the TV. Not easy to miss. Given everything else that'd gone on though, it wasn't surprising.

Putting the kettle back on – the pseudo-tea wasn't good enough – my stomach demanded food. A basic cheese sandwich was the high point of the available culinary repertoire so that would have to do. The small galley kitchen felt colder than the rest of the place for some reason. This acted as a reminder about the heating. And next on the list? Getting the internet working.

As with any kitchen, exploration was key: finding where things were, and putting away what the bag contained. Having some supplies was good: there wasn't exactly a local, friendly Chinese round the corner. Learning basic cookery suddenly seemed relevant. Sighing at such ineptitude, hands grasped the re-filled mug and the sandwich. Whilst being in the kitchen, the door remained closed to make moving around easier. It opened inwards, an unhelpful piece of design. Not being the smallest guy around, there was scarcely room to swing a hamster, never mind a cat.

Anyway, I opened the door and stepped out into the main room only to be brought to a halt by a bank of warm, smelly fug. Was this some living-history heating system? The heat was from animals herded close together. The air stank of unclean, hairy flesh. Its warmth caused sweating. OK, not just the fug but also how it came to be there. Once seated at the table again, it had dissipated completely, back to the previous coolness. Several disbelieving shakes of the head. By this point, a parade of ghosts could've gone past without garnering any notice at all.

Sandwich eaten, the proper heating went on, then the internet router. Contact with the outside world was established. It wasn't the superfast broadband from normal life, but it worked. With the phone connected, there followed a short wait for the expected deluge of notifications. Nothing. Maybe the data had to stagger the distance… Still nothing. Bizarre.

Even without the past thirty-six hours, that was out of the ordinary. I have the usual online social presence for a millennial, even with a random posting regime. Of course, the wretched phone only had a few of the necessary apps pre-loaded. With a sigh, it was given instructions to load the calendar app as a start. Fortunately, with the next couple of days being annual leave, even that wasn't essential. The usual distraction of reading about friends' weekends – their conquests, the food, the drink – could be passed by quite easily. With a grimace, my mind imagined regaling them with the weekend thus far. Catching up with things was possible for a short while everything digested and then zzzz. Pretending to be a knight in shining armour would have to wait 'til the morning.

“Alarm! Alarm! The Robsons are being attacked! … Wake up! Those fucking animals of reivers are threatening to burn them out.”

God … What? Shouts, and sounds of lively activity indoors and out. Horses neighing. No time to light the candle. Must find my boots in the dark. More shouts and confusion. There they are, bloody things. Next: helmet, reinforced doublet, dirk, and my trusty club…

A sudden coming-to found me sat on the edge of the bed, shoes on, heart pounding. That was one hell of a vivid nightmare. But it wasn't like that; whoever intended to arm themselves was also me at the same time. Real ears heard that shouted alarm; it wasn't just in the dream. Eating cheese before bedtime wouldn't happen ever again. That was an experience unlike anything before. After a couple of minutes, the most immediate 'flight or fight' responses calmed down. I got up and went downstairs to make another drink.

Being seated in the kitchen, clad only in boxers and a tee, parts of me still shook. Instinctively, most of what'd happened was still down to Lex and his mates. Somehow. The things that didn't fit were best ignored for the present. Certainly he wasn't going to have the satisfaction of watching the car speeding ignominiously into the night. … God, if there'd been anyone else sharing the bed, they'd have thought me mad. This line of thought brought up the gorgeous Dan. Memories of him and our sexy night together offered solace. That was normal. That was real. The phone showed it wasn't late, so staying downstairs for a bit and getting fully caught up seemed a good idea.

So what was first? Sending my prospective boyfriend two texts. Having apparently hallucinated across nearly all the senses, some normality seemed desirable. Sexting Dan fitted the bill. The first text touched base, asking about his day – all very PG. The second one was rather more adult. Nothing crass, or pushy, just reminding him of our time together. And how much a repeat would mean. We both enjoyed ourselves, no mistake. Replaying us in bed, my dick needed a wank.

Erection grasped in one hand, the other tweaking a nipple, the fucking instant picture app bleated. Ignoring it was impossible. Certain Pavlovian responses apply to any millennial, and that includes me. It could only have come from the same number as before. Quest for pleasure abandoned, I picked up the phone and stabbed at the app, swearing sotto voce.

Another bloody video. What was it this time? Them in fits of laughter, probably. No, not quite. … A man, me, got out of the car and approached the bastle. Pfft. It vanished.That was filmed from the outside. Another: me eating a sandwich. Recorded indoors, but shakily as if someone was holding the what… Phone? Camera? Pfft. I swore. Nobody, but nobody else was in that house. One question hovered unanswered.

A wave of nausea welled up. Not the 'lean over the toilet' sort, but more the stomach tightening, roiling feeling you get with nervous tension. OK. First thing in the morning, a search would take place everywhere possible for spy cameras. They could've used a drone to take the one outside. An internal voice advised getting a grip and taking deep breaths. There had to be some entirely logical explanation; I just hadn't found it yet. Sleep was as far away as ever; my poor heart had been given a workout over the past few hours. Nothing needed any more adrenalin either.

The mug of tea was cold; a Bailey's would've been better, but funnily enough, there wasn't any. Ker-ching. That was Dan. Things brightened up no end. He'd only sent one text though. Not quite what my heart hoped for. On opening the text, it was a case of 'Oh ye of little faith'. He'd answered both of mine in one. Reading it made me forget the surroundings.

Just heard! Starting a new job next month, Tom. Don't worry – same area. Wouldn't want to lose you just as we've found each other.

Having my dick in your mouth was out of this world. Your tongue worked wonders. When you swallowed me down, I nearly passed out. Can't wait til we're in bed again. Maybe I'll do you?

Sorry you had to miss last night. How about this Friday? Same time, same place?

An answer followed straightaway: it was a date. Floating on a little pink cloud, bed beckoned once more. That was better. Trust Dan to calm me down. Peep, peep. A huge yawn. That was the calendar notification. Something for tomorrow, presumably. Or today, as it now was. Wearily, a hand dragged the phone closer and opened up the planner. Of course it wouldn't contain anything new.

The notification confounded everything: Meeting with line manager, 9 am. Wear something smart. Where was the fucking leave? Desperate, a weary brain tried to get into work mode. A meeting about what? Promotion? Dream on. Monthly targets? Achieved, from my notes. Oh, god … what else? Interns. Interns? Why smarten up for a meeting about them? Shit. When would I have to leave to stand a chance of getting there on time?

Heart racing, one hand slapped the side of my head. Trying to force a restart maybe? The days off were real: distinct memories remained of wishing co-workers a happy Monday while exiting the office. That happened in real life, not in whatever festering pool of weirdness now engulfed me.

Eyes slid back to the screen: there was the leave, notification and all, exactly as before. Just to be sure, I closed the app completely. When it loaded again, all was restored. While calming down, it occurred that this complete escapade's timing ever so nicely coincided with my short break. Nothing about the break was broadcast; a couple of days away from work aren't something to brag about on social media. That dream fortnight on a tropical island was someone-else's post.

The feelings of paranoia came back full force. Grabbing the phone, fingers feverishly changed the password to that and the other few installed apps. Maybe it was one of those strange, chance happenings? Maybe not. That done, the world felt a little more settled. How long for didn't bear thinking about. Eyelids drooping, I sloped back to bed, hoping for no more hi-def nightmares.

It was late morning, surprisingly, when life resumed. A few minutes were spent coming-to, staring at the skylight. Of course, all the previous day's goings-on occupied my thoughts. A door slammed downstairs. Heart pounding, everything paused. Then a couple of female voices with strong local accents made jokes about doing the laundry and general cleaning up. Who the fuck were they?

The front door wasn't locked, of course, because it hadn't needed a key to open it. With everything else that happened, it had been overlooked. Getting dressed in thirty seconds flat demonstrated a determination not to face whoever it was just wearing undies. By the time I bounded down the stairs though, everything was quiet. Nothing appeared different apart from the kitchen. There, a faint, damp laundry smell hung around: wet wool and something fatty. Soap? There was the odd splash of water on the floor, otherwise no sign anyone had actually been present.

Wait… How much of this was real? The water hadn't been there the night before, and I hardly went round using eau de damp wool as room spray. A rumbling stomach objected to the lack of meals the day before. It was told not to expect a feast: breakfast would be two slices of toast, and maybe a chocolate bar if it could be found. A cloth demonstrated the water's reality. Wringing it out over the sink, something on the hob caught my attention. The wooden bowl, cup, and utensils produced a frown; then looking at the yellowish mush in the bowl, both eyebrows shot up. A whiff of peas and salt contrasted with the smell coming off the boiled egg next to it.

Had the bastle suddenly turned into a B&B, or would eating the food instead transport me back to the bad old days? The bowl steamed gently; my belly growled its discontent. Food trumped everything else. Picking up the egg and the rest, the sounds of snuffling, munching, and moving bodies resumed next door. It produced a slight smile, this was from the previous evening's repertoire. Strangely, it gave comfort, rather than freaking me out. Go figure.

When the connecting door opened, all the noises faded to nothing like before. This started thoughts about activating trips, breaking infra-red beams, and all the rest. But it didn't happen every time the kitchen was occupied. In fact, it first occurred when exploring upstairs. Was it something more complex, perhaps, requiring human intervention? This wasn't getting breakfast eaten. Sitting down, the shallow wooden spoon dug into the mess. It was tasty, with a tang from bacon or ham, and a pleasant, coarse, hummus-like texture. Food was disappearing fast when the phone bleated.

That reminded me the first job should've been to search the ground floor for hidden cameras. Sigh. Food was essential, and if someone else was kind enough to provide it, why spurn their gift? A slurp of watery beer went down my gullet before all attention turned to the phone. It was the wretched photo-sharing app and that meant any investigations hereabouts would have to wait. They would've hardly sent a cheery morning meme to brighten the day. Now, any thoughts about Lex reprised those of the previous evening; nobody was gonna make me look like a complete dick; least of all, him. A dogged commitment remained to seeing the whole thing through.

Despite the pledge, I logged into the app with some trepidation. It was another video. Silent except for the wind and slashing rain, the camera panned around the same dark, malevolent castle as before. Everything about it told of a bleak, comfortless existence, fortified against the world outside. The camera settled on one tower in particular. It zoomed in, moving ever closer to the windowless expanse of stone. Once in position, it stayed there. A cacophony of wails, cries for help, threats, and pleas rained forth. They made me shudder. How many men were there, howling for their release?

Was this now? That was the crucial question. The images were current, most likely – the weather app would say – but the men? How likely was it a whole group of individuals found themselves incarcerated? With more thought, the soundtrack lacked that visceral, panicked realism of the day before. In fact, it could be a manufactured soundscape for a museum, something experienced by pressing a button. Fingers hovered over the texting app, then an unexpected bravado coursed through my brain. It pushed at me to send a text inviting whoever it was to go fuck themselves.

Wouldn't a phone call be better? Have an actual conversation. If Lex answered, there'd be a great pleasure in outlining what would happen the next time our paths crossed. I picked the phone up, ready to let fly before the courage went. Guitar-playing English Lit graduates aren't known for picking a fight, verbal or otherwise. Then doubts assailed me. If it turned into a quick-fire exchange, defeat loomed; the written word is much more my thing. After a quick recap, the sharing app presented a text box.

How to start the exchange? The problem solved itself: an incoming message scrolled across the screen. I stared at it.

You still there?

Where? An attempt to be clever which was ignored.

Don't you think Lex is howling for his release?

No! Their bluff had to be called. Our local community museum's installations sound better.

Silence for a period. A pause also in breathing. Maybe verbal jousting wasn't my forte.

That's a pity. How should we make amends, d'you think?

Fingers stayed where they were. Another brief pause. Was there a discussion going on?

OK… Let's try again. Is this any better?

A musical note floated on the screen, an invitation to press 'play'. The finger hung in mid-air for a moment before tapping on it. Wordless, petrified screeching erupted from the phone. The handset fell onto the table like it had become red hot. The row lasted for longer than seemed humanly possible before stopping abruptly. Forcing down nausea, eyes returned to the screen.

There. Good enough for you?

They logged off without waiting for an answer. Just as well really; breakfast was making its way back up. I lurched from the seat and reached the kitchen sink in time to start retching.

It took a while to calm down. Fortunately, more beer than food ended up in the sink. Running the cold tap, the water cleansed and soothed. Sounds of the vicious torture they'd inflicted on someone still reverberated. Hope remained it wasn't Lex, despite everything. Is that wrong? To think that meant it was some other poor bastard instead. Legs faltered and one hand trembled. Some great heroic rescuer.

Going back into the living area, I picked up the junk phone once more. Finding out where this wretched place was required Google Earth; it wasn't currently installed. More delay. Less than five hours before night fell, and if the weather was anything like on the video, it would be sooner. At least the wi-fi made short work of it. The next target was Hermitage Castle, located in Liddesdale, right at the heart of reiver territory.

Only forty-five miles, Maps cheerfully informed me. Yeah… On a motorway or even a decent main road, no problem. Instead the route followed winding, switchback roads, some dating from Roman times. Those forty-five miles would last a long time. It was midday. Time to get moving. I jumped up out of the seat and legged it into the kitchen.

With one hastily-made cheese sandwich in hand, the bastle's front door closed behind me. No way of locking it still. Not that there was anything of value; it was more the opportunities it gave for others to mess around. A shrug; there was nothing to be done. Starting the car, the petrol gauge headed towards the red. So much for the thought one full tank would get it there and back.

The car accelerated out onto the open road, managing a decent speed until two sharp, right-hand bends and a close encounter with a farm tractor slowed things down. Rescuers aren't much use dead. All the while, eyes flickered to the petrol gauge and back. Rural drivers know the exact location of every filling station in their area. Guess who didn't? An open farm gate gave an invitation to stop and interrogate the phone. Bellingham village was the only place on the direct route and it was twenty-five miles away. A detour onto the main Carlisle to Newcastle road in search of cheaper fuel would cost more time than available.

Setting off again, low fuel consumption was the aim rather than speed. The landscape softened as the road dropped down to the North Tyne valley but soon became wilder climbing up the other side. The morning's weak sunshine gave way to more cloudy conditions. Steep inclines played havoc with the car's health; the engine complained louder each time. Hadrian's Wall country was left behind as the route turned right. Eyes sought signs to Bellingham like the world depended on it. Unfortunately various locals became frustrated at such stately progress. They zoomed up from behind and charged past in the most unpromising places. A couple of times, it was heart-stopping. Waiting for someone to die – them, or me. Or both of us.

At last, I reached Bellingham in one piece. The last significant habitation along the road this side of the Border, the village didn't look much to urban eyes. But it did have a petrol station. As the car pulled into the basic, two-pump forecourt, neither pump was free. Vehicles sat there while their owners stood and gossiped without a care in the world. Fine for them, but not for me. It was well past one, and things needed to get a move on. The pair showed no sign of stopping their chat so it was necessary to get out and ask if one of them would move.

“You in a hurry, lad?” The elder of the two guys looked me up and down.

Swallowing any innate city stroppiness, I decided politeness was probably advisable. “Kind of. I'd like to get to Hermitage Castle before the light goes.”

His weather-beaten face showed surprise. “Really? On holiday, are you?”

“Yeah. Only up here for a day or two.”

“The castle's closed outside of the main tourist season, as far as I know. Give us a minute and I'll check with Bob.”

He went inside and started a vigorous exchange with the guy at the till. The pair of them turned to look in my direction before breaking into broad grins. So if the bloody place wasn't open, how was it gonna work? Break in, scale a wall, climb over a fence? … At a guess, one option at least would be possible. Otherwise, what was the point in being sent there?

The man returned. “Aye, I were right. Only person you're likely to meet up there, mind, 'll be Little Jock Elliot.” He smirked.

“Who?”

“You'll not have heard of him.” The smirk widened into a grin. “He was a reiver; one of the worst.” He paused. “It gans…

I've vanquished the Queen's lieutenant
And garr'd his troops to flee
My name is Little Jock Elliot
And wha daur mettle wi' me?”

They were taking the piss. Eyes rolled with disdain before staring meaningfully at the guy's ancient, beat-up van. He got in and moved it enough so I could get the much-needed petrol.

Seeing a small supermarket on the main street, it was clear more food and drink would be a good idea. And a torch; and maybe some wire cutters. You get the idea. Wandering round the aisles, the basket soon filled up.

The middle-aged woman on the till felt moved to comment on nearly everything.

“Them pasties'll taste better warm, pet. Microwave's just over there.”

“Need them for later, thanks.” Hopping from one foot to the other.

“Eeh… that's a bonny colour for a torch.” She inspected it, a hideous, lurid pink monstrosity. “They're new in.”

She continued through the basket's contents, ignoring unspoken urges to get a move on.

“If you choose another soft drink, mind, you'll get a third off.” The woman stood there waiting.

Lunging towards the rack, a hand seized the first can it came to.

“That's better, pet. Saving money's great, isn't it?”

Several replies composed largely of Anglo-Saxon died before they found the way out.

“You've no batteries for the torch, pet. Here, I'll sneak you some free ones, seeing's how much you've spent.”

She reached behind her and scooped up a pack whose branding was completely unrecognisable.

“Thanks.” I waved a debit card at the payment terminal, grabbed the stuff, and bolted out to the car.

The route headed up towards the Kielder Reservoir. On that late November Monday afternoon, there were few cars on the road. The landscape was devoid of activity. There's a reason why it's a designated Dark Sky zone: hardly anyone lives there. It's difficult to believe that five, six hundred years ago, the area supported communities and productive arable farming. Bleak, scrubby landscape – which didn't even have sheep on it – only changed when commercial wood production covered it up. Dark, alien conifers didn't improve the ambience.

The effects of climate change are nothing new. Going back to that time, much cooler, wetter weather gradually made the arable farming unproductive. The locals either moved over to subsistence farming, became reivers, or once American colonisation got going, they emigrated. So, were the reivers a product of their time and place? Undoubtedly; but it doesn't make them any more likeable. Honest inhabitants paid their dues – known as 'white mail' – to a landlord. When they couldn't raise the cash, they were obliged to pay in kind. This 'black mail' usually involved them handing over livestock worth considerably more than their debts. When reiving really got going, the bandits' extortion tactics got given the same name.

As the sun set, the car left Kielder behind and crossed over the border into Scotland. My target wasn't far off. It seemed a good time to stop and scoff two sausage rolls. The food sat uneasily in an empty stomach; adding half a can of cola didn't help. Retrieving the phone, its screen glowed eerily in the encroaching dusk. It was nearly four o'clock. That there was no service hardly came as a surprise. When the telecoms companies boast about their geographic coverage, this is the kind of unprofitable area they conveniently forget.

Fortunately, the basic route instructions were written on the till receipt from the garage. Miracle of miracles, they worked. Half an hour later, the car came to a halt in front of the castle's ticket kiosk. It was shut up. Looking around, the last hint of brightness leached from the sky. As a thoroughly urban individual, true darkness is scary. Hermitage Castle sits entirely apart in its own landscape. It registered as a solid block of blackness in the distance. Getting out of the car, a hand gripped the new torch tightly. One final gulp of cola and I was ready. Surprisingly, no perimeter fence or other barrier blocked the way. Turning onto the private road, the route went through an opened gate. That must've been it. So, who exactly was waiting in the dark?

The lack of obstacles brought little comfort. My body wouldn't be required to perform any gymnastics; that was one bright spot. God, the darkness pressed down. No hint of any artificial light, even below the horizon, and the sky was devoid of stars. I switched the torch on. The thin, weedy beam produced curses; its light barely penetrated the blackness. It was now obvious why the bloody batteries were free. Would they last?

The tussocky grass of the surrounding earthworks threatened accidents as feet tripped and slid towards the ruin. A couple of times, serious damage from falling into sudden dips was averted only by quick reflexes. Beyond the feeble illumination, everything was obscured. I debated turning it off altogether. A couple of experimental minutes spent in the all-enveloping night cured me of that idea. Some light was preferable to none. So the wretched thing went back on again. Finally, questing feet uncovered the tourist route towards the ruin itself. Not that it was paved or anything; the turf was still flattened somewhat and the opportunity to move beyond a slow crawl was a boon.

A couple of minutes later, the outer walls loomed from above. The wan beam offered little to go on. Waving the torch around only gave the sense of masonry extending in all directions. An upwards peer revealed a tower. Was that the one? Relating the remembered images from the video to the surroundings was hopeless. It was one tower amongst several and, to the eye, had nothing to distinguish it. The walk continued on, body always kept close to the wall, hoping it would lead to the entrance eventually. Presumably the tourists did likewise; only they strolled around in daylight.

The idea someone – or something – watched every move was pervasive. My hackles reacted in an atavistic response to threat. A finger poised over the torch switch, then accepted the decision not to turn it off again. In the time needed for eyes to adjust, the unknown foe could've moved position, melted away, or returned to their spaceship. The torch's light yellowed: wretched batteries on their way out. My pace quickened, only to be brought to an abrupt halt when the torch caught something in its beam. An enigmatic stone-carved face looked out – mouth open and a blank-eyed stare. I regarded it in return while backing away slowly. Maybe it was the way the shadows fell, but the carving's gaze appeared to follow me. A quick about turn followed; then speeding along the track, keen to get away, thoughts whirled. Were there any more? Was it old or new?

Finally, a path led into the castle's interior. I entered and stood, hoping to get some bearings. Why, god only knows, the video fly-by hadn't shown anything beyond the exterior walls.

The deep, ancient silence fractured.

“Help me!” The cry echoed around, its source unclear.

Lungs ceased to draw breath for a second.

“Tom? That you?”

Now, a thumping heart. Was it Lex? The voice was male and similar in timbre, but that wasn't enough. What about a reply? I swallowed the fear down as far as possible and tried to relax tight vocal chords.

It took one deep gasp of air to let fly. “Who wants to know?” Spinning around immediately, all senses were on the lookout for clues.

“Lex!” That overtone of hurt puzzlement was exactly him; he'd employed it often enough.

This time, the point could be fixed as being off to the right, at a tangent.

Swinging the torch in that direction, its feeble beam dribbled to a halt long before it found anything of use. A brief response followed. “You OK?”

The darkness hid a subsequent, swift change of position; two could play at concealing locations. Was the prison tower the target after all?

There was no reply from Lex, which was unsettling.

On the way to the tower, conditions underfoot worsened: uneven, moss-covered stonework with breaks, and ankle-threatening dips. A fervent hope wished the batteries in the torch would survive. Closing in, a dense, black outline blocked the sky overhead. Voices, very much in the plural, came from the same direction. I stopped, rocking on the balls of my feet, and tried to process everything.

Was it another fucking recording like before?

Edging forward, a whole host of other sounds flooded in from all quarters: ordinary things, like doors opening, arguments, snatches of melody, heavy things being dragged. Was the castle's sometime garrison coming back to life? There was a sense of being closed in, though a flail with the torch revealed no ceiling or other barrier to the sky. What was happening? Mouth agape, I focussed on the noise coming from the prison tower. Previously indistinct exchanges cleared; whole snatches of conversation could be heard amidst the general hum.

“Night's our best hope.”

“Which?”

“This very e'en. Mark you well, all. We have tidings; Little Jock's on his way.”

“What is your resolve?”

“Have you not heard? God's wounds! To be free of this plagued, noisome hole.”

Sounds of solid wood and iron striking stone as if in support.

“How so?”

“I was made privy to it yesterday.”

“What's my part?” “And mine!” “Dinna forget me!” Numerous voices joined in.

“Are you ready to dispatch the foe? Reivers canna be caged for long. The castle shall be ours. Not Bothwell's. Ours!”

With a general cry of “Ours!”, what had been merely sounds translated into a whole horde of reivers erupting forth, weapons at the ready. The mob rushed past – real, but also not. Their bodies may have lacked substance, yet their sheer energy drew all before them. We were one for an instant until raised stones caught at a foot and sent me flying. Falling hard, the ground left few things unscathed, including my head. Dazed, I lay there listening to the evidence of a garrison being overwhelmed. It seemed only to last a few minutes before the tumult died away, and in the ensuing silence, the castle returned to its previous ruined state. Too shocked and stunned to move, a stupor took hold.

Some time later, pelting rain roused me. Still out of it, instinct took over, stirring limbs into action for warmth and shelter. The effort needed to stand was considerable, but at least everything still appeared to function. Sort of. Bruises and scrapes apart, what felt to be a minor head wound was the worst damage. What happened earlier? It hurt to think. Surely it was impossible for Lex to stage something like that. In fact, where was he? And what of the deadline? One continuous shiver consumed my frame. Survival was all.

Numerous gropes in the blackness eventually located the torch. By a stroke of good fortune, it still worked, despite several cracks in the casing. With some illumination, I staggered towards where the entrance might be. A deathly quiet hung over the castle as if it had never been disturbed. The only noises were my own. Even the feeling of being watched was no longer there, which was a pity as some assistance would've come in useful. Putting one foot in front of the other became the sole focus.

An unknown number of minutes passed before the car came into view. It was such a welcome, everyday sight, tears flowed. Once the engine got going, it provided much-needed warmth and some measure of protection. An ancient towel found in the boot took off the worst of the wet. A more thorough examination of my person revealed nothing else to worry about. Most things not already hurting, would ache like hell in the morning, but I'd survive.

The windscreen started to mist up as damp clothing gradually dried out. The question of what occurred in the castle stared me in the face without any hint of a solution. And Lex? His forty-eight hours were almost up. Some elaborate jape was still a possibility, but one which left a number of issues unresolved. How could he have engineered the phantom reivers, and the other phenomena from the bastle? Or was that all in my mind? The welcome warmth induced drowsiness. Driving back to the bastle at that point wasn't a viable option. With the engine turned off, a dampish jacket was zipped up in the wait for sleep to take over.

A couple of hours later, cold and hunger combined to kill any more shut-eye. Having restarted the engine, one hand fumbled around in the dark for the bag of provisions, The twisting and stretching required to reach the passenger footwell produced a string of feeble curses. Turning the car's interior lights on briefly, the choice appeared to be either a cheese-and-ham pastry slice or a Scotch egg. Eating them both avoided any indecision. The remaining can of cola swiftly followed along behind.

Some strength restored, returning to my temporary base became the priority. Possessions needed collecting, and maybe, just maybe, there might be an answer or communication which would explain what the fuck was going on. There weren't any high hopes for that. Before questions about Lex assumed dominance, a key turned in the ignition concentrated the mind.

Travelling along, the entire world thereabouts slept. Clouds obscured everything, making for truly Stygian darkness except for the small area the headlights lit up. In one way, retracing the route wasn't difficult; there was hardly a multitude of roads to choose from. But the roughened surface was barely distinguishable from its surroundings, and several times, the car only rounded a corner at the last minute. A lack of markings, signs, and all the other trappings of urban travel didn't help my temper. There was no trouble in slowing down to read the few signposts, though. Sleep was the main enemy. After one hair-raising episode when the car nearly ended up lodged in a ditch, a further period of rest appeared inevitable.

Choosing a flattish area in the current valley, I parked as far off the road as seemed sensible. The now relatively dry jacket offered some hope of warmth. Snuggling into it, a weary mind offered up my prospective boyfriend; Dan did somehow look like Lex from a couple of angles. Very strange. An imaginary conversation unfolded, dreamlike, on the very edge of sleep. Us, in the same pub as before, getting it on in ways other than having more sex.

“Playing the guitar is one of my passions.” Hoping he'd open up.

A surprised smile. “Yeah? Always admire musicians. Any artists really.”

“D'you play?” Fingers crossed, wanting him to find something.

Dan would blush, then admit to singing sometimes. “Folk music's good; occasionally blues. Just to myself in the shower.”

“No audience? Not even your mum?” A mixture of surprise and encouragement.

He'd shake his head before looking back up at me.

Leaning forward. “Hearing you sing would be fantastic. Duets make for great music...”

Just before our supposed dialogue was rendered a vivid rose pink, any sleep fled. A host of shadows mounted on horseback cantered past the car, though the hooves made no sound. Did they spot the dark shape on their way? As at Hermitage Castle, their silent passage disturbed the air, causing the car to rock slightly. Anyone not attuned might have put it down to the wind, but light from a partly concealed torch captured dull glints from weapons and steel helmets. Reivers about their business of extortion and stealing?

Caution swiftly extinguished the torch, though it was a move without any logic. Did hallucinations ever turn on their conjurer? No answers were sought. And anyway, ghosts and ghouls don't form any part of the real world, do they? Before starting on this mad escapade, the reply would've been 'never'. And now? Who knew? Eyes beheld the impossible; other senses reported phenomena which would lead to a stay on a psych ward. The fact that Lex's involvement would be entirely preferable, elicited dry chuckles, followed by coughing.

With the nocturnal world back as before, a shaky hand cranked open the driver's window a mite while waiting for sleep's return. This time, starts and unquiet dreams resulted in nothing more than a series of fevered naps. Eventually, cramped muscles demanded movement to restore circulation. It was a double-edged sword though; bending and flexing set off the other injuries. What could be achieved sitting down was limited. With reluctance, a finger popped the door locks. Upon opening the driver's door, my body steadfastly refused to unwind. The kinks took several minutes to straighten. An upright stance of sorts was achieved by leaning both arms on the car's roof. It also helped the nausea and light-headedness, both results of the night's events.

Hearing a nearby beck flowing by was soothing. A dry throat urged a drink of water, but the likelihood of falling down a bank, or slipping on pebbles in the stream was too high. That would have to wait. Chill, fresh air tempered an overheated brain. Would travelling be safer now? After succeeding in taking a short walk, I believed it might be. After returning to my motorised refuge, the air carried sounds of bleating. Yes, real bleating. From real sheep? OK, it's common knowledge sheep farmers have early starts at some times of the year, but presumably not November. Puzzled, eyes searched for clues in the ever-so-slightly-greying darkness. They detected faint whitish blotches as the small flock approached. Who was driving the sheep? Did people really use public roads to move their livestock around?

That question at least was solved: riding alongside them and behind were the self-same spectral reivers from before. This was their bounty for the night. So how did that work? Everyone knows sheep have to be persuaded to go in any one direction. The beasts fanned out to take full advantage of the available ground. As they jostled past the car, an arm stretched out to touch one of them. A fleeting caress confirmed the oily wool was indeed real. The limb withdrew immediately, but even so, a reiver's gaze seemed to move in that direction. Lungs didn't draw breath again until they and the sheep had mostly passed by.

A mind even more confused than ever wrestled with the fact that apparent figments of its imagination could go out and rustle sheep. Thoughts that maybe the beasts had escaped were dismissed; they moved with too much purpose. Sheep are stupid, after all. Such conundrums had to be put to one side. The priority was getting back to the bastle.

In a murky November pre-dawn, the car turned onto the road leading to my home of a little over a day. Overwhelming fatigue meant main force was needed to keep eyes open. The sight that awaited them, discovered dimly by the headlights, soon put a stop to that. Two, yes two, cars were already parked outside the bastle. One, an ancient pickup looked incongruous beside an expensive-looking SUV. A shocked foot slammed on the brakes so hard, the car skidded to a halt, balanced on the lip of a cavernous pothole.

Startled, my brain tried to supply plausible scenarios. An open-mouthed gasp followed. Did the SUV belong to an actual guest? Though Tuesday wasn't a usual changeover day and they were ridiculously early. The pickup's condition was evidence of hard use. For some reason, that suggested the farmer encountered the day before. No other ideas emerged, so getting out of the car had to be the next move. Once more, stiffened muscles and numerous aches objected to any movement. It took a while before walking became possible.

Trying not to shuffle, slow progress was made along the track towards the bastle. The vexed question of what to do next melted away when, in the near distance, the front door banged open. A silhouette was briefly visible before the door shut again. Of course, the torch was still in the car. Squinting eyes thought the outline resembled Lex's tall, slim – almost gangly – form. How was that possible? In a second flash of light, another figure joined the first. The shorter, stocky individual didn't match anyone known to me. They both lit cigarettes – the red, glowing ends visible amongst all the greys. Lex didn't smoke; or at least, not during our time together.

Did that mean they'd spotted the car, or not? There was a definite air of waiting. Who were they, and whom did they expect? Given the bastle was hardly on the way to anywhere, the conclusion was pretty obvious. Anger made blood pump faster; legs previously stiff and cold soon warmed up as each stride lengthened. This wasn't a time to be cautious: I wanted answers. Proper, all-encompassing answers to every piece of weird shit that had happened over the previous forty-eight hours.

As I closed in, the taller of the two tossed his cigarette away and alerted his companion before turning back to face me.

“Tom?”

The yell travelled easily through the silence. A powerful torch-beam followed in its wake.

“Tom! What kept you? We've been waiting bloody hours.”

A sudden rush of rage threatened an explosion. They'd waited half the night there? In a warm, comfortable cottage? So much for any extortion, or threats to life and limb. What the fuck was Lex whining about? He hadn't been stuck, injured, in the middle of nowhere with blood-thirsty phantom reivers for company.

Legs and thighs re-doubled their combined effort to close the distance until we were face to face. Spit bubbled over. “Lex, you complete shithole! See this fist?” Words fought amongst themselves to make it out. “Give me one good reason why it shouldn't smash your fucking face in. Have you any idea of the crap…?”

The other, unknown guy interrupted. “Mr Charlton. Tom. Please. We're glad you're here now. All the best plans go awry at some point or another. I'm sure Lex will be happy to clear up any misunderstandings which may have occurred over the duration.”

Ignoring the man completely, words spilled out. “I travelled three hundred miles, spent a bloody fortune, and ended up being trampled half to death, all because you were 'in danger'.” Our faces nearly touched. “Some fucking practical joke, Lex, you dickhead. What kind of a complete wanker d'you think that makes me?” A one-armed shove made him step back a pace or two.

His stocky side-kick answered again. “You need to calm down, please. All reasonable expenses incurred will be reimbursed, Tom, though we will need receipts, of course.”

“Just who the fuck are you?” Veins never felt before throbbed dangerously. “Why do I feel the whole universe has slipped sideways, again?”

Lex, for once acting as peacemaker, took the sensible course of ushering us inside and offering a seat. Light, warmth, and alcohol-laced coffee temporarily blunted the immediate edge of my rage.

“This is my supervisor, Cecil Davidson.” Lex looked shifty, another well-known mannerism from our time together.

A fierce gaze settled on one man, then the other. “And what, or who, exactly do you supervise?”

Lex dived in. “Err… Dr Davidson is…”

The man himself interrupted. “A full description of the project and the role I play in it are described in the document you read and signed a while ago.”

The veins pulsed again. “Pardon?!” Lurching to my feet, turning to Lex, anger regained control. Suspicions of being played for a complete fool once more dominated. “You have precisely two minutes to explain before you end up a snivelling heap on the floor. Or the police'll be called.”

“Mr Charlton!” Davidson was now his own warm shade of red. “There is absolutely no need for…”

“Shut the fuck up!” Several deep breaths were needed before coherent speech could be resumed. “See this?” Blood from the slight head wound had dripped down one temple. “Or this?” A lifted shirt revealed bruised ribs. “Those are his fault.” Pointing finger. “Maybe yours as well, but primarily his.”

Lex's face assumed an unflattering pallor. He gulped.

“So, what've you got to say for yourself, you complete shite?” Sitting down became necessary as everything resumed its aching.

Lex's eyes flittered, not settling on either of us. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to work out a strategy.

“One minute gone.” A guess, but good enough.

He started by turning to his supervisor. “Ehm… You remember we discussed verisimilitude when it came to our video submissions?”

The guy nodded.

“I thought it would play out so much better if Tom had no prior idea of what was happening. Visceral, unfiltered responses are so difficult to come by. It can make for truly great art.” He grimaced. “So anyway, I decided to fake Tom's signature on the agreement.”

His glum expression showed how likely now his presentation would be to pass. And that was before the victim made his voice heard. Served the conniving bastard right. Davidson didn't look impressed.

“Then a friend and I started everything off with the text and then the photos. From my knowledge of Tom, the scenario we selected was the one most likely to get you going. We watched and filmed what resulted.”

“Right from the word 'go'?” The mind boggled at that aspect of it. The rest fitted with prior suspicions all too well.

“No! We're not made of money; a couple of grad students with some borrowed tech and a camera-fitted drone or two. There isn't a Hollywood special-effects department lurking in the background. We picked you up on your first approach to the bastle.”

“But someone with a tech background gave you a hand.” Thinking of the interference with some of the apps.

“Nope. Just us.”

My stomach clenched. What about all the weird stuff? If Lex wasn't responsible, that left…? “So, you just watched and filmed? Nothing interactive, no installations waiting to be triggered?”

“Installations? Where?” He sounded puzzled.

“Here and at Hermitage Castle.” No point in mentioning the rest.

“Oh…”

Before he got any further, the front door opened again. It was the farmer from Sunday night who stopped to clean his boots on the way in. He seemed unfazed by the sight of three guys when there should've only been one.

“Just calling in to see everything's OK like. Saw yous were up and about. I've been checking the fields roundabouts for dead sheep and such. Them bastards made another raid last night. Lost several sheep, as did the chap on the farm next to me.”

Guess what pictures came to mind? “You see any of the rustlers?”

“Na. Police ain't interested without video footage, so why bother? Hardly going to get arrested mesel' for vigilantism.” He moved to sit on a spare seat. “I'll take the weight off me feet, if that's OK?”

“Yeah.” After a moment, he faded into the background.

The main conversation with Lex resumed. “It's just this place wasn't unoccupied, if you get the drift.”

Lex evidently didn't. “What? We only ever saw you. Admittedly the hidden cameras didn't capture every single piece of the action but more than enough to know there was only one person here: you.”

“Sure?”

“Yep. Though you did act pretty strangely a couple of times.”

No surprise there. “Like?”

“Oh…you leaping out of bed and trying to get dressed in the pitch dark for no reason. We rolled on the floor laughing at that one.”

An already-frayed temper worsened. The temptation to surrender to the rage was almost irresistible.

The farmer caught my eye as he cleaned something out of his front teeth. It was a settled, sympathetic look which suggested we shared experiences. That didn't exactly answer the question why long-dead reivers should be herding live sheep. Or why the two washerwomen left a piping-hot breakfast sitting on the hob.

Time to get back to Lex again. “What the fuck happened at the castle? One moment we were chatting away, the next you'd bloody disappeared.”

“Me?” His jaw dropped. “The infra-red camera suddenly lost you.”

We stared at each other. Confusion and doubt threatened to douse my rage.

“It tracked you moving away, then you vanished. It might've been a camera fault, so after a few minutes of nothing happening, we gave up. Given the lack of communication, our assumption was you'd rumbled us. One swift packing-up and the car was on the road. We couldn't understand why you weren't back here before us.”

“Didn't you see the fucking car by the ticket place?”

“Nope. We parked the 4x4 well away and only rejoined the road at the main gate.”

A short silence followed. There was no point in describing what happened afterwards. My eyes were drawn to the old farmer. He raised an eyebrow, cocked his head, then continued cleaning his teeth. The sooner this place was history, the better.

Feeling restless and uncomfortable, one question arose which never occurred before. “So what was your preferred ending? That your supposed rescuer would welcome your release with open arms? Or maybe that should be legs, you shithead?”

Davidson looked appalled. Lex flushed bright red. Another point deducted. God, the lanky shit turned my stomach. So under the guise of whatever project this was, he expected to worm his way back into my affections? No way. Dan was now the guy for me. An image of us in bed welled up. No histrionics; simple, mutually enjoyable sex which could easily morph into love.

I stood up. One last question remained out of those which might have an answer. “If this was all fake, Lex, where did those appalling, horrific sounds come from? They fucking gave me nightmares.”

He shrugged, as if it was a matter of no consequence. “Sorry about that, but if they didn't sound right, you'd never have moved. Found them on the internet. Friend of a friend operates a VPN and gets up to all kinds of borderline illegal shit. Effective, wasn't it?”

His satisfied, unconcerned smile made both hands curl into fists. It took considerable restraint not to put them to good use.

“So your 'friend' gets off on other peoples' agony? Their torture?” My mouth opened and closed several times before any more sounds emerged. “You're just as fucking bad. How can using that ever be justified, you prick?”

Lex looked baffled. “No big deal. It's out there, so why shouldn't I use it?”

An expression of disgust appeared on his supervisor's face. Something else he hadn't known about.

Lex yawned and stretched. “God, I need some shut-eye. It's been all go, hasn't it?”

A grunt was all he got from the other guy.

The farmer eyed them both thoughtfully. “Seein' as ye both here, like, mebbes you'll stay a night or two? It's all paid for, mind. Seems a shame to waste it. Mebbes a trip out or two in that posh car an' all?”

As both men started a discussion, I grabbed what was close. The old man's sly wink explained everything. A brief nod in reply, and the front door closed behind me.

Lex had exposed himself as an amoral, inhuman piece of work. If he so much as sent one text, the police would be knocking on his door so fast, he'd be history.

Once safe in the car, a swift return to normal life beckoned. Home – and Dan.