Corpse Road Read online

  Corpse Road

  David J. Gatward

  Weirdstone Publishing

  Corpse Road

  By

  David J. Gatward

  Copyright © 2020 by David J. Gatward

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Author’s Note

  Untitled

  About David J. Gatward

  Also by David J. Gatward

  To everyone at Team Space Team: thanks for the awesome support, shizznods!

  Grimm: nickname for a dour and forbidding individual,

  from Old High German grim [meaning] ‘stern’, ‘severe’.

  From a Germanic personal name, grima, [meaning] ‘mask’.

  (www.ancestory.co.uk)

  Corpse Road: Ancient path used by mourners

  to carry their dead to the nearest church.

  Also known as burial roads, coffin roads, and lych ways.

  Now it is the time of night

  That the graves all gaping wide,

  Every one lets forth his sprite,

  In the church-way paths to glide.

  (A Midsummer Night’s Dream)

  Chapter One

  He had hunted before, but tonight would be his first kill.

  It was all down to the planning, the training, the preparation. Like his favourite hard-as-hell heroes in the SAS always said: train hard, fight easy. And he had trained hard for this, not just physically, but mentally. Everything he’d been doing had come down to what he was about to do and it felt so, so good! The excitement was so much that he could feel it in his fingertips, taste the adrenaline at the back of his tongue. But he forced all that down, breathed deep, kept himself calm.

  A successful operation was all down to the seven ‘P’s: perfect prior planning prevents piss poor performance. And he’d planned this so well, and in such detail, that it almost made him laugh at how easy it was going to be and how surprised his prey would be when he finally pounced. But now was not the time for laughter. That would come later, of that he was absolutely sure. Because this was going to be fun, wasn’t it? Exciting, yes, but fun, too. And the others who understood him, they would see how much fun it had been, how much more fun there was to come, and they would laugh along with him. Perhaps they would even be inspired? Now wouldn’t that be an outcome, he thought. His deeds inspiring others to carry out their own acts of retribution? Yes, that would be the ultimate goal of this, not just to follow in the footsteps of his heroes, but to become a hero himself and to encourage others to follow. He would be the spark to light the fire which would set the world aflame! And then society would have to take notice, wouldn’t it?

  As any good soldier would do, he’d done a close-quarter recce, or CQR, of the site a couple of days ago. He knew the area well, that was true, but it was always best to do things by the book. And he had read all of the books, hadn’t he? Everything from Bravo Two Zero to The SAS Survival Handbook. He knew it all—what to do, how to do it, even the right acronyms. And his equipment was the best, because he’d researched it, tested it, looked after it.

  Lying inside his waterproof and breathable bivvy-bag, and on top of a self-inflating camping mat, not even a rainstorm would be able to stop what he was there to do. He had worked hard at making sure that the only way anyone would ever find it was if they accidentally stumbled into it. The hide he had fashioned around him, from bracken and heather and anything else close to hand, was made in such a way as to be almost invisible, even up close. And its location made that almost an impossibility. He’d even found it difficult to find the hide himself when he’d come back to it earlier, having been out to prepare the site the evening before. There had been a moment of panic where he’d wondered if he had been too careful. But then the relief at finding the hide had washed over him and he’d felt almost godlike, invincible, immortal.

  He checked his watch, then went back to staring down his scope, which was attached to his rifle, a bolt-action Accuracy International model and his pride and joy. It had certainly cost enough, hadn’t it? But then, you get what you pay for, and like every other bit of his equipment, from the rifle to his knife to the boots on his feet, he’d bought the absolute best. No army surplus here, no way. He was tempted to fire off a few tester shots, just in case, but there was no need. He had zeroed everything in already and was very happy indeed with his grouping at this range.

  A yawn broke his concentration and then his stomach rumbled. Hot food wasn’t an option, not on an operation such as this, where stealth was paramount. So, a cold boil-in-the-bag it was, and he tore open a pouch and tucked in. The food tasted so good, all the better he was sure because of where he was eating it, not just outdoors, but on an operation which would change his life forever.

  Food over, he carefully stashed everything away then ran through in his mind what he was there to do, at the same time checking that he had all of his equipment to hand, which of course he did, and that just made him smile even more, his cheeks starting to ache from it.

  Now it was just a waiting game and that gave him more than enough time to post something out to his followers on the dark web, to let them know that what he’d been promising for so long was no longer just a promise, but an actual event unfolding before him. He was taking action, not just for him, for the wrongs he’d suffered, but for all those others like him, and for how they’d suffered, too. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it—suffering? No one really understood, but they would, after tonight, of that he would make absolutely sure.

  Others had laid the road before him, that was true, and the inspiration he’d drawn from their actions, their sacrifice, he would never be able to truly quantify. But the rebellion had already begun and he was going to make absolutely sure that it continued. All hail the Supreme Gentleman!

  It was time for retribution, time to exact revenge on the society that had denied him—and so many others like him—what was rightfully his. If anything, he was the victim. They all were! And society needed to understand that. That’s what this was all about, why he’d spent so much time, so much money, on getting ready for this moment. Right down to seeking out his prey and leading her to the slaughter.

  A few moments later, his prey wandered into view, and right there and then he had never in his life felt so alive or so powerful.

  Chapter Two

  At thirty-seven years old, and not exactly in the best of shape, Kirsty Emily Jackson was, for the first time in her life, pitching a tent. Okay, so this wasn’t strictly true; she’d had a practice go on the day she bought it a couple of months ago
, but had decided that wrestling in the back garden with a seemingly sentient being created from sheets of waterproof nylon and thin aluminium poles didn’t really count, not least because she hadn’t then gone on to actually sleep in it. No. Because instead, she’d hidden it away in the loft with the rest of her secretly purchased kit so that Daryl wouldn’t find it.

  Dear God, that bastard of a man . . .

  The fleeting thought of Daryl, and what he would have done if he’d found the tent and everything else, sent an icy shudder racing through Kirsty’s body so violent that she actually dropped one of the poles. The elastic thread holding it together caused its individual sections to spring back and clatter together, whipping her painfully across the ankle and making her yelp. As she rubbed at where the pole had struck, flashbacks hammered into her with the ferocity of a hail of Hellfire missiles, her mind shattering into fragments with the impact: insults and slammed doors, silences that lasted weeks, hands meant to care and caress turned into weapons, every sickening moment of what their so-called marriage had become burning a hole through her soul so wide and ragged and raw that she wondered if it would ever truly heal.

  Kirsty took another breath. And another. She forced herself to stand up straight—no, not just straight but tall—to close her eyes for a moment, and to just focus on the small things: the wind in her hair, tussling it and playing with it and tying it in knots; the faint scent of dampness from the moorland beneath her feet; her heartbeat gradually slowing after the adrenaline surge from the flashbacks; the warmth of her goose down jacket, the sweet bright taste of Kendal Mint Cake still lingering in her mouth, the welcome ache in her muscles after a full day of walking.

  Opening her eyes, Kirsty took another deep breath, then stared out at the view in front of her. And what a view it was, she thought, briefly wondering why it had taken her so long to get to where she was right now, gazing out across the hauntingly beautiful landscape of Swaledale. What a place! But that didn’t matter, not right now. What did, was the fact that she had finally made the break, kicking Daryl out on his arse a week ago to the day, and this moment, this tiny celebration of what she’d done, was, for the first time in years, her time alone, and she was going to make sure that she enjoyed every sweet-tasting and wonderful second of it.

  For Kirsty, Swaledale had been a refuge since childhood holidays had left her forever haunted by its embrace: the sweeping valleys and hills laced together by the thin, ancient threads of drystone walls; houses huddled together in cosy clusters against the elements as though squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder to share heat; the ghosts she half-imagined still worked the tumbledown mines which rose from the heather and bracken like the broken dwellings of a civilisation lost to time.

  Fifteen minutes later Kirsty had managed to erect her tent, thin pegs pinning it safely to the ground, the flysheet tied back to give her a small porch area in which to cook up her supper. Behind her, rolled out and looking very cosy and welcoming indeed, her four-season down sleeping bag lay on top of a surprisingly comfortable camping mattress, and next to it a novel she’d purchased a couple of days ago from the little independent bookshop back home.

  Kirsty giggled then, and she almost jumped at the sound of it, because laughter and happiness were things which had become so alien and distant to her that they were little more than the ghosts of memories haunting her mind. But she wasn’t so scared of them now, not anymore, and as she unpacked her brand-new stove—well, everything was brand new, but that only served to make it all so much more exciting!—ready to cook up the food she had brought with her for the evening ahead, she was filled with the sense that this was a new beginning and that from here on in, life was only going to get better.

  Despite knowing Swaledale since childhood, the actual final destination for Kirsty’s trip in the dale had come about thanks to a Facebook group about wild camping she’d stumbled on during one of her numerous tedious hours at work. Being a partner in an accountancy firm was an achievement, of that Kirsty had no doubt, and was also something which her parents reminded her about at every opportunity, and the money was quite the reward, for sure. But the monotony of it—the people, the dreary day-to-day of advising companies on their budgets, producing numerous spreadsheets, and really trying her best to always be so very excited indeed about pivot tables—well, there was only so much of it that she could take. And having her own office gave Kirsty sufficient privacy to occasionally just drift among the flotsam and jetsam of the internet.

  Kirsty had never really thought about going camping, not now that she was an adult. Her idea of roughing it was a king-sized bed in a Premier Inn. Cooking outdoors, well, that was a pizza oven in a gastro-pub garden. As for exercise, one of the perks of the company was that it had its very own gym, and she had admired it each and every day when she passed it by on her way towards the lift while carrying fresh coffee and a warm bagel from the fancy little shop on the corner. And yet, despite all of this, she’d been drawn to search for activities which promised adventure and escape.

  The daily postings on the group page had hooked her in quicker than she had expected. Members posted photos of their solo wild camps and Kirsty found herself scrolling through them in wonder, fascinated by the idea of just buggering off into the hills on her own. Then, one evening, as she’d been heading home and dreading what awaited her beyond her own front door, she had taken a small detour and ended up wandering around a superstore dedicated to all things outdoors. An hour later, she had walked out carrying a bag of things which, only a few weeks before, she hadn’t even known existed.

  That had been the beginning, the first snip at the wire fence which had hemmed her in and imprisoned her for so long.

  Over the next few weeks, Kirsty had taken further trips into the same store, slowly building up enough gear and equipment to venture out on her own and become a solo wild camper, all while following the advice of the others in the wild camping Facebook group. The idea of it was complete insanity, she knew that for a fact, but as her secret pile of purchases grew steadily larger, so did her excitement, which was made all the more acute by the fact that Daryl Didn’t Know.

  Truth be told, Kirsty hadn’t planned to combine her first-ever solo camping trip with doing to her marriage what a blast from a shotgun does to a melon. It was just the way things had turned out. Originally, her plan had been to wait until Daryl was away on one of his numerous business trips, and then sneak off and bathe in a stolen moment of freedom. Instead, what had actually happened was she’d come home from work to find Daryl waiting for her at the dining room table, in front of him a long list of her apparent misdemeanours from the previous month, and by his side, a bottle of whisky already opened and poured into a very expensive glass.

  With the early evening sun bathing the earth in a deep golden hue, Kirsty stirred the boil-in-the-bag beef stroganoff, which she’d heated up in water boiled on her stove, and the memories of that evening dancing around her a little too gleefully, she thought. But the food wasn’t just hot, it was surprisingly delicious, and the cheeky bottle of rather expensive red wine she’d brought with her only added to her enjoyment. There was nothing that her past could do to her now that would make her regret what she had done.

  That fateful evening, back home from work and sitting down at the table directly opposite Daryl, Kirsty had stared at her husband and known immediately that she’d had enough. When he’d opened his mouth to start at the top of his list, she’d got in there first.

  ‘I want a divorce.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A divorce, Daryl. Begins with dee and ends with fuck you! I want one. I’m not doing this anymore. Not any of it. I want you to pack whatever you need and get out. Now.’

  Daryl had stared at her, hadn’t he? Those cold grey eyes narrowing to thin slits of meanness, his face wrestling with the mixed emotions of rage and confusion and arrogant disbelief.

  ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘I can and I have. Get out.’

&nb
sp; Then he’d been up on his feet, the list clasped in one hand, the other waving around in the air as he spat a vitriolic salvo of rancorous bile her way, his words barbed with poisoned spite and a mean cruelty he had honed over the years of their marriage.

  ‘How dare you! How bloody well dare you! I’m your husband! You belong to me! You don’t get to tell me what to do, you hear? You just don’t! And to think of all the years, all the time and effort I’ve put in to protecting you and looking after you! After all I’ve done! You absolute shit! You are mine! You made a vow! And you will not break it! I won’t let you! I won’t!’

  With the memory of those words fading in her mind, Kirsty poured her wine into a plastic cup and drank deep, the rich ruby liquid gliding across her tongue, filling her senses with tastes of chocolate and berries and the faintest hint of leather. God, it was good, and all the more so for where she was having it. But that memory still had more to give and its numerous tiny hooks caught her and pulled her back in.

  ‘I’ve already contacted my solicitor, Daryl.’

  It had been a lie, but right then it hadn’t mattered, because she absolutely would be doing so the following day, and did.