Overstretched

By Stuart G. Yates

Relocated across the country, Stephen Brunt and his family spend their first night in a dark, unwelcoming pub.

It seems like nobody is ready to welcome them to their new home town except for Carson, Mr. Knills's servant from one house over. After Knills invites them over for a quiet drink, the Stephen and his family learn that the man's wife was kidnapped one dreadful night, never to be heard from again.

A private detective had failed to unearth anything, and Knills pleads Stephen to help him. Pockets now full of money, he sets out to find out what happened. But soon, things take a turn for the worse, and Stephen himself becomes a suspect for a crime he didn't commit.

With seemingly nobody to trust, Stephen finds himself in a race against time, and odds are not in his favor. Can he piece together the puzzle, find the kidnapper and save himself?

This book contains graphic sex and violence, and is not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Feb 4, 2022

Book preview

ONE

Those first few moments, arriving so late, the weather foul, everyone tired, were bad but not as bad as they were going to be—or how awful it was going to be when it all came to an end. ‘Bad’ didn’t come anywhere close!

Snaking between thick trees pressing in on either side, the car headlights managed to pick out only the first few yards of rutted gravel as the rain came down like a wall. Samantha craned her neck and forced a smile for the two girls huddled in the back seat of the big Mitsubishi. Soon be there. She looked across to her husband. How much further, Steve?

A tremendous flash, followed by a blast of thunder, caused everyone to jump and Amy, the youngest, screamed.

The big, heavy car slewed through the quagmire created by the downpour and Steve battled with the wheel, leaning into the skid. The tyres dug home, the four-wheel-drive making easy work of what could have proved a dangerous moment.

Jesus, he hissed, regaining control and blowing out a sigh. What a filthy night.

Amy was crying now and Bea, her elder sister, pulled her close. She stared at her mother and Samantha reached out her hand to grip her forearm. We’ll be okay.

The words stuck in her throat for Samantha Brunt felt far from okay. Life in Norwich had been good, the pace slow, Bea well settled in school, Amy making friends at playgroup. The future seemed secure, then Rob entered her life, and her body at every opportunity. She didn’t think she’d been looking for an escape but clearly, she was, and Rob took advantage. She didn’t resist, thrilled that a man took notice of her after so many years. It was pure lust, but it gave her a new lease of life, a reason to get up in the morning.

A few months later, Steve got a new job or, more correctly, his agency relocated him. She often wondered if Steve had grown tired of her affair and requested a transfer. He knew about it, of course he did, but he didn’t care. He no longer noticed, no longer took the time to ask her anything. His attention as a lover was non-existent and she wondered about that. Was it her? Did she no longer light his fire? Friends told her it was all him, that he’d lost his libido – if he ever had one – and that she should find someone else. Was Rob that someone?

Steve carried on as normal, even when he found that letter. More of a note. No, any form of concern had long since faded from their life together, except for the children, the reason Steve stayed. Whatever the truth, the relocation meant they were now on the other side of the country. The new office in Chester, and their rented house in a tiny place called Stoak. The far side of the Moon.

The four-by-four bucked and jumped over the multitudinous water-filled craters, the wipers at full speed, the great arc lights making no impression, Steve’s teeth clenched in a face tight with concentration. He switched to full-beam, but the light bounced back into his eyes, the rain acting like a mirror, and he cursed, returned to dipped and leant forward over the wheel, squinting into the night.

Samantha pressed her face against the glass of the side window. Nothing but black. Like her life. Rob, during their last moments, pounding into her with all the fury of a man possessed. ‘You’ll never have it better than this!’ She knew how true those words were. The need for him, the lust, unleashing an unrestrained wildness within. Always ready to satisfy her, forever hard. Utterly unlike Steve, who never so much as kissed her cheek anymore. Rob gave her everything she desired and the most wonderful part of it was his need for her. In his arms, all her self-doubt, the mind-numbing boredom of existence, the horrible sense of not being wanted by Steve slipped away and left her alive, peaceful and content. She ached when they parted and she returned to the drabness of her life. Steve, the girls, the mundane routine of waking up, preparing breakfast, seeing them off to work and school, the house empty and cold. God, how she hated it all.

The final time they’d kissed, a single tear had rolled down Rob’s cheek before he drove off into the night, the taillights searing into her brain. How long she stood and stared, she had no idea. She wanted to stay there forever, not believing it was true. But it was and now nothing but memories and thoughts of an uncertain future clogged her thoughts. Damn Steve for saying yes. Damn herself for not saying no.

The car slowed right down and came to a halt, Steve’s eyes like slits. There’s a sign, he said, pointing. She followed his gesture but saw nothing. He groaned. I’ll get out.

The wind almost took the door off its hinges; he held on, frantic, spitting, Fuck! before he scrambled into the night, with the rain relentless.

She shivered, turned to the girls again. They were both lying in a tight ball, holding each other, faces pressed into the comforting warmth of their thick coats. Neither moved. It won’t be much longer.

You’ve said that. Bea, anger in her voice, pulled Amy closer.

Samantha sighed and swung away as the door opened, a cold blast of air mixed with rain causing the vehicle to shake. Steve got in, breathing hard, blowing into his hands. Jeez, it’s bloody awful out there.

What did the sign say?

Two miles.

We can’t arrive at a new house in this, Steve. What about the girls? They will need a hot meal after all this.

He gaped at her. Well, what the hell else are we supposed to do?

We should have left earlier.

"Earlier? Christ, Sam, if you hadn’t spent so long saying goodbye to the whole bloody world, we could have done!"

She glared at him. Can you stop swearing, please? He threw a look at the girls and grunted. She blew out her breath. "We left at ten o’clock, it’s now gone eight. You missed the turn-off, Steve. You. We should have been here four hours ago!"

So it’s my fault, as usual. Feeling the pressure mounting, he gripped the steering wheel, breathed through his mouth, eyes closed. We’ve got no choice. We can put on the fire, central heating maybe; it’ll be all right.

It will be damp and cold and we’ll all catch a chill. We should have booked into a hotel.

Christ, I hate the way you’re so bloody wise after the event.

And I hate the way you never think things through. She crossed her arms, turned away. "Just drive the damned car. And stop swearing!"

Ramming into gear, he set off at a slow speed, mindful of the ruts and the blind curves.

Sometime later, they drove past a pub, set back from the road, comforting orange lights sending out an inviting glow through the incessant rain. Its sign, a rider urging his mount over a broken hedgerow, swung on ancient hinges. ‘The Galloper’. Samantha made a mental note of its situation, wondering if Steve even noticed. She peered into the night.

Two houses stood like dark smudges on the hillside, one much larger and imposing, the other in a small dip, shrouded in darkness. The Mitsubishi rolled up the track winding towards the entrance driveway, some way from the road. A steep climb which, despite the car’s huge engine, proved tricky in the torrent of water roaring down from the hilltop, turning the ground into a mud-slide, causing the chunky tyres to slip and fail to grip. Steve slammed on the brakes and slewed to a halt. We’ll never make it, it’s too wet. We’ll have to walk.

She brought both fists down hard on the dash, "Damn you, Steve! We can’t get out in this!"

He sat gulping in air, his face an ashen mask of fury.

Bea’s voice croaked out of the darkness, Let’s go to that hotel.

Samantha turned to her daughter, who remained rigid, her eyes black-rimmed, exhausted. Please, Mummy. The one we passed just a minute ago. Let’s go there.

Samantha knew the sense of it. The thought of battling through the mud, in the rain, to a freezing house, black and unknown, filled her with total dread. Yes, darling. She smiled, reached across and smoothed her daughter’s hair. We will.

Steve sighed, defeated, and pulled down hard on the wheel.

TWO

From his window at the very top of the house, Carson spotted the twin beams piercing the rain and watched the big four-by-four attempting to tackle the track. He chuckled to himself, picked up the binoculars, and peered through the gloom. After a moment, he managed to focus on the vehicle but found he could not pick out the details, so he gave up, went to his bed and gazed at his unread paperback. He deliberated on what to do before ‒ seized by a surge of energy ‒ he tore out of his room and took the stairs two at a time.

He found the old man in the study, bent over his writing desk, glasses perched on the end of his nose, face almost pressed into the pages of a large book. The wood crackled in the grate, music played softly in the background. Without moving he asked, Problem?

Carson went to the fire, rubbing his hands. There’s a car.

Coming here?

The other house, I think. It’s stuck.

Ah. The old man licked a finger and turned a page. They’ll be our new neighbours I shouldn’t wonder. They’ve come a long way. Filthy night.

Should I go and see if I can help in some way?

The old man shrugged. Do you want to?

They’ll never make it up the hill, not in this. A tank would struggle.

And what can you do, eh? Another page turned. If you help them out and leave the car where it is ... His voice trailed away. It will slide down the hill, Carson. Best if they swung around and found somewhere else to stay. Try again in the morning ... things always appear better in the daylight.

What about the house? Should I go and light a fire or something?

The old man sighed loudly, pushed himself back in his chair and glared at the younger man. Why the hell are you so bloody interested all of a sudden, eh? Like the look of her, do you?

Carson blanched, looked down at his feet. From the photograph you showed me, I’d say she’s bloody gorgeous.

Yes, I thought it might be something like that. You’re too damned predictable, that’s your problem.

Well what do you expect, living in this bloody place, stuck in the middle of nowhere?

Poor, lonely you. He shook his head and returned to his book. Do what the hell you like, Carson. Build them a fire, turn down the beds, welcome them with open arms and let her see what a fine physical specimen you are. You never know, she might show some interest. Women usually do. He sniggered. What’s the name of the current one?

Ellen.

Ah yes. Ellen. Married, isn’t she? Why do you always go for the married ones? Thrill of the chase, more of a challenge? He ran his forefinger under a line of typescript. I suppose I should envy you. But I don’t.

Carson bit his lip, wanted to tell the old man to fuck off, but knew he never would. Despite his words, life here was good. He had independence, steady work, excellent pay. No ties, no responsibilities and, of course, when the old man died he’d be well looked after in the terms of the will. All in all, the future seemed bright, and as for the present, the chance for some extra-curricular activities with another good-looking woman was not something he wanted to jeopardise. Ellen satisfied him, up to a point, but lately, she seemed preoccupied, never able to give him more than the occasional hour here and there. This new one, she could prove exciting. The old man had his own plans and hopefully, she might feature prominently in them.

Go on, see if you can lend them a big, helpful hand. He smiled, shaking his head, enjoying how agitated Carson appeared. "Grin. You’re such a friendly, helpful type, I’m sure they’ll appreciate anything you can do."

So as not to jeopardise anything, Carson kept his mouth shut, swung around and closed the door. He stood for a moment in the hallway, torn between going upstairs to bed or actually doing what the old man intimated. He doubted he could help much anyway unless forcing open the back door could in itself be deemed ‘helpful’. It would be the only way he could get inside, having no key. Making his decision, he pulled on Wellingtons and the thick waxed Mackintosh, adjusted the hood and stepped outside into the porch.

He checked he had the torch, made sure everything worked and plunged into the downpour.

---

As it turned out, he did not need to force the door so he pushed it open and stared into the total darkness. He fumbled for his torch, pressed it on and trained the beam into the black, straightaway picking out the big range, the oak table, cupboards and fittings. He groped for the light switch on the wall but then decided to leave it. If they managed to return sooner rather than later, they may wonder why a light was burning. He stepped inside and eased the door shut.

Standing for a moment, he wondered what he was doing there. Was he really going to make the time to build a fire, turn down the sheets, just as the old man had suggested? For what purpose? Maybe plant the seed inside the wife’s pretty head?

Yes, of course that was the reason. If she looked as good in the flesh as she did in the photo … He shook himself, throwing out a fine spray of rainwater which fell, for the most part, over the table. Ignoring this, he took another step. His boots squelched across the floor tiles and, shining the torchlight downwards, he noticed the large footprint in the film of dust. Pulling out a stool from under the table, he tugged off his boots and proceeded to move through the house.

Soon, he was shivering. The house, not lived in for months, was not only filthy, it was bone-achingly cold. The lack of light increased the oppressive feelings of gloom and depression which seemed to ooze out of every corner of this unfriendly place. He wished he’d never come, but now that he had …

He stacked up the living room fireplace with firelighters and damp logs before realising his stupidity; he cursed out loud. There were no matches. He sat and gazed into the grate, wondering what to do.

Then, the brainwave.

He found a pencil and, after a brief search, some paper and scrawled his note. Folding it neatly, he left it propped up on the mantelpiece. True, he might find it first – the husband – but that didn’t really matter. Another seed planted.

Feeling pleased with himself, Carson left the room, returned to the kitchen and pulled on his boots. Taking a deep breath, he went outside to face the elements again.

Leaving his footprint on the kitchen floor.

THREE

Half an hour after struggling down the hill again, the Mitsubishi sliding through the mud, Samantha in a tight ball holding onto her knees and the girls screaming, Steve swung into the ‘Galloper’s’ car park and cut the engine.

No one moved, the only sound their collective relief, all of them breathing hard and fast.

I thought we’d roll over, he said, eyes unblinking, staring into the rain.

You bloody idiot. Samantha uncoiled herself and reached across to her daughters, did her best to hold them around the shoulders. It’s all right, we’re here. Nothing more to worry about, okay?

They broke into quiet sobs and Samantha glared at her husband. See if they’ve got a room. He nodded, pulled up the zip of his coat. You’d better bloody pray they do.

Grunting, he struggled out of the car and disappeared into the night.

He ran doubled-up and burst into the public bar, shaking his coat, breathing hard, beating his arms.

The few customers huddled around tables close to the fire looked up like a synchronised swimming team and stared in disbelief. Steve forced a brief smile, sensing their hostility and pressed himself against the bar, hopeful of finding a friendly face.

A barmaid appeared from somewhere behind the counter, drying her hands on a threadbare cloth, impassive, eyes registering neither welcome nor indifference.

Horrible night, said Steve. He groped for a handkerchief, dried his mouth and nose, glanced around. The lounge bar was small, half a dozen circular tables with chairs, in the depths a dartboard, a wall-mounted jukebox silent. A few drab prints mounted on the walls, fox-hunting scenes, added to the overall sense of tired, faded neglect.

What can I get you? She stood, cloth now on the bar, head tilted to the right.

I was hoping you might have a room.

She blinked and appeared stunned, as if such a request were the most outrageous she had ever heard. She took a moment, parted her lips slightly, and glanced at the wall clock above the series of drink optics. A room?

Yes, if you have one. We were to move into our new home tonight, but the storm has defeated us.

"Defeated you?"

Was she stupid or something? Steve nodded. He pulled in a breath, knowing he had to remain calm despite the impatience and frustration gathering strength inside him. Yes. The storm, it’s made the road impassable. We can’t get to the house. We thought if we could get a room we might try again in the morning.

A room? Her eyes travelled from him to the left.

Steve followed her gaze. The customers, all men, stared back, unblinking and silent. Five of them in total, three around one table, two at another. He did not think he had ever set foot in such an unfriendly atmosphere in his life.

One of them stood. A big man, paunch straining over trousers at least a size too small. He plodded over, placed his beer glass on the counter, and measured Steve with a long look. How many are you?

Four. Me, the wife, and our two daughters.

No pets?

Steve frowned and shook his head. No. It’s only for the night. Hopefully, the storm will have died down by the morning and we can—

Yes. You said. He took a drink of his beer, looked at the barmaid, who shrugged. Well. One night. Can’t do much harm, can it?

Not if you say so. A moment’s silence, an exchange of telepathic thought between them both, and she sighed, You’ll be wanting food I suppose?

The discomfort pressed down on his shoulders. They hadn’t eaten since the stop at the motorway services, and then only some cheese rolls. They had food in the boot; a planned dinner, to be enjoyed around a roaring fire, the home-warming meal. Yes. That really would be great.

Well, she sucked in her bottom lip. I suppose ...

She turned and disappeared into the back again and Steve smiled at the big man, who simply lifted his glass and drank. We don’t often get passing trade, he said at last. We’re not used to it, see.

Well, I would ordinarily—

Knills’ place, is it?

Steve did a double-take. I’m sorry?

The house you’re moving into. Knills?

He shook his head again, lost with the questions, questions which made no sense. Knills? I don’t understand.

The man sighed, drained his glass and leant back against the counter. The big old house on the hill. Old man Knills owns it. Bit of a recluse he is. You’ll be working for him, will you?

Working for ... no, no. We’ve rented the other house, with a view to buying it perhaps. The one further down the hillside.

"Barnside?"

Steve looked perplexed.

"That’s it, the name of the other house. Barnside. Been up for sale for ... He pursed his lips and turned to the others. How long has Barnside been up for sale, Jonty?"

Jonty, muffled in a duffle coat and scarf, coughed and swilled his whisky around the bottom of his glass. Couldn’t say, Mitch. A year?

Eighteen months more like, said another.

Eighteen months ... Mitch shook his head. Well, there’s a thing. Time goes quick, doesn’t it?

Yes. I suppose it does.

"And you’re not working for him? What would you be doing buying such a place as Barnside, all this way out here? Pop star, are you? Singer?"

Steve almost laughed, wanted to tell this Mitch such an idea was ludicrous in the extreme. He also wanted to correct him. They were renting, not buying. But he didn’t. Why should he? And, as for Mitch, a great barndoor of a man … Barndoor, Barnside. Steve studied him. The man’s hands were like plates, his shoulders as broad as a doorway, arms thick as railway sleepers. Despite his gut, the man oozed danger. Steve smiled instead. Not working for him. No such luck. I’m an accountant.

A few sniggers from the others before they turned back to their morbid silence, interest on the wane. Mitch, eyes twinkling, rapped his knuckles on the bar. Hear that, Wendy? This man here is an accountant.

She emerged, sporting a pinny tied tightly around her slim waist. A tiny film of sweat made her brow shine. Is that what he is? Her eyes roamed over Steve and then she went back to the interior.

And you’re working for Knills?

No. For a training centre down in Chester.

Mitch nodded, as if the disclosure answered every subsequent question he might have, and he pushed himself upright and clapped his hands. More beer, that’s the answer.

I’ll ... Steve motioned to the door. I’ll go and get the others. Then, maybe we could see the room?

Mitch said nothing, just eased his way around the other side of the counter, lifting the flap, and moving to the beer pumps. He used his old glass, whistled tunelessly as he filled it with squirts of good English ale.

Steve watched for a moment before going back outside. He let out his breath in a long stream and saw their eager faces pressed against the passenger windows. He raised a thumb but didn’t smile. An awful sense of dread fell over him and he wondered, for the first time since leaving Norwich, if this move would prove the most disastrous decision he had ever made.

FOUR

The next morning, Samantha threw back the curtains and looked out into the grey, washed-out skyline. The heavy rain had given way to a light drizzle with the promise of eventual cessation later. However, later was an imponderable. Between now and then a new house awaited. Samantha sighed, wondered what was happening in far-off Norwich at that moment, and swung around to find Amy staring with round, frightened eyes, her sour expression telling the whole world what had happened. You wet your bed?

Amy nodded, bottom lip quivering. In a rush, Samantha bent down and picked up her daughter, hugging her close. Don’t worry, darling. No one can blame you after the terrible night we all had. She kissed her, tried to block out Steve’s snores, and went into the bathroom to clean up her little girl.

Over breakfast, they sat in silence, scrambled eggs on toast the only offering, with an accompaniment of weak tea or strong coffee. With nothing else on offer, Steve Brunt asked for some milk for the girls, which they stared at but did not sample. Afterwards, they gathered their belongings and at the bar he paid the tariff, received neither a sound nor glance from the woman, and stepped out into the dull, cold morning air. Samantha shuffled past him, ushering the girls into the car. When she looked back at him, her eyes held nothing but contempt.

They made the ascent to the house in two attempts, mud spraying in all directions, the big engine screaming. Samantha peered out towards the other house, standing further up the hillside like an old, black bull silhouetted against the grey sky, staring, measuring them. She shuddered and swung around to Bea. We’ll walk.

Before Steve said a word, the three of them were outside in the drizzle, slithering up the sodden earth, Amy laughing loudly, Bea more tight-lipped. Head down, Samantha marched on, determined. Another downpour threatened to erupt from the leaden sky.

Safely indoors, she searched for the light switch as the girls ran through the house, exploring every room, squealing in delight. Samantha stood listening to them pounding across the upstairs landing and the cold, heartless interior of the house bit into her and for a moment the urge to turn and walk away almost overcame her. She padded her palm along the wall, found the switch and when nothing happened, her shoulders sagged, her depression growing stronger. She went over to the fireplace, peered into the abyss of the grate, and wondered if this could ever be home. And then she saw it. A piece of paper with the word ‘Welcome’ scrawled across the facing side. She picked it up and hurriedly put it into her pocket when she heard the footfall behind her. Turning, she saw Steve coming through the door with suitcases in both hands.

There’s no power. I’ll phone the electric people, he said and let the cases drop. He studied her face, deathly pale, eyes black-rimmed.

I’ll do it, she said and stomped off to leave him alone in the empty lounge, no furniture, ornaments, or even carpet to lighten the oppressive atmosphere. Dark, unwelcoming. As the night had been, the pub, her mood.

Samantha struggled to open the kitchen door, the frame swollen from the rain and, when at last she succeeded, the handle came off in her hand. She swore, threw it down and went out into what used to be a garden. An overgrown mess of ancient flowerbeds hidden under a jungle of twisted grass and broken shrubs presented itself to her. A sad excuse for an apple tree leant precariously against a frail, sagging fence. She walked through the sodden grass, not caring anymore, and