Daniel Dayton Box Set Read online

  DEVIL’S PLAYGROUND

  Pallbearer

  Woodcutter

  Shaun Baines

  Table of Contents

  Pallbearer

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Woodcutter

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Pallbearer

  Shaun Baines

  Copyright © Shaun Baines 2019

  The right of Shaun Baines to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in 2019 by Sharpe Books.

  Chapter One

  The curtains of his bedroom weren't just closed. They were stitched together with gardener's twine in a crude series of crosses. The lightbulb that once hung from the ceiling gathered dust in his bedside cabinet. There were no ticking clocks. No creaking floorboards.

  Daniel Dayton's six-foot-eight frame barely fit his bed. He wrestled with his sheets, throttling them in large hands, neither asleep nor awake. He was by the shore of his father's man-made lake playing football with Scott. Daniel was ten, his brother a little older.

  Daniel would think it nonsense on waking. Like most of his dreams.

  His dead brother swept the ball from between Daniel's legs, knocking him to the ground again.

  "Watch out," Daniel said, pulling sharp shingle from his palms.

  Scott kicked the ball skywards and catapulted himself into the air. "Back of the net."

  Placing a hand over his eyes, Daniel squinted into the sun as his football shrank to a speck. It splashed down on the lake, drifting to the shoreline of an island they were forbidden to visit.

  "That was my football. It was signed by Alan Shearer." Daniel scrambled from his knees, rounding on his smirking brother. His heart thudded in his ears, drowning out the sound of the lapping waves. "You have to go and get it."

  Scott flipped him the finger and walked up the grassy slope to the double doors of Five Oaks.

  "Bastard," Daniel hissed, launching into a run. He was small, but tackled his brother at speed. They fell in a tangle of thrashing arms and legs. Daniel's bony elbow whipped across Scott's nose.

  There was a crunch and Daniel froze. Only his eyes dared to move, widening at the blood turning his brother's face into a crimson mask. Beneath the red, Scott's skin went white.

  That was the tell-tale sign. The one he'd grown to fear. Red didn't symbolise danger. It was always white.

  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Daniel said.

  His limbs were rubbery, useless against his brother. He ran, but Scott clawed him to the ground, flipping him onto his back. A hand clamped over Daniel's mouth and nose.

  Daniel tried to scream, tried to breathe. His lungs were bursting. He stared up at his brother, a chill washing over him, his world darkening. Tears coursed down his cheeks. He kicked impotently, but he was too weak and his brother was too cruel.

  "What are you doing?" The voice came from above and Daniel searched frantically for its source.

  Their father loomed over them, a frown on his handsome face. Ed Dayton sipped from his whisky and ice and fixed Scott with a stare. "I asked you a question."

  His brother scowled, but withdrew his hand from Daniel's mouth. "He was being a pansy again."

  Drawing air into his lungs, Daniel coughed and spluttered. "He kicked my ball into the lake. It's on the island."

  Scott folded his arms. "You shouldn't have been playing with it anyway. Alan Shearer signed it."

  "You made me." Daniel turned to his father. "He made me take it out of the box, Dad."

  "Enough," Ed said, dismissing Daniel with a wave.

  His father crouched down and Daniel smelled the whisky on his warm breath.

  "You're not allowed on the island, so what are you going to do?"

  Daniel looked at him blankly.

  "Don't be a tool all your life, son. You have to fight back." Ed stood and Daniel watched his face. Dilated pupils. Reddening skin. Rapid breathing. No blinking. The messages were clear, burrowing into his brain. Daniel had learned how to read micro-signals before he had learned to read a book. People lied, but their faces didn't. He knew what his father wanted.

  Daniel closed his eyes. "It wasn't my fault," he said between sobs. "You have to help me."

  There was a moment of stillness where Daniel hoped his father might rescue him. The dread of another beating lifted and he opened an eye to see Scott raising a fist, his mouth cutting a straight line through the blood.

  His father jutted out his chin and swirled dark whisky around his glass. "I am helping you, son."

  Daniel woke to the clink of his father's ice cubes hitting glass. He massaged his aching chest, as if his brother still had him pinned to the ground, but S
cott was dead. He'd been killed in the house where Daniel now lived. Murdered by a man called Bronson, Daniel's best and only friend.

  Scott was gone, but not forgotten.

  Turning on his side, Daniel forced the nightmare to the back of his mind. He had barely slept since the day of Fairbanks' death; the mastermind sociopath who had brought his family to near collapse. Fairbanks had been dealt with, as had many others, on Daniel's quest for vengeance.

  But there had been more to those fateful days than simple murder. In his struggle with Fairbanks, Daniel had learned he and his brother Scott were adopted; a fact only known to two missing women.

  His own child had been with him on that rainswept embankment. Eisha had beaten Fairbanks with a stick, thrashing him like a cowering dog. She'd saved Daniel's life, but if he hadn't stopped her, Eisha would have killed Fairbanks and her life would have been changed forever.

  Of all the horrors Daniel had performed in his life, it was that which scared him the most.

  He traced shadows on the ceiling, listening to the warnings he hadn't heeded at the time. Eisha was willful. Stubborn. Tempestuous. But she was more than that. No-one had prepared him for her true nature. Eisha was his flesh and heir, but what had she inherited? Daniel had been coached in cruelty by a man who wanted to use him as a weapon.

  Why did it come so easily to Eisha? What had he passed on to her? And what had his real parents passed on to him? The questions taunted him night after night, feeding a hungry guilt.

  Rubbing his face, he kicked bedsheets from his legs, swinging them to the floor.

  He jumped at the shape in front of him.

  "Are you awake, Daddy?" Eisha swayed in the darkness, her slender form darker than the night.

  Daniel glanced at the bedroom door. "Of course I'm awake, darling. Do you want something to drink?"

  She shook her head and Daniel waited. Outside came the shriek of a vixen.

  "That's one of ours, isn't it?" she asked.

  "They've been here since I was your age. If you see them in the daytime, you know not to get too close, don't you?"

  Eisha's silhouette grew taller. "I'm not allowed to do much, am I?"

  "No, you're not." Daniel remembered he was naked and gathered the bedsheets over his body. He looked to the door again. "How did you get in here?"

  "The way I always do."

  "You walked in?"

  Eisha stepped forward, her bare feet slapping on the floorboards. "Can I sleep with you tonight? I got scared."

  "It will be morning soon. Let me get some clothes on and I'll take you back to bed. Okay?"

  Eisha went to the door, opening it with ease. For a moment, Daniel saw her captured in the opening, studiously checking the lock. Hanging her head, Eisha's shoulders rose and fell. She glanced back at him, her eyes fastened to his. The vixen cried one last time and Eisha disappeared down the corridor.

  Daniel leaned over to his bedside cabinet and pulled out the drawer. Inside was a brass mortice key he used to lock himself in It was part of his night-time routine. He couldn't settle unless it was done, fearful of what might creep into his bedroom.

  Had he done it last night? Daniel was exhausted. He wasn't focused. He might have left it in the door. Eisha could have let herself in and returned the key. Fumbling in the darkness, he grasped the metal key. It was cold. No-one had held it since him.

  His fingers grazed the Heckler handgun he kept close for the same reason that he locked his bedroom. He touched the handle and squeezed his eyes shut.

  The handle was warm.

  Chapter Two

  A milky light permeated the sea spray at Roker Pier. The pier stretched out into the water for half a mile. Waves collapsed against its crumbling stonework, hurling pebbles at rotting wooden struts. Seagulls circled overhead, riding the wind and searching the water for floating sewage. The cobbled promenade was laced with treacherous algae. One slip and a body might disappear, picked clean by underwater creatures.

  At the end of the pier, Angel Maguire sat in the passenger seat of a transit van, tugging at the skin around her fingernails. She was in her late twenties, overweight with mousy hair parted down the centre. She wore thick glasses and sensible shoes. Her jacket was fur lined against the weather.

  The driver's side door opened and Angel flinched against the salty air flooding the van.

  "Could you close that please?" she asked.

  The door slammed shut and Hope settled into her seat. She was the same height as Angel, but broader in the shoulders. Underneath her fashionable clothes was a body forged in the boxing gym. Her blonde hair was matted into dreadlocks. Dark eyes stared out from under a fringe streaked with blue.

  Angel tucked her feet away, hiding her sensible shoes. "Any sign of the boat?"

  The seat creaked as Hope stretched out her legs. She patted Angel on the knee. "Don't worry, sis. It'll be here."

  "Where do you think it is?"

  Hope pointed to the sea. "Out there somewhere. I don't know. I'm not Captain bloody Bird's Eye. Relax."

  Angel faced the side window, watching water droplets thicken on the glass. The sea fret was getting heavier, cloaking the end of the pier. Soon everything would be consumed. The pier. The van. The reason she was there. She'd be left drifting above the water, waiting for the foaming fingers of the sea to reach down her throat and snuff her out.

  Her knee was released from Hope's gentle hold.

  "You're talking to yourself again," Hope said, climbing out of the van with a sigh. "I'm not here to babysit you."

  The salty air kissed Angel's face, but did little to cool her blushing cheeks.

  Hope hunched up her coat against the weather and disappeared into the mist, leaving Angel behind, her mouth clamped shut. She pulled out a photograph from her pocket. The edges were curled and frayed, the colours drained with age. Her father had left Ireland as a young man, alighting on English shores in the 1970s. He'd worked as a hod carrier in the construction business, his broad back carrying twice as many bricks as his English counterparts. He was fired because of it. With no family or friends to support him, he went into business for himself, doing whatever he could to survive.

  He stared up at Angel, his expression warmer than she remembered.

  "Not long now," she said and folded him into her pocket. Steadying her hands, she slapped herself across the face. And again and again, her head jerking with every blow.

  Are you going to stop that? asked a voice.

  Her skin tingled from another slap, the impact sounding like a cracked whip.

  When are you going to stop?

  "Stop what?" she shouted.

  Angel did up her coat, fumbling with the buttons in her haste. She jumped from the van, almost falling through the door. The mist collected on her clothes and skin, weighing her down. She flipped her hood over her wet hair and walked toward a railing bordering the pier. Its paint was raised in flaking scales, exposing rusted metal beneath. It didn't look strong enough to support its own weight, never mind Angel's too. The sea churned below and she took a step backwards.

  "Are you still there?" she asked the voice quietly.

  "I'm over here," Hope answered. "Didn't think you'd come outside. Stay where you are. I'll come to you."

  Appearing through the mist, Hope skidded over the cobbles. "What are you doing?"

  "I'm sorry about…" Angel looked at the van. "It happens when I'm stressed."

  "No, I'm sorry." Hope wrapped an arm around Angel and gave her a squeeze. "You're too sensitive, baby sister."

  They stood together, keeping each other warm and staring over the sea. A foghorn blared in the distance, warning of hidden dangers. It rattled Angel's bones and she pressed into her sister.

  "It looks so bleak," she said.

  "There's a car waiting back on dry land. Why don't you take it and go home? I can sort this out."

  "I asked you here to help, but this is my deal."

  "Are you sure?"

  Angel shrugged off her
sister's hold and stamped her foot. "I hate it when you talk like that. I'm not a child anymore."

  Hope leaned over the rusted railing, peering into the grey below. "This life isn't for everyone. You know what would help?"

  "Not this again."

  "You need to get a boyfriend. A man will sort you out. Bedrooms are for more than nerdgasming on your computer."

  "Please, leave me alone."

  Hope wiped salt water from her face. "Alone is for ugly people and you're not that bad. As soon as this is done, me and Marco are jetting off to Costa Rica for a holiday."

  The railing wobbled and Angel wobbled with it, her stomach squirming at the sight of the sea.

  "Mam told me," she said. "Who's Marco? What happened to Simon Big Balls?"

  "Too big as it happens," Hope said. "The problem was – "

  Angel ignored her, pointing into the murk. "What's that?"

  A shape cut through the water, as grey as the mist that surrounded it. There were no lights, only the rumble of an engine. It crested the waves, keeping a steady course to the pier. As it grew closer, the shape morphed into a fishing boat. It was squat with a thick rubber rim around its circumference. Tyres clung to its sides like black limpets. Where it had once been white, rust pockmarked the paint giving the impression the boat was infected with boils.

  The vessel bounced into the pier, causing the cobbles beneath Angel's feet to quake She swallowed, avoiding her sister's eye.

  This was the boat Angel had gambled the rest of her life on.

  Chapter Three

  Eisha's bedroom was next to Daniel's. Her bedside lamp was on when he arrived, shedding light over pale pink walls. The carpet was thick, flattening under his broad feet. On one side of the room was a television, DVD player and a computer console he didn't know how to work. On the other was a toy chest he had painted blue. In a fit of artistic licence, he'd drawn a storm of clouds, but the paint had run. White spidery legs dribbled to the base of the chest, turning his clouds into monsters.

  Eisha watched him from under a pink duvet. "I like my toy chest, Daddy. Don't feel bad about it."

  "I was a bit ambitious," he said, sitting on the side of her bed. His weight compressed the mattress and she rolled into him. He pulled her into his arms and she lay her head on his chest, her chestnut hair covering her face.