Harlan returned for a closer look at the caravan and shelter. Rusty petrol drums and gas canisters were stacked beneath the sagging tarp. There was also an old petrol powered generator from which wires ran to a battery beneath the caravan. A spade and pickaxe leant against the generator. Harlan’s eyebrows drew together as he stooped to inspect the spade. Its flat blade was caked with damp earth, as though it’d recently been used. Behind the shelter a faint trail was visible in the long grass. Harlan followed it to the tree-line. Beyond that the trail disappeared into a mulchy mass of fallen leaves. He approached the caravan and tried its door. Locked. He turned his attention to the nearest window. The rubber seal was rotted and cracked. With a punch of his palm, he jammed the blade of his screwdriver through it. A quick jerk dislodged the latch. He opened the window, pulled aside a mildewy curtain and shone his torch into the caravan.
At first glance, the place looked abandoned — the floor was strewn with soggy newspaper, apparently put down to soak up the multiple leaks in the roof; the walls were studded with mould; several of the cupboards stood open and bare; pile of pots and pans festered in a pool of grease-filmed water in the sink. A closer look, however, revealed signs that someone had been there recently — a rolled up sleeping-bag and pillow wrapped in clear plastic to keep the damp out were stowed on a built-in sofa; a plate still glistening with baked-bean juice and a glass half-full of milk stood on a fold-up table.
Harlan hauled himself through the window, wincing as he sent several plates crashing to the floor. He closed the window and drew the curtain back across it, before continuing his exploration. He tried a light switch. Nothing happened. He sniffed the milk. It was sour but not curdled. Perhaps a week old, he reckoned, maybe less. He opened the cupboards. In one there were several litres of bottled water, a jar of instant coffee and a box of matches. In another there were tins of baked beans and soup and half a pack of stale biscuits. In a third there was a coil of rope that could’ve been used for tying people up or hanging clothes out to dry. There was no sign of the photos and videos Jones had spoken about. A partially dismantled television sat on a shelf in an alcove, but there was no video-player. There were two doors other than the entrance. Harlan opened one and reflexively clapped his hand over his nose. The door led to tiny toilet cubicle. The toilet was full almost to the brim with rust-coloured, stinking water. He thought about the spade, reflecting that whoever had been staying here had probably used it to dig a toilet in the woods. The second door opened into a cupboard that contained a dustpan and brush, a couple of toilet rolls and some empty clothes-hangers.
Harlan frowned as a thought crossed his mind. Had Jones been feeding him a line of bullshit about coming here with the Prophet? Did the Prophet even exist? Maybe Jones had made him up to buy himself some time? Maybe this was just some place where Jones had stayed before. Harlan shook his head. The fear in Jones’s face and voice hadn’t lied. Still, he was relieved he hadn’t had the chance to phone Jim. At least, if it came to it, he could question Jones further. A shudder passed through him as a voice piped up in his mind, what if you lose control? What if this time you can’t stop yourself from killing him? He shoved the voice away. The ‘what ifs’ were irrelevant. What had to be done, had to be done. It was as simple as that. His pulse jumped at a sound from outside — the whine of an engine grinding its way along in low gear.
Snapping off his torch, Harlan peered between the curtains. The approaching vehicle’s headlights danced crazily as it negotiated the rutted track. He was about to climb out the window and dash into the woods, but there was no time. The vehicle was already swaying into view. As its twin beams fell on the caravan he squinted, struggling to make out what kind of vehicle it was. It wasn’t a transit van, that much was obvious. But it was much bigger than a normal car. Some kind of four-wheel drive, maybe. The vehicle pulled up outside the caravan. Its engine fell silent and the driver’s side door opened. A figure got out and walked in front of the still blazing headlights. Before he scurried into the toilet, Harlan caught a glimpse of a masculine physique — stocky, but close enough in build to the man Kane had described to plausibly be him — beneath a thick head of long black hair. He covered his nose with one hand as the stench hit him again, the other felt for the knife in his pocket. As a key clicked in a lock and the front door squeaked open, he raised the knife, ready, if necessary, to slash whoever was coming.
The floor trembled slightly as footsteps advanced into the kitchen area. There was a pause. A sniff, as if the footsteps’ owner had caught a whiff of an unfamiliar scent. Followed by a sound of clinking crockery, which Harlan guessed was the plates being picked up from the floor and returned to the sink. His muscles tensed for action. A few seconds passed. The footsteps moved towards the far end of the caravan. There was a tearing sound of Velcro being peeled apart. A low grunt as something heavy was lifted. Then the footsteps came back to the front door and went out. The door was left open. A moment later the footsteps returned. Another grunt as something else was carried outside. A minute crawled by and still the door remained open. A faint whiff of smoke — not wood smoke, but an acrid smell of burning petrol and plastic — cut through the toilet’s fumes. Harlan’s ears caught the crackle of flames. The photos and videos, he thought. They were here and the fucker’s burning them. He’s burning the evidence.
Harlan resisted an urge to rush outside and restrain the Prophet. Assuming that was really who it was, there was a lot more at stake than the loss of physical evidence. The questions uppermost in his mind were: where did that trail in the grass lead? What did the woods conceal? He could perhaps find out by questioning the Prophet like he’d questioned Jones. But he was reluctant to do so whilst there was a chance that the Prophet might unwittingly lead him to the answers he sought. At the same time, whether or not the front door was open, he couldn’t risk remaining in the toilet. If the Prophet suddenly jumped in his car and drove off, Harlan would lose him. Similarly, if the Prophet headed off into the woods, Harlan had to be ready to follow him the instant he made a move.
Harlan opened the door a crack and peered out. The headlights of the vehicle, which he could see now was a mud-spattered green Landrover, had been switched off. The glow of a fire away to its right was reflected in its windscreen. Harlan closed the toilet door behind himself, and hunkering low, moved to the opposite end of the caravan. The sofa’s cushions had been removed, exposing a hollow, now empty interior. Harlan parted the curtains a finger’s breadth. The Prophet, with his sleeves pushed up, was prodding at the fire with the spade, his eyes as black as the hair on his forearms in its flickering light. He was wearing loose-fitting jeans and a green bomber jacket that fitted tightly around his bull-neck. He had no beard, but there was a heavy stubble on his jaw. His shoulder-length hair framed an angular face pitted with what looked like acne scars. Harlan estimated him to be mid-thirties. Forty at the most. As the Prophet watched the fire eat away at two cardboard boxes, his jaw twitched like Harlan’s pulse, and his face twisted in a grimace of rage. He flung the spade away suddenly, shouting, “Fuck!” He lowered his head, rubbing roughly at his eyes. Then, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath, he retrieved the spade and continued his prodding. When the boxes and their contents, which Harlan couldn’t make out from where he was, had burnt down to glowing embers, the Prophet approached the caravan again.
Harlan crouched down, flattening himself against the wall between the end of the kitchen unit and the sofa. Dry mouthed but calm enough to hold himself as still as a beast of prey, he listened to the Prophet climb the little flight of metal steps outside the caravan. The door slammed shut, shaking the flimsy structure. The lock clicked back into place. Harlan lifted his head above the window sill in time to see the Prophet striding towards the woods, torch in hand, the spade resting on his shoulder. He waited until the Prophet was under the trees, before opening the window and clambering out. He couldn’t see the Prophet anymore, but the beam of his torch was visible. As quickly and quietly as possible, he pursued it. It was dark as the bottom of a well under the dense canopy of oak and beech. Branches snagged his clothes and scratched his face, his feet stubbed against roots, but he didn’t slow his pace until he was as close as he dared get to the Prophet.