The Family Lie

by P L Kane

  Then he retreated back into the house, muttering to himself like that same American bemoaning his problem with pests.

  Thinking that although he hadn’t gone looking for it …

  Trouble had certainly found him again.

  Chapter 20

  ‘Stop? Stop what?’

  Wilkinson had turned the rock over and over, examining it through the plastic bag Mitch had placed it in. He thought for a moment the old policeman was going to take it out, and after he’d gone to so much trouble to make sure he didn’t handle it personally. Picked it up with the bag and then turned it inside out, ensuring there was no contamination of the evidence. Not that it seemed to matter in this place, they didn’t even bother when there was a burglary.

  Or someone was on fire.

  I wish this whole thing would stop, thought Mitch, and not for the first time that day. Wished it was over, wished he wasn’t going through all this. Witnessing it. But he was. And apparently he was the only person taking it seriously, the only person getting close to the truth who could do anything about it. Which was why he’d been warned off. Again.

  ‘Stop looking into all this,’ he’d snapped. ‘What do you think?’

  Wilkinson, standing behind his desk in the station house, had shrugged. He even did that at a snail’s pace, thought Mitch. ‘Could mean anything.’

  ‘But it doesn’t, does it? It means stop poking around.’

  ‘Hmm, is that what you’ve been doing then?’

  He’d got him there. ‘Well, nobody seems to be doing anything here.’

  ‘It might look that way,’ Wilkinson said in that drawn-out way he’d become used to over the last few days. ‘But I assure you everything is in hand.’

  ‘Maybe I should have a word with some of my friends back home. Perhaps they could—’

  Wilkinson held up his hand. ‘Already have. Seems that you’re no longer a member of Her Majesty’s finest. That right?’

  Mitch looked down, couldn’t even deny it. ‘There was a bit of a … misunderstanding.’

  ‘That what you’d call it, eh?’

  He met Wilkinson’s gaze again. ‘Look, what’s that got to do with someone lobbing that through my win— Through my dad’s window?’

  ‘Looks like vandalism to me,’ Wilkinson told him, turning the rock over for the millionth time.

  ‘Vandalism?’ Mitch couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Been a spate of it, same as the break-ins.’

  A spate? It wasn’t that big a bloody place! thought Mitch. ‘Then why the message?’

  ‘I’m not even sure that’s what it says,’ the sergeant admitted. ‘It’s a bit smudged.’

  ‘You’re doing that, rubbing it through the plastic!’ he said, reaching for the rock – until Wilkinson pulled it away. He was quick enough when he wanted to be. ‘Just what is your problem?’

  ‘At the moment, lad, you are.’

  ‘Not the vandals? Not the burglars? Not the … the Commune?’

  The policeman froze himself then. ‘The Commune? What have they got to do with this?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Mitch.

  Wilkinson just shrugged again.

  Mitch let out a frustrated groan. He’d had enough of this. It hadn’t been a great day so far, in fact he’d slept most of it away – not having got much the previous night. Had kept a vigil in case the people who’d thrown the rock came back, at least till it was light and he could fix the window.

  At some point he’d dropped off in the wingback chair, and woke late. He was surprised Cat hadn’t returned and nudged him, but when he had a look around and called out its ‘name’ there was no reply. Must have slipped out when he was doing his crazy person impression outside with the poker. He’d ended up tossing the scraps from last night, didn’t want to poison the thing if it did come back.

  Fix the window, that was the first priority. No, actually, it was to find a clear plastic bag and put the rock inside it – like he’d seen detectives do at so many crime scenes in the past. Once he’d found one, and sorted that out, he was left with the problem of securing his temporary home. Wasn’t as simple as just closing and locking a back door this time, there was a ruddy great hole in the living-room window. Anybody could just reach inside and open it up.

  He knew from the tidying that there was a hammer and some nails in one of the drawers, but what he really needed was some wood or something to patch it up. Of course, Mitch knew exactly where he’d be able to find some of that (his dad was a terror for saving bits and bobs in case they came in handy; amassed ‘stuff’ like he did information), he just wasn’t relishing actually going in there.

  The cellar.

  The dark cellar, the place that was so like the caves. That he’d been doing his best to ignore, or pretend it wasn’t even part of this place since his scare on the first night. But there was no other way, nothing else for it. He opened the door up and tried the light switch, but nothing happened – had he even been expecting it to? – so he went and fetched his torch, now it was working again. It hadn’t got any lighter in there; if anything, even though it was daytime it was so much darker inside.

  Mitch turned on the torch and the blackness immediately ate it up, the beam only stretching a couple of feet ahead of him. He started to descend, just like he’d done before. Tiptoeing down those steps, sweeping the light back and forth. The only blessing was that there weren’t any noises on this occasion, no scratching or rustling or—

  Something sprang at him from behind, and his first thought was that the intruders had returned. He noticed it again too late, his spider-sense still asleep it seemed, spinning and only catching the tail end – literally.

  The damned cat again! Like it had been waiting to get back inside here, after making such a song and dance about getting out in the first place. ‘Heaven’s sake!’ he said, letting it scamper down the steps to the bottom. Disappearing like a chameleon, black against the black. ‘You nearly had me over!’

  It was only afterwards that he considered maybe it was scoping out the way in front of him, ensuring it was safe for Mitch to descend. But what could be down there that might hurt him anyway? Nothing, that’s what. Nothing to be afraid of.

  Wood, he needed a bit of wood. Mitch continued down into that freezing cellar, colder even than the morgue, a contrast to the weather outside. The nape of his neck was prickling, hairs on his arms standing upright. Mitch swished the torch around, catching the edges of shelves with scabby pots of paint on them. In one corner there was an old washing machine, Christ alone knew how his dad had got the thing down here! It looked like it had been cannibalized, stripped for parts and left with its insides hanging out. There were boxes with old broken picture frames in them, and reared up against one wall a mattress with springs sticking out of it; again, that would have taken three men to get it down those steps. An old bicycle, looked like a girl’s, so probably Bella’s.

  Mitch was on the ground level, searching around when he heard a noise, which had to be Cat – and he swung the torch around, like a spotlight trying to trap an escaping prisoner. ‘You’ll have to come back up with me, you know. I’m not leaving you down—’

  His torch beam revealed a face in the darkness and he let out the most unmanly yelp of his life. Mitch tumbled backwards, almost fell over a crate or box that had been left on the floor, but somehow managed to stay upright. His light showed that there was more than one face, a trio of people or more. How had they got down here: when he’d dropped off in the living room?

  Mitch managed to keep his beam steady, then noticed the faces – the people – weren’t moving. Just standing there, staring at him: eyes fixed on him, fascinated. Unblinking.

  Mainly because they were painted on.

  ‘Mannequins,’ he whispered. ‘Bloody mannequins.’ He let out a long, relieved breath. It hadn’t connected with him because he wasn’t expecting to see such things down here – but then he remembered his mother used to
design and make clothes. Did alterations for people, turned up dresses and trousers. Even had her own little market stall when they used to have a market in the village, selling her wares. Made a bit of extra money that way. Mitch guessed she must have used these – male and female – to see what the clothes looked like on ‘people’. And, yes, there was even a dressmaker’s dummy that could be adjusted for when she was working. Why had his dad kept all of this stuff, all this time? Just hadn’t been able to part with it? Mitch guessed he could understand that.

  Everything down here would need clearing out before they sold it, though he still suspected there were some people in the village who were expecting him to remain here. The baton passed on to the next generation, as was their custom. If he did put it up for sale, he’d be crucified if he sold it on to a stranger – not that Mitch was exactly part of the fixtures and fittings in Green Acres. Maybe one of the local’s kids would be interested, someone who was getting married or something, looking to start their own family here? Thoughts for another time, the most important thing was—

  There, he spotted a stack of timber. Offcuts and such. There was bound to be something in that lot he could use to cover that gaping hole in the window. Sure enough, a square bit of wood that looked like it had been part of a bookcase at some point caught his eye; a piece which had broken off or whatever. Discarded, but more detritus his father couldn’t bear to permanently get rid of. Perfect for him though, at this precise moment.

  Mitch grabbed it and made to get the hell out of that creepy place, only turning when he reached the bottom of the steps, remembering Cat was still down here. He didn’t fancy leaving the door open at the top so it could come out when it was good and ready. ‘Cat! Hey, Cat! I’m going now. Where the devil are you?’

  Nothing. No response at all. If only he had another plate of leftovers to coax it with. He wasn’t waiting around forever, so he decided to get on with the window and see if the animal emerged at some point during that. Needless to say it didn’t, and he had to wait till he’d finished nailing the bit of bookcase to the wooden window frame, changed the litter and started rattling around in the kitchen to fix himself something to eat before the feline appeared.

  ‘I’m not sure what I’m going to feed myself, let alone you,’ he said to it, but went over and closed the cellar door while he had the chance. ‘Do cats eat baked beans?’ he asked, rooting around in the cupboards. Probably shouldn’t have been feeding the animal fish from cans let alone anything else, so he decided against that course of action. ‘I’ll head out and get some meat. But in the meantime you’ll have to make do with the dry stuff, okay?’ The cat cocked its head, and wandered off when he put a plate of that down. ‘Suit yourself.’

  It was then that Mitch figured he could kill two birds with one stone – or rock. Would try to get Wilkinson to take notice of the attack while he was out, then swing back into the shop on his way home. But the first part of that mission wasn’t exactly going to plan. He might as well have been talking to a brick wall.

  ‘So you’re going to do what you did about the break-in, exactly nothing?’ he asked the ageing sergeant.

  ‘I’m not sure what you want me to do, lad,’ the bobby told him.

  Your job might be nice, thought Mitch. But he was getting precisely nowhere. Perhaps he should just take the rock to Larson, see what he made of it? ‘Okay, fine. Then if you just give me—’ Mitch reached for it a second time and it was pulled back again.

  ‘Afraid I can’t do that.’

  ‘What do you mean? I brought it in!’

  ‘Yes, but you handed it to an officer of the law. Like you said, it’s evidence.’

  ‘Of what? You’ve just stood there telling me there was no crime committed.’

  ‘Never said that. The vandalism,’ Wilkinson reminded him.

  ‘Right, yeah. So you’re going to be looking into this, then?’ The sergeant stared at him, gave a half-nod, half-shrug. Mitch realized it wouldn’t be a great idea to hold his breath while he was waiting. He slammed his hand down on the desk, drawing a look of disdain from the bearded man.

  ‘Easy now.’

  Mitch glared at him, then turned around and exited the station – back out into the baking hot sunshine. He’d walked this time instead of taking the bike, thought it would just be lazy to keep riding around everywhere. But now, with the trek back ahead of him, he was regretting that massively. Still, the sooner he set off, the sooner he could get something to eat from the shop for him and his – no, it wasn’t his, wasn’t anybody’s – for him and the cat. He checked his pockets, checked the cash he had left on him (he’d need to get another sub soon from his aunty, if he couldn’t sort anything with the post office; either that or ride out to find that local branch of the bank). He was wondering about more brandy, because there really wasn’t enough left at home to take that edge off tonight. Realised it would be a choice between that or the food, and set off to see what else the spotty youth might have which would satisfy a hungry feline.

  That had turned out to be some tinned ham, which he figured would last the cat a while, and he’d bought some oven chips for himself which he’d wash down with a four-pack of cider they had on offer (unsurprisingly, the post office was closed up again). Combined with the brandy he had left, it might just be enough. He didn’t want to get paralytic anyway, because you never knew when those arseholes might be back and ready for a rumble. He’d see their rocks and give them a good pasting with the poker if they dared.

  Hadn’t worked out that way, though. He’d dropped to sleep early – the cider hitting him much harder than it should have done; he hadn’t even touched the brandy – but he hadn’t stayed under. Not after he’d dreamed about going down into that cellar, into those caves, the two interchangeable. Starting off in the darkness, making for the flickering light. Knowing what he’d find, but not really knowing.

  Mannequins this time, ringing the flames. Hoods up, mumbling and chanting without moving their mouths. No dancing, because how could they? They were just lumps of plastic. Yet that still didn’t stop their heads turning when they saw him, didn’t stop them looking at Mitch with their dead, painted eyes. Nor one of them raising its arm, extending a finger to point at the flame. Didn’t stop another pulling back its arm and casting a rock at Mitch, hitting him in the same place he’d banged his head on the cave wall.

  When he touched the spot, expecting there to be blood pouring from the wound, Mitch found a ragged hole there with sharp edges. The more he prodded it, the more bits of flesh splintered and dropped into the wound or fell to the floor, tinkling like bits of glass.

  Then suddenly the flame in the centre of this space was growing bigger again, the glowing, the flickering becoming brighter and brighter. And Mitch knew that however much he was scared of the dark, the blackness he’d encountered in the cellar – the cave – there was so much more to fear from the light. From that flame, the fire.

  As it engulfed the area, the mannequins, him. Filling everything and burning it up. Burning it—

  That’s when he’d snapped awake in the living room, in the dark, in the chair. When he’d heard the cat’s meowing, sounding like screams.

  No. Those were from outside, where the light was coming from – flickering on the glass, on the walls, those bookcases looking for a moment like they were made out of rock. ‘What the …’ said Mitch, rising, still feeling a little out of it from the cans and tiredness, and drifting over to the window to get a better look. To see what it was that—

  Then he smelled it, before he even saw the sight. The smell was like cooking flesh. And when Mitch peered outside, when he saw the most horrible thing he’d ever witnessed in his life, he wished it would stop.

  Wished for this waking nightmare to be over.

  Chapter 21

  A waking nightmare, that’s the only way Bella could think of describing it.

  What she’d seen that night. The scene through the window. The figure, out there, alight. On fire! She’d
been able to smell the meat cooking, hear the crackling of the flames. See the outline of the person standing there in the middle of the caravan park.

  ‘M-My God!’ was all she could manage, hands going to her face. Rising from the couch and almost falling backwards over the coffee table behind her. ‘My God!’

  Then she thought, I need to get out there and help them. Why isn’t anyone else in the park doing that? Why aren’t there loads of people rushing out to help? Yet no one was. They were leaving this person to just stand there and burn, to be burned up. On fire. Like her dad had died, in a fire. That much she knew.

  The caravan was filled with light suddenly, flickering on the glass of the window, the walls – such as they were – and spreading out towards the back, illuminating the kitchen area with the breakfast table opposite.

  She had to help, just like she always did. Just like she’d—

  Failed to do with Mitch. Hadn’t gone back with him, left him to it. Left him alone to—

  No. Mitch was an adult now, a policeman. He could handle himself. He’d be okay. The real nightmare was happening here, outside. In her caravan park. Someone had been set alight, someone else was dying. And she had to save them. Get outside, get to the communal fire extinguisher there and …

  Even as she was thinking it, Bella was moving, heading back towards the door. In some ways finding those people in her van would have been preferable to this horror. She could have done something about that, was readying herself to use the cricket bat – but they never showed up.

  Instead, there was this! Even if she did what she was intending, got to the person and attempted to put them out, she knew their chances of survival were slim to negligible. What percentage of burns on your body could you withstand and come through something like this? She had absolutely no idea, wasn’t medically trained. But then she didn’t really need to be, because whatever the answer was, it wasn’t this extent.

  This person was dead, even if they didn’t know it yet. They. Were. Dead. Simple as that. God. My God!