They Did Bad Things

by Lauren A. Forry

  “Of course not,” Lorna said. “It’s impossible.” Her words lacked their normal conviction.

  “We should find the door that goes with that key,” Hollis said.

  “The house is so big,” Ellie said. “It could be any door.”

  “Two,” Maeve said. “It must be Room 2.”

  “But why . . .” Then Ellie looked again at the gifts. “Oh yes. Of course.”

  By silent agreement, they made their way upstairs.

  Maeve hung back, letting the others lead her down the hall with its dark walls and carpets. She kept imagining the dim lights might flicker to reflect the mood, but they remained steady and sure.

  Room 2 was near the end of the hall. She gathered with the others behind Hollis. The key was in her hand, but he didn’t ask for it. He knocked, and they waited.

  “This is Detective Constable Hollis Drummond.”

  Silence.

  Oliver rolled his eyes and snatched the key from Maeve, his fingers brushing against hers. She stuck her hands in her wet pockets.

  “Just open it,” he said.

  “Wait.” Hollis knocked again. “I said this is the police. If you don’t answer, we’re going to let ourselves in. We’re giving you fair warning.”

  He pressed his ear to the door, then took the key.

  “All right. I’m unlocking the door.” He pushed the key into the lock but did not turn it. “Stand to the side.”

  Maeve and Ellie moved immediately.

  “Why on earth should I?” asked Oliver.

  “We don’t know what’s behind that door. Or what might come out.”

  “You think it’s booby-trapped?” asked Lorna.

  “I have no bloody idea, but I’m not taking any risks.”

  Lorna joined the other women. After a dismissive huff, Oliver did the same. Maeve smelled his aftershave—the same after all these years—and took an extra step back as Hollis turned the key. With slow, deliberate movements, he opened the door and looked inside. Maeve could not see his face, but his shoulders sagged. He ran his hand over his hair, and Maeve remembered the time Hollis had found one of Oliver’s friends passed out in the middle of the front room one Sunday morning. He’d made the same motions.

  “What is it? Who’s in there?” asked Lorna.

  “Come and see.”

  Lorna pushed past Oliver, who went in next. Ellie’s shoulder bumped Maeve as she followed. Maeve heard no conversation, but no shouting either. Were they waiting for her? She approached, one careful step at a time.

  They stood in a semi-circle, their backs to her, blocking the view of what Hollis had uncovered. The shortest of them all, she stood on tiptoe to peek over Ellie’s shoulders, seeing little until Hollis finally stepped to the side.

  A worn brown armchair, the fabric on the seat worn down to a thin grayish patch, sat on the right side of the room, but what held their attention was positioned on the left: a pink sofa pressed against the wall, its sunken cushions bulging outward like a fat lower lip. Maeve recognized the stain on the left armrest, the splotch in the shape of France caused by a cup of tea she had spilled twenty-odd years ago.

  “It’s not the same,” Oliver’s voice sounded hoarse. “Obviously, it isn’t the same one. It’s too old. Thing looks like shit.”

  “No, just older,” Maeve said. “It’s the same. It’s just older. Like us.” But she wasn’t looking at the sofa so much as the note card of blue stationery that rested in the middle of it. Stamped in a typewriter font on the front were the words:

  The Residents of Caldwell Street

  Maeve wondered what would happen if none of them opened that envelope. Would they stand here forever, staring at that sofa?

  Or would they be able to leave? Pretend they had never come here. Had never unlocked this door.

  “That’s—” Ellie choked on the words. “That’s his stationery. He used to leave us notes in that stationery. And the gifts, oh god, the gifts. Brown paper. The Happy Wednesday Elf?”

  “It’s not him,” Oliver said. “We know exactly where to find that fucker, and it’s not in this bloody house.”

  Despite his bravado, Oliver distanced himself from the sofa. Ellie looked to the others for support, but Lorna kept glancing around the room, avoiding eye contact. Maeve, too, looked away when Ellie caught her eye. Hollis’s gaze never wavered from the sofa. The rustling of his clothes was as loud as a roar as he reached forward and plucked the envelope from the cushions. He looked it over, each corner, each edge, as if searching for some clue. Then he opened the envelope and removed the card inside. Unlike Caskie’s letter, Hollis read silently.

  “Come on, Drummond,” Oliver snapped. “Out with it.”

  Hollis cleared his throat. “It’s a rhyme. Trade one secret for another. Admit what happened to your brother. No one leaves until it’s done. Come on, friends, won’t this be fun?”

  Oliver grabbed it from Hollis’s hand. “That’s it? That’s all there is?”

  “This is wrong,” Ellie said. “This is all wrong. I don’t even have a brother.”

  Lorna rolled her eyes. “He’s not talking about biological family.”

  “But I don’t get it,” Ellie said. “What is it we’re supposed to do? Trade secrets? What secrets?”

  Hollis examined the brown armchair. “If this really is the same one . . .” He ran his hands over the armrests, shoved them down the side of the cushion.

  Oliver flicked the note card to the floor. “I’m not standing around while Hollis feels up a chair.”

  “Do you lot really not remember?” Hollis asked. Something clicked inside the chair. “Ah ha! This armchair, or as Lorna lovingly referred to it, the poop chair, had a faulty armrest. Which could pop open.” He flipped up the left armrest, revealing the vacant space inside. “And is where you, Oliver, used to store your drugs.”

  Hollis stuck his hand into the hole and rooted around.

  “That . . . that really is the same chair then,” Lorna said.

  “Or one designed to look like it.” He clutched something inside the armrest. “But I have a feeling it is the same. Why bother to replicate the cigarette burns?”

  “They could be different burns,” Oliver said.

  “They’re not. I remember.” Hollis pulled out his hand. In it were more blue envelopes—larger than the other. Padded with more paper.

  “That means . . .” Maeve glanced at the sofa. “That means that’s really the same sofa.”

  She closed her eyes, waiting for the tears to come, and backed away, bumping into Oliver, his body soft and warm. Until he stepped away.

  “You may want to stay here,” Hollis said. “Until you read this.”

  He handed Maeve an envelope stamped with her name, then gave out the rest. They all looked at one another, waiting for someone else to start.

  “Were we supposed to find these?” Lorna asked.

  “I think he was counting on it,” Hollis said.

  “It’s not him,” Oliver muttered.

  Maeve looked Oliver’s way. Wanted to reassure him, to hold his hand and squeeze it. But every time she inched nearer, he leaned away. She shrank back into her jumper.

  “Well, if no one else is going to.” Hollis opened his envelope as carefully as the other. Lorna clenched her jaw and followed. Maeve looked at Oliver and Ellie, waited to see what they would do. When Ellie tore into the paper, Maeve did the same. Oliver followed with a reluctant sigh. At first, Maeve was too busy watching the others to read hers. Lorna covered her mouth with her hand and closed her eyes. Ellie became very still, except for her face, which drew more lines as it hardened. Veins bulged in her hands. Oliver kept muttering “Bullshit” to himself. Hollis became very pale, and all his strength seemed to leave him.

  Maeve finally read what she had been gifted. Photocopies of credit card statements in her sister-in-law’s name. Credit cards near maxed out. Line by line reminding Maeve of different purchases, including the jumper she was wearing right now. And the red
suitcase downstairs.

  Hollis folded up the papers he’d been given and slipped them back into the envelope.

  “So.” He tapped his envelope against his palm. His voice was steady but sounded higher. Twenty years younger. “My guess is, if we admit what really happened that night, in exchange, none of this, whatever your this is”—he held up the envelope—“gets out.”

  “Well, my this isn’t a problem.” Maeve tried to fold up the paper the way Hollis had, but it wouldn’t go. She couldn’t make it bend. Her hands shook. “I had permission. She said I had permission. Why would . . . he, why would he think he could blackmail me with this? He’s wrong. He’s made a mistake.”

  Oliver ripped the papers from her hand. Waved them in her face. “Stop saying he. It’s not him! And there is one really good fucking reason. You remember that, right? He’s dead. Callum’s dead!”

  The name transported them. Now that it had been spoken, it could not be taken back. Now there was no pretending there was the slimmest chance that this was about anything other than him. They were no longer adults standing in a bed and breakfast but teenagers in the front room of a grimy house share.

  Maeve stumbled and caught herself on the doorframe.

  “Maeve?” someone asked. Lorna, she thought, but she couldn’t see because her eyes were closed, and she was trying to show them how hard she was trying not to cry.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. Don’t touch me! I’m fine.” She wasn’t sure if anyone had reached out to her or not, but it was easy to imagine they had. And easier to know they hadn’t. “I’m tired. I drove for hours. And as soon as I got here I was roped into whatever this is and I’m bloody soaked and freezing and all I want is to shower and change and deal with whatever all this is in the morning!”

  When she braved a look, she saw they were staring at her, but there was no pity. Only annoyance. They were pissed off to be putting up with her again. Just as she knew they would be.

  “Maeve,” said Hollis, “we should probably talk about—”

  “No! I’m too tired for talking. Not tonight.” She stopped herself. She couldn’t completely break down. They wouldn’t listen to her then. “So you do whatever you want, but I’m not thinking about this right now. I’m getting a shower and I’m going to bed and we can discuss this in the morning.”

  She gathered the papers—her papers—that Oliver had dropped to the floor and left without waiting for their response, found her way downstairs, and grabbed the handle of her red suitcase. The warmth from the fire felt good, though, and she stood there, wondering what it would feel like if she could stick her hands into the flames without getting burnt. But like so many things, this was impossible.

  When she returned upstairs, she saw them dispersing. Oliver ignored her and slammed the door to Room 3 behind him. Lorna met her eye and tried to smile but did not and continued on to Room 1.

  Up the next flight of stairs, she caught sight of Ellie before Ellie slipped into Room 5. Maeve found her own room—Room 4—as Hollis called her name.

  “If you want to talk, I’m right here across the hall.” He looked at his door. “Just like old times.”

  “Thanks, Hollis. Really.”

  She stood alone in the hall, imagining Callum waving goodnight and disappearing behind a door just like the others. But that was impossible. And the reason it was impossible was the reason they had all been brought here.

  45 minutes prior

  The wipers streaked back and forth at full speed, unable to keep up with the relentless rain. Maeve drove with her chest leaning over the steering wheel and stared through the waterlogged windshield, trying to piece together a vision of the road. She had wanted to get to the island earlier, when there was still some daylight left, but needed to take a later ferry instead. The darkness amplified her terror, so much so her anxiety made her shake, even though she knew she should be happy. This was what she’d wanted for years. At least half her life. Everything was going to be perfect. Everything was going to be fine.

  Unless, of course, it wasn’t. Because when did she ever get what she wanted?

  “No,” she said. “This weekend is about change. Remember? Positive thoughts. Positive thoughts. Positive thoughts.”

  Her phone chirped and she fought the urge to check it.

  It chirped again. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel.

  “You’re almost there. You can wait another five minutes before you check your bloody phone.” She resolutely kept her eyes on the road, counting the seconds. “See? Nothing’s so urgent that it can’t—”

  It chirped a third time.

  She grabbed the phone and checked the new text message, looking up in time to see the disabled SUV ahead. She yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, hydroplaning past the other car and spinning 180 degrees. Several seconds passed when all she could hear was her own breathing. When she could finally move again, she looked down at the phone and tried to type ok! but messed up the letters as her hand shook. It wasn’t canceled.

  “See? Positive thoughts.”

  She smiled, then kissed her phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.

  The turnoff welcomed her, and the house lights beckoned, promising warmth, companionship, change. It was all there. All for her. But once she parked the car and the rain fell harder, she couldn’t make herself open the door.

  “It’s okay.” She closed her eyes as if in prayer. “You’re a good person. People like you. You have nothing to prove. You . . .”

  She forgot the next line. From her pocket, she pulled out her laminated index cards.

  “You’re a good person,” she read and flipped to the next card. “People like you. Well, some people, some of the time. I suppose. You have nothing to prove. Which isn’t really a nice thing to say, is it? If you don’t have anything to prove, doesn’t that mean you have nothing worthwhile that needs proving? I should talk to her about that one. Here we are. You can achieve whatever you set your mind to. Whatever you set your mind to.”

  She looked up at the house as if its sturdy countenance could somehow be passed on to her. She drank it in—every window, every shingle. It would shelter her. Protect her.

  “You’re a good person. People like you. You have nothing to prove. You can achieve whatever you set your mind to.” She tucked the cards into her pocket. “And if you can’t, you can lock yourself in your room and not come out until the end of the weekend.”

  Suitcase in one hand, phone in the other, and her jacket draped over her arm for the short dash to the house, she hopped out of the car into the pouring rain. In her rush to get inside, she dropped her bag, then dropped her keys trying to get her bag. She managed to hold onto her jacket until it caught on a plant near the front entrance. Then it fell from her arm into a puddle. By the time she made it into the empty foyer with all of her belongings, her hair and clothes were soaked from the heavy rain.

  “Hello? God, I’m so wet. Hello? Mother of . . .” Her bag slipped from her wet hand, and she let it drop. “Hello? I’m here to check in. I hope I’m not too late. I got lost. Missed the turning probably five times.”

  The silence felt expectant, as if it were waiting for her to say more. Hearing noises from a room to her right, she approached the door, clothes dripping and shoes squelching. What an impression to make, she thought and opened the door.

  “Hi hi hi. Sorry to interrupt! I’m—”

  But when she saw them all standing there, all she could think was, how could anything this weekend possibly go right?

  FRIDAY NIGHT/

  SATURDAY MORNING

  3

  Hollis

  The end of the bed sank under Hollis’s weight while he stared at the rectangular glow of light from his phone. Fully charged, but no messages and no signal. The little bars said he was connected to the Wi-Fi, but he couldn’t access his email or the internet. Was it a blessing, he wondered, if he couldn’t ask Linda what was going on? If he let this weekend play out, then questioned her later?
His little girl—had she tricked him or had she no idea? Could he make it another hour without demanding an answer? He knew she kept her phone on at night. He could ring and ring and ring until she answered. He could already hear her crying, asking why he was treating her like a suspect. Telling him she had only wanted to do something nice. She hadn’t known.

  Hadn’t known what?

  Because Linda didn’t know anything about Caldwell Street or Cahill University. He’d made damn sure of that. Hollis shoved his phone in his pocket. The black void in his room matched the stillness of the house. The others slept now, or at least pretended to.

  He wanted to go home, forget this weekend ever happened, forget that Linda had somehow got involved. Wanted to start work on Monday in his new suit and tie. Solve cases that had nothing to do with him. But the envelope sitting on the desk reminded him that if he left now, that future was impossible. He stood up and paced, typed out a text he hoped didn’t come across as accusatory.

  Hearing Callum’s name had opened a box in Hollis’s brain, one that he’d taped up and filed away on a dusty shelf, like the forgotten evidence of a cold case. Now it was open, he couldn’t stop sorting through the contents.

  The way Callum could appear in a room and no one noticed how he got there, despite him being over six feet. How he would volunteer to help with the dishes the night after, even if he hadn’t been at the party. The day Gran died and Hollis had to rush home, Callum had been the only other person in the house. He’d pulled Hollis into a hug, told him he’d contact his lecturers for him, get any notes he might need. It wasn’t just talk. When Hollis returned the next week, Callum had placed a stack of notes, organized by course, on his desk.

  In the silence, Hollis kept trying to recall the sound of Callum’s voice, but it hid in the patter of the rain, the hiss of the radiator, the scratch of mice in the walls.

  His texts again failed to send. He almost threw the phone against the wall, but thought better of it and shoved it in his pocket as he left the room.

  The fire in the lobby glowed red, the peat burning without flame. A small lamp on the reception desk gave off a weak light. Hollis’s footsteps provided the only sound. He paused, unable to remember the last time he’d occupied a building that seemed so empty. His block of flats in Manchester had so many people coming and going no matter the hour, he sometimes felt like a train conductor. Here he felt like a ghost.