They Did Bad Things

by Lauren A. Forry

  A muffled argument sounded upstairs, but before she could discern anything more, Maeve shuffled into the kitchen, an envelope in her hands. She looked surprised to see Lorna but recovered quickly.

  “Some night last night, was it?” Maeve asked.

  Lorna took a sip of orange juice and grimaced. “I wished you would’ve been there. You would’ve stopped me from that fifth . . . what was it? Vodka and Coke?”

  “Pepsi, looks like.” Maeve picked up an empty two-liter bottle from the floor and set it on the counter. “But it does you good to act like a normal person every once in a while.”

  “I am a normal person.” Lorna eyed the card. “How was your night then?”

  Maeve hid her face. “Fine.”

  “What time did you and Callum get in?”

  “Later. God! It was nothing. Neither of us wanted to go to Oliver’s stupid party, so we went to a film and stopped for some drinks afterward and why are you looking at me like that?” The envelope crinkled in her hand.

  “Looking at you like what?” Lorna hid her grin behind her glass.

  “It wasn’t a date. Nothing happened. Stop making a deal about it.”

  “I’m not making a deal about anything.”

  “Yes, you are. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Then why are you carrying around that card for everyone to see?”

  Maeve glanced at her hands as if surprised to see the card there. She waffled a bit, looking out the kitchen doorway, then to the card, then to Lorna. With a sigh, she sat down at the table and handed over the card. “Why would he write a note? What kind of guy does that? It’s like last night was one of his stupid Happy Wednesday gifts for . . . for fuck’s sake.”

  “Is this supposed to be a limerick?”

  “It’s not funny!”

  Lorna slid the card back across the table. “It is sweet, though.”

  Maeve looked at the card as if it might leap off the table and bite her—or worse, kiss her.

  “Maeve, do you really not like him?”

  Before she could answer, Ellie appeared in the doorway, and Maeve swiped the card off the table.

  Maeve needn’t have worried. Ellie hardly noticed the pair of them, let alone what was on the table. She slipped into the kitchen like a wisp of lace blowing in the wind, one hand pressed to her stomach as she searched the fridge. Though she stared into it, she could not see what she was looking for. Lorna’s voice jarred her.

  “Hey, Ellie. Want some juice?”

  There on the table was the juice carton, and sitting at the table were Lorna and Maeve, who looked at Ellie as if she had something on her face. Ellie wiped a hand across her cheek in case she did.

  “Oh yes. Thank you.”

  “Did you have a good time last night?”

  Why couldn’t they leave her alone?

  “Yes, I had a lovely time, thank you.” She chose a clean glass from the cupboard, poured half a glass of juice, and drank it without stopping. She hoped it would fill her up, but it disappeared somewhere into the vacant space that had taken possession of her body. She didn’t want them to speak, but nor could she bear the silence. Noises upstairs brought her peace—shouting and the slamming of a door.

  “Some friend you are!”

  Oliver’s voice made her hand tremble. She poured another glass to distract herself.

  “All right, ladies?”

  Ellie was proud of herself for not choking on her juice when Oliver appeared. Lorna and Maeve each muttered a greeting as he stepped around Ellie to grab a can of Pepsi. This was silly. She was being silly. All she had to do was ask. What harm was there in asking? She picked at a loose thread on her shirt and tried to keep her voice cheerful.

  “Oliver, could I talk to you?”

  He yawned and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Hm? What? Oh, sorry, got to pack. Mum’s expecting me home by five.” He cracked open the can and took a long drink. Ellie wanted to ask again, but Maeve’s voice overtook hers.

  “Don’t you have one more exam tomorrow? You said I could help you study. Hamlet is so my thing, remember?” She twirled a single lock of frizzy hair.

  “Maeve,” Lorna snapped and nodded to the front room.

  “What?”

  “I need you in the other room, please. Now.”

  Chairs squeaked as Lorna and Maeve pushed themselves away from the table. Ellie watched them go, torn between wanting them to stay and never wanting to see any of them ever again, including Callum, who had appeared from nowhere to greet them outside the kitchen door, his camera around his neck. He glanced at Oliver, then hurried through the kitchen and out into the back garden without a word.

  Ellie smoothed her shirt and tried again. “Don’t you have that exam?”

  Oliver shrugged. “I’m skipping it.”

  “Can you do that?” she asked.

  “I’ll work out a deal. Just have to grease a few palms, and uni is smoother sailing than a hot dog in a whore’s vagina. You should try it.”

  “Um . . . No, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.” He finished the soda and left the empty can on the counter. Ellie, after some hesitation, followed him upstairs.

  Clothes and empty beer cans were strewn all over his floor. Sticky tissues and empty soda bottles filled the wire bin in the corner. If the room had a distinct odor, she could no longer tell. In four short months, they’d become accustomed to it. Though the door was open, Ellie knocked. Oliver continued shoving clothes—dirty and clean—into a gym bag. She kept her toes at the carpet line, as close as she could stand without entering.

  “I don’t want to bother you.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I was wondering if we could talk.”

  “I’ll have loads of time when we’re back from Christmas break.”

  “But . . . no. We need to talk. Now.”

  He laughed.

  “It’s not funny, Oliver.”

  He dropped a shirt and stalked to the doorway. “You think because we fooled around a bit, suddenly you own me?”

  “No! No, that’s not it at all.”

  “Then what’s your problem, love?”

  Her hands shook, and she smoothed her shirt again, though there were no wrinkles. “I only wanted to know what happened last night.”

  “If you were too drunk to remember, that’s not my problem, is it?”

  She tried to say something more, but no words would come. She ran back downstairs in tears.

  Out in the garden, shivering in the December air, Ellie took a seat in the broken lawn chair, feeling it creak and sink under her weight.

  “All right?”

  Callum startled her. She hadn’t noticed him standing in the corner by the house, camera in hand. He looked so calm, the concern in his eyes eating away at her resolve. Ellie’s smile kept faltering, like a radio station you couldn’t quite tune in.

  “It’s nothing. Really. I’m being silly, as always.”

  Callum crossed the patio and sat in the chair beside her. “Not my business, but Oliver can be an ass sometimes. He really isn’t worth getting upset over.”

  “I know. Stupid girl. I, well, all I want to know is sort of exactly what went on last night and then I can—”

  “Wait. What do you mean what went on?”

  “Oh, I can’t quite remember, that’s all.” Her laugh was a harsh and brittle thing. “I was drinking. A lot, I think. And last I remember we were on the couch, and then this morning when I woke up in his . . .” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Callum. If I hadn’t been drinking so much . . .”

  Callum stormed into the house in time to see Oliver hefting his kit bag out the front door. He grabbed the bag and pushed Oliver into the wall.

  “What the—”

  “Did you take advantage of her?”

  Oliver eyed Ellie across the room and tried to laugh it off. “Take advantage? What is this, the 1950s?”

  Callum slammed him into the wall again. Oth
er faces appeared as witness, but no one approached.

  “Tell the truth.”

  “Fine. The truth is we were both drunk.”

  “But you remember, don’t you?”

  “Callum.” Ellie spoke from the corner by the closet under the stairs, slipping in when no one had seen. “It’s okay, Callum. Leave him alone. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Yeah, Callum.” Oliver smiled. “It’s not a big deal.”

  Callum glared, then released him with a shove.

  “Cheers, mate. Happy Christmas.” Oliver scooped up his bag and skirted out the front door, leaving behind the tension he’d created.

  In the hall by the spare room, Maeve sighed and rested her head on the doorframe. “I wouldn’t mind Oliver taking advantage of me.”

  “Are you fucking serious?” Lorna asked. “You think it’s fine for a guy to feel you up—or worse—while you’re drunk?”

  “Depends on the guy.”

  “You mean depends if it’s Oliver.”

  “Don’t get so defensive, Lorna. I only made a comment.”

  “I’m being defensive? Do you even know what the word means?”

  “Why do you always have to be so rude?” Maeve stomped into the now vacant kitchen and tore into the fridge, desperate for something to eat.

  “I’m not being rude. I just don’t condone sexual assault.”

  “Please don’t shout.” Ellie appeared in the doorway, rubbing her hands together. “It was nothing, Lorna, really.”

  “See?” said Maeve.

  “It wasn’t nothing! God, why can’t you all see that?”

  “I don’t know why you’re so upset,” Maeve said. “Nothing happened to you. Or maybe you’re just cross because you never get any.”

  Lorna tossed her used glass into the sink. Orange juice splattered the wall. “I thought you . . . never mind. Okay? Never mind.” She pushed past Ellie into the living room, her path blocked by Callum.

  “Lorna,” he said, “I’m with you. What Oliver did—”

  “This isn’t about you, Callum.”

  Once upstairs, Lorna slammed her door and turned on her music, though it didn’t fill the bloated silence that formed between Maeve and Ellie.

  “Uhm,” Maeve stuttered. “There’s one more slice of pizza, if you want it. If you’re hungry.”

  “Hm? Oh. No, thank you.”

  Maeve should have asked if Ellie was all right, but Maeve never said what she should have. On that day, at that moment, she should’ve apologized and said Lorna was right, her comments were crass and inappropriate. But the words were trapped in her head, unable to find a way out. Or maybe she didn’t try hard enough. What she did do was heat up the leftover pizza.

  In the living room, Callum fiddled with his camera strap, his face blushing red from anger, fading into blotches like wine stains. “So, Maeve, we headed for that fry-up?”

  “I don’t want a stupid fry-up, Callum. God.” Her heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs.

  Ellie passed through soon after.

  “Hey Ellie, if you need anything . . .”

  “I’m fine, Callum.” She continued up the stairs without stopping. “Have a happy Christmas if I don’t see you.” But the words were remote, robotic, like her movement up the stairs.

  Callum returned to the back garden where Hollis had now appeared, leaning against the house, smoking another cigarette. Callum stood beside him, and they stared out at the leaning, rotted fence, listening to the traffic in the distance and a dog barking nearby.

  “Did I miss something?” Hollis asked.

  A bitter wind sliced through the clear day, and Callum shuddered. Hollis didn’t seem to notice the cold.

  Callum nodded to the cigarette. “At this rate, you’ll have cancer by your thirties.” He laughed. Hollis stared at him. “Sorry.”

  Hollis offered the pack. Callum reached for one, then withdrew his hand.

  “No, I shouldn’t. Mum will smell it on me a mile off. So, last night. Some party?” Callum asked.

  Hollis shrugged. “Yeah, suppose.”

  “Shame I missed it.”

  “Not really.” Hollis stubbed the cigarette out in the overflowing bowl-cum-ashtray by the back door, then disappeared into the house, leaving Callum alone outside with the wind and the returning bark of the dog.

  Months later, when they found Callum’s body, Maeve would say it wasn’t her because she didn’t remember anything after Oliver and Callum’s fight. She didn’t stumble out of bed in the middle of the night to use the toilet and hear Callum crying in his bedroom.

  Hollis would say it wasn’t him because after he helped Maeve to her room, he went straight to bed. He didn’t see Callum in the back garden by the fence, wobbling on the broken chair, drinking straight from the bottle.

  Ellie would say it wasn’t her because she never went downstairs for a glass of water. She never heard Callum vomiting in the front room and never stepped over it to return to her bedroom.

  Oliver would say it wasn’t him because he had passed out in bed once the music stopped. He hadn’t used a purple Sharpie to draw a penis on Callum’s face while Callum was passed out, the bruise from their fight swelling to close his right eye.

  Lorna would say it wasn’t her because she had stayed in her room for the rest of the night. She hadn’t been woken by a crash in the hallway and didn’t open her door to see Callum stumbling down the stairs.

  Twenty years later, after they found Hollis’s body, they remembered how Callum often embodied the emptiness of Caldwell Street, like he somehow became the physical manifestation of the house itself, absorbing their pain and their disagreements as if he could get rid of them or turn them into something better, all of which never happened. What they failed to notice was that this emptiness had found a home in them, and that it had begun to consume them from the inside out.

  5

  Lorna

  Hollis was dead. They had suspected it this morning when he couldn’t be found. They had feared it. But they didn’t want to believe it. Now, they all knew it. Hollis was dead, and they would have to deal with the consequences. Hollis was dead, and if Hollis could die, any one of them could be next. Lorna stared at the card in her hands and listened to the others.

  Maeve, closest to her, kept muttering, “We have to ring the police. We have to ring the police. We have to . . .” Oliver was doubled over, head between his knees, groaning like he had a stomachache. Ellie remained the farthest from them, sitting with her back to the wall and knees pulled to her chest, running a hand over her arm, muttering something only she could understand.

  “We have to ring the police,” Maeve repeated yet again, her voice bordering on hysteria. “There’s been a murder! We have to ring them. We have to get them involved. We—”

  Oliver crossed the hall and slapped Maeve across the face. She cradled her cheek, apparently too stunned to say more.

  “Stop saying that!”

  “Oliver!” Lorna cut in.

  “We can’t contact the police!”

  Maeve took a step back, palm pressed to her face. “Why? Because you’re the one who killed him?”

  Maeve flinched when he raised his hand again, but he did not strike.

  “No. I mean we won’t be able to reach them. Have you tried using your phone lately? Ellie, what about you?”

  Ellie continued her silent conversation with herself.

  “I haven’t had a reason,” Maeve answered. She looked to Lorna for support, but Lorna didn’t know what she could say.

  “No texts? No emails? No chats with your online boyfriends?”

  “That’s enough, Oliver. Tell her.”

  With the air of a father at his breaking point, Oliver explained about the empty box he and Lorna had discovered in the basement.

  “We didn’t find the jammer,” Lorna added. “But my phone’s not working and neither is Oliver’s.”

  Maeve pulled out her phone and tapped at the screen. “You’re right,” she sai
d. “It says the last time my email updated was 5:32 last night.”

  Oliver folded his arms, his anger giving way to the smug satisfaction he used to wear so well. Trim a few pounds, add a few hairs, and he could be the same cocky son of a bitch he once was. Almost. Age had done too much damage. And there was too much fear in him now, despite how he tried to cover it up with his voice.

  “Caskie must have thought we’d ring the police the first chance we got,” he said.

  “Caskie?” Lorna asked. “You think Caskie killed Hollis?”

  “Contrary to popular opinion, Lorna, I’m not as thick as a slice of French bread. Of course I think Caskie did it. This is his house, yes? He has access to every room. Knows the house inside and out, which means he knows where to hide stuff. For example, a dead fucking body. That fucker ruined our cars and murdered our mate and now he’s after us.”

  “Language,” Ellie whispered, rising from the floor. Shock had settled on her the longest, and she was only now beginning to shake it.

  “Sorry. Look, we all agree we saw a car driving away last night, right? But none of us saw who was in it. And even if it was Caskie, who’s to say he didn’t come back in the night when we were sleeping? It fits. He crept back in the night, damaged the cars, killed Hollis, and is hiding somewhere waiting to finish us off. Maeve herself said she thought she saw someone.”

  “I thought I heard someone,” Maeve said. She looked again at Lorna, then down at her feet, whatever she wanted to say left unspoken.

  “We heard something in the dining room just now, which obviously wasn’t Hollis,” Lorna added.

  “You did?” Maeve asked. “Was it in—”

  “Ellie,” Lorna interrupted, “can you tell us what happened? Did you see who hurt you?”

  “She was by the attic,” Maeve said. “We were about to search the attic.”