“Callum?”
Holding her breath, she turned around and faced the blank wall.
There was nothing there. She tiptoed to the end of the row and swung the lantern right and left. Maybe she had seen an old dress form or coat rack, but there was nothing down here like that. Nothing that would’ve cast such a shadow.
“You were imagining things, Maeve. Of course Callum’s not here. Just light and shadow. And I mean it’s already a creepy house to begin with.”
Something fell to the ground.
Maeve jumped so high, she thought she touched the ceiling. Her heart pounded, about to burst. She listened, but heard nothing more. She walked toward where the sound had originated. On the ground was a fallen cardboard box, its contents spewing out.
With the lantern in one hand, she sifted through the spilled contents with the other. They were personal items, knickknacks like what one might find at a flea market—dragon figurines and empty photo albums, a Koosh ball, random Happy Meal toys, a pewter mug. Then, in the middle of it all, she found a photo of a couple. She held it close to the lantern. A familiar man and woman in Aran jumpers in an unfamiliar sitting room on a couch, holding hands. The woman’s hair reminded Maeve of her mother’s in the eighties.
Maeve shuddered in the draft. Then paused. It wasn’t a draft. It was a breeze. Air was coming through the wall. She moved the remaining boxes.
“No bloody way.”
There in the wall was a door.
She pressed her hands against it to make sure it was real. The rusty knob wouldn’t turn, but a panel of the door had rotted away. She reached through and found a key inserted in the lock on the other side. She expected it to give her trouble, but it turned with ease. The door opened onto a tall but narrow passageway. Maeve shuffled from foot to foot. She heard nothing in the passage, nor could she see where it went.
She hesitated, then took a step forward. But as soon as she crossed the threshold, she panicked and staggered back. She needed a way out, but no good could come from exploring dark, unknown passages. She reached to close the door.
And another door slammed above.
Maeve crouched down in case she could somehow be sensed above by the heavy footsteps that paced the foyer and paused above her head. Footsteps from someone who had entered the house through the locked front door. Footsteps that approached the cellar door.
Pp. 51–60
so fucking complicated. They had to come up with their own solution to the problem instead of just doing what they were told. Yeah, well, how did that work out? About as well as how they tried to “solve the situation” with Callum.
So in January 1995 a deep chill had settled over Caldwell Street. Christmas cheer kept many of the houses there warm, but the memory of New Year’s soon faded and dutiful husbands and wives and housemates returned to their dreary commutes in a world made barren by winter. Even the sky embraced a gray pallor which it refused to shed no matter how the winds changed. Under this sky, the wind making her nose run and whipping her hair into her eyes, Maeve returned to house number 215, dragging her dad’s old rucksack behind her like a disobedient dog. Placing a foot on either side of the crack in the pavement that led up to the door, Maeve brushed her hair away with a gloved hand and let the rucksack slip from her fingers. Since she last saw it, the house looked like it had been beaten and left for dead. The door’s green paint against the gray walls resembled a bruise. The roof sagged like a crushed skull. A smell of rubbish, like spoiled milk, drifted down the street from uncollected bin bags. A nagging tug pulled behind her sternum, and she pressed a hand there, hoping to push the feeling either away or at least deep enough inside herself that she would no longer notice it. In the end, it was not the cold that made her enter, or the promise of her large private room, or the new electric teakettle she’d received for Christmas now clanking in the rucksack. She carried her bag to the door because Oliver’s car was not there.
Inside, a wall of warm air struck her. Hollis had promised to turn down the thermostat before he left. She supposed he could have forgotten, although that didn’t seem like him. Her fingers, frozen inside her thin gloves, warmed as she set the new kettle in the kitchen and carried the rest of her things upstairs. The heat of the house matched the burning shame she carried within. At least a quiet house meant she had time to decompress before the others returned. Time to pretend she felt perfectly normal. She was shedding her winter coat when she stopped outside the door to her room. The open door.
“What are you doing?”
Ellie spun round, Maeve’s package of Oreos in hand, crumbs on her lips, and red rims beneath her eyes.
“Oh! Maeve, I’m so sorry. I was really hungry, but I didn’t get to the shop yet. I promise I’ll buy you more.” She spoke too quickly, even for Ellie, and they both knew it.
“I didn’t think anyone else was back.” Maeve dragged her bag into the room, pulling it in a half-circle around Ellie who did not move.
“I got in earlier this morning. Daddy dropped me off.” She kept standing in the way as Maeve unpacked her clothes, reminding Maeve of a character in one of Max’s video games—stuck in a useless loop, repeating the same action as the hero maneuvered around it to complete a mission.
“Did you have a nice Christmas?” Ellie asked.
“Yeah. It was all right.” The natural response would be to ask Ellie how her Christmas was. She didn’t want to. Ellie told her anyway.
“Mine was very nice. Daddy took us to Edinburgh for Hogmanay. It was so wonderful. I’d been to Edinburgh before but never then, and we drank coffee and ate sweets at this little café that was right beneath the castle and there was the tiniest bit of snow on the ground, enough to make it look magical, and it was so beautiful and almost European and Daddy said that if I’m very good maybe next year he and Mummy will take us to Paris for New Year’s.”
At the word magical, Ellie had started crying, and now she’d run out of words. Maeve didn’t want to look at her. It wasn’t her fault Ellie was homesick, and she wasn’t much in the mood to comfort anyway. Besides, Ellie cried all the time. Maeve cried, too, but no one knew it because she kept it private like she was supposed to, locked in her room at night, under the covers, with a pillow to muffle her so no one would hear. But everyone knew when Ellie cried because Ellie made a point of letting everyone know and they would rally around her and hug her and tell her everything would be all right. When Maeve cried, no one even looked at her until the next morning when, even after she’d washed the tears from her face and brushed her hair and teeth, one of them would inevitably tell her, “You look like shit.”
Maeve ignored her and stuffed clean socks into her dresser drawer, hoping Ellie would take the hint, but the sniffing and whimpering continued.
“Forget about the biscuits,” she said. What did she care? They were 25p. Then she glanced in the plastic crate where she kept all of her non-refrigerated food. There was no other way to keep it safe from these vultures. All that remained were a tin of baked beans and the stale, half-eaten pack of Oreos she’d forgotten to take home with her.
“What the hell, Ellie? Where’s my food?”
Ellie pressed the Oreos against her chest as if protecting an infant, tears on her cheeks. Maeve pushed past her and headed across the hall. Ellie called after her then, but Maeve didn’t stop. A mess of food packaging littered the floors of Ellie’s room.
“You said you just got back.”
Ellie looked at her feet.
“How long have you been here?”
Her lower lip quivered.
“Christ, what is it? Are you having some kind of mental breakdown? The university has counselors, you know.”
Ellie’s voice was a whisper. “They’re not back until tomorrow.”
Below them, the front door opened and shut. From the sound of his footsteps alone, they both knew who it was.
“Hello? Anybody home? Fuck, it’s hot as hell in here. Hollis, if you forgot to turn down the thermostat, I�
��m not paying for it!”
“Don’t tell him I’m here. Please don’t,” Ellie said. Maeve bit the inside of her cheek. What did it matter if Oliver knew who was here? It would be nice to see Little Miss Ellie squirm, let her face her own awkward situations instead of using someone else as a buffer. But then she saw Ellie’s eyes and they reflected the same panic Maeve had seen when she’d woken up New Year’s Day in a strange bed, in a strange house.
“Hell-oooo?”
“Go to my room.”
Ellie did so as Maeve intercepted Oliver at the top of the stairs. He’d cut his hair and wore a new designer jacket that hugged him in all the right places. Maeve dug her fingers into the cuffs of her sleeves.
“Hey!” she said.
“I knew someone was here. What’s with the fucking sauna?”
“The house was freezing when I got in, so I thought it would heat up faster if I turned it all the way up.”
“Well, Jesus, it’s hot enough now.”
“Sorry. I’ll fix it.” She hurried down to adjust the thermostat, and he trotted after her.
“Anyone else back yet?”
“Not yet. It’s just us!” She laughed because she was nervous, but it sounded like she was flirting and why did she always have to embarrass herself? She coughed, then tried to cover her tracks. “But Hollis is due back soon. I think Lorna might not be back until tomorrow? Her classes start a day later.”
“No Lorna? Excellent!” He slipped off his jacket and tossed it over the brown armchair. “Perfect night for a party.”
Maeve followed him to the kitchen. “A party? Tonight? Everyone’s going to be tired from traveling.”
“I can find a few things to boost everyone’s mood. This is nice.” He fondled her new kettle and then filled it, dripping water down the sides that marked up the stainless steel.
“We don’t want a party!”
He dropped the kettle onto the plastic base and flicked the switch. “We? I didn’t think anyone else was here.”
“They’re not. I meant. Me. And Callum. And Lorna. Me and Callum and Lorna. We were talking earlier. On the phone. Not all at once. We spoke at various times. And I thought you might suggest a party, and we’d rather not. Any of us.”
“You and Callum, eh? Naughty Maeve. Didn’t think he was your type.” Oliver stuck his finger into the sugar bowl, then licked it clean.
“How’s your mother?”
His smile dropped, and he pointed the wet finger in her face. Maeve flinched but kept her feet planted.
“You know fuck all about my mother.” He clenched his fingers into a fist, and she wished he would hit her. Smack the shame she’d brought back right out of her.
“I know what I read in the paper. You and I don’t live that far apart, you know.”
But then the front door opened and closed. Callum, camera case looped across his chest, struggled to herd an unwieldy suitcase through the door. Maeve called out and hurried to him, like he was a knight come to defend her. His expression brightened when he saw her.
“Hey, Maeve.”
“Hey! Remember what we talked about the other day? On the phone? About having parties?” With her back to Oliver, she stretched her smile, winked, tried to get him to play along.
“Uhm, having a party when?”
“About not having a party. Here. At all. For at least two months?” Please, she mouthed through her smile.
Callum nodded. “Oh, right. Yeah. No parties. Two months. Yeah, that was a great idea. I’m all for that.” He looked over Maeve’s shoulder. “You’re all for that, too, right Oliver?”
Oliver rolled his eyes and stomped toward the stairs.
“Pathetic,” he muttered as he headed up to his room.
As soon as he was out of sight, Maeve relaxed and squeezed Callum’s arm. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but Maeve started back for the kitchen.
“Are you making tea?” he asked, following. “I’m dying for a cuppa.”
“Sorry. It’s my new kettle.” She unplugged it from the wall. “Maybe later.”
“Well, are you going to be around today? I . . . Christmas holiday was . . .” He ran a hand through his hair. “Anyway, it’d be really nice to catch up. It’s been a month since we saw each other.”
“I don’t know. I might be. Sorry.”
She left him there and hurried up the stairs, eager to tell Ellie how she had stood up to Oliver. Pride coiled within her as she knocked on her own door, not eradicating the shame, but at least putting it in the corner for a time out. No one answered, and when she entered, the room was empty. She left the kettle on her desk and went across to the hall. Ellie’s door was locked.
“Ellie, it’s me.”
When she knocked, Ellie said nothing. The pride slinked away, and Maeve returned to her room, locking herself inside. She thought she heard laughter from downstairs and knew it was directed at her. Oliver making fun of her stupid grandstanding. Maeve flopped down on her bed, the motivation to unpack gone, and lowered her hand into the crate for those stale Oreos. They were gone, along with the remaining tin of beans.
“Stupid fucking princess.” She pressed her hands over her eyes, trying to block out the light and keep in the tears.
Oliver had not, as a point of fact, laughed. Though Maeve would never know this, what she mistook for a laugh was an angry bark as he kicked the baseboard beneath the tub in the bathroom. His fingers gripped the soiled sink that now reminded him of the cheap, utilitarian washroom in the police station where he’d tried to hide until Mum had been released. He wanted to punch a hole in the wall, then he remembered his security deposit and the anger slithered out of him.
Callum appeared in the hall, dragging his suitcase after him. Oliver rearranged his face in the mirror and hopped out of the bathroom.
“Hey, mate! I tried ringing you a few times over break. I left a message with your . . . mum? Sister?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Why didn’t you ring me back?”
“Can we not talk about this right now?” He entered his room and Oliver followed, shutting the door behind them. Callum plopped the suitcase on the bed, pretending he was alone as he clicked open the latch and tossed back the lid. He stared at the contents, then removed them one by one as Oliver leaned against the door.
“It’s a golden opportunity I’m offering, mate.”
Callum piled the clothes onto the bed, the camera bouncing against his chest. “And I said I was fine.”
Oliver crossed the room in two steps and slammed down the suitcase lid, catching Callum’s fingers. “This isn’t about you.”
A red line appeared across the tops of Callum’s knuckles. He stared at it as if he couldn’t feel the sting. “You’re right. Like everything else in this house, it’s about what you want. What you deserve. Isn’t that right?” Callum flipped the suitcase back open. “I’m not playing this game. We might be stuck in the same house for the next five months, but I’m not feeding your ego anymore.”
Oliver let silence surround them, the atmosphere like water about to boil. Callum’s reddened fingers gripped an old Aran jumper as if waiting to tear it in two.
“Sorry,” Callum said. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long trip.”
“Okay.” Oliver backed off. “No need to freak out. I was only offering a business opportunity, but you want to decline? I can respect that. How about this? I’ll make it a standing offer. No pressure. You decide to change your mind, then come and see me.” He opened the door. “Happy New Year.”
He fumed as he pulled the cigarette pack from his jeans pocket. First Maeve, now Callum. What was it? Beat up on Oliver day? Fuck that, he thought. He’d get this house back in line. He barreled out the front door, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake.
* * *
Lorna followed that smoke trail as she returned to Caldwell Street and her room upstairs, a photo album of new Alfie pictures under her arm and a tin of
homemade shortbread her mother insisted she share, which she intended on hiding under her bed. She glimpsed Callum standing over his bed and flexing his fingers as she unlocked the door to her room. He looked lost, like an alien trapped in a human body, unsure how the different parts worked. Lorna decided she could spare a few pieces of shortbread.
“Hey, Callum.”
A moment of fear crossed his face.
“Hey,” he said.
She held out the tin. “Do you want some?”
“Sorry.” His voice was rough, and there were tears in his eyes. He took a deep breath and didn’t acknowledge them. “Sorry. Long trip. I’ll talk to you later.”
His door closed with a bang that echoed in the hall.
“Happy New Year to you, too.”
She closed her own door and, after a thought, locked it behind her. That’s what she got for trying to be nice.
Anger. It seethed through the house that January. Resentment pooled in the corners. In addition to the shortbread and the teakettles and the new clothes and new cassettes, they had also brought back anger in all its various forms. Anger amplified by that house on that street and the lives of those with whom they shared this place. Unbeknownst to them, the moment Callum closed his door, a clock began to tick. A clock they could not see or hear but felt, buried deep in the heart of the house. A clock that counted down. And just like the clock that had marked the time to Callum’s death, another had started the moment they threw Maeve into the cellar of Wolfheather House.
7
Lorna
“Footsteps,” Oliver said.
Lorna soon heard it. The movement of someone below.
“Maeve,” Lorna said. “If it’s not her . . . She’s on her own down there. Whoever locked us in will have a key to the cellar and we left her alone. Shit. We’ve left her alone.”
Oliver took Lorna’s arm and held her back. “Where’s Ellie?”
Ellie was gone, and she hadn’t even noticed till now. How stupid was she? How could she let herself lose track of any of them?
They Did Bad Things Page 16
