They Did Bad Things

by Lauren A. Forry

  “Oi. Oi! Break it up. Break it up!”

  With help from Buzz Cut, Hollis split them apart. Oliver had a bloody lip. A bruise formed around Callum’s eye. Maeve sat in front of the fireplace, dress undone and skirt riding up to expose her knickers. Hollis tried to ask what happened, but Callum shoved him away.

  “You’re all horrible people, you know that? You’re . . . you’re not nice and you fucking deserve each other.” Callum grabbed a bottle of whiskey out of a bystander’s hand and disappeared.

  No one saw him for the rest of the night. Or so they said.

  For years and years that’s the story they clung to.

  But they lied. You know they lied. And for years and years, I picked those lies apart until I finally got to the truth. They had not seen who had killed him, that was true, but they knew it hadn’t been an accident. They knew it had been one of them.

  But they didn’t know what to do about it. This was so much worse than cheating on an exam, and they knew that, too. That morning, as they stood around their housemate—heads like cotton wool and stomachs hollow while the late morning sun inched its way into the room, heating the spilled cups, empty boxes of wine, Pringles cans, and plastic ashtrays filled with ashes and butts—they saw their futures fading in front of their eyes.

  Unable to bear the sight any longer, though they bore it longer than any decent person would have, they moved to the kitchen and poured each other warm juice and munched on leftover crisps. They had no answer but decided it would be best if they talked about this before they rang anyone. They were all there last night, and they all remembered what happened. Didn’t they?

  And someone said it wasn’t their fault, and someone else agreed, but, just in case, shouldn’t they be absolutely certain no one would put the blame on them? After all, Hollis had given him the drinks and Maeve had insulted and slapped him and Lorna had ignored him and Oliver had fought him and Ellie had forgotten him. They didn’t want anyone blamed for what was clearly an accident. Because it was an accident. It was an accident after they put the phone back on the hook and threw out the broken lamp and burned the notebook Callum had kept as a record of what exams he had sold and to whom he had sold them. It was nothing more than an accident. A party gone wrong.

  So they told their story to one another. To ensure it made sense, they told it many times. Until it became their truth. They remembered that after the guests had left but before they had gone to bed, Callum had stormed out of the house. They never saw him again until this morning.

  Then they called an ambulance. They cried and told the police that they would have checked on Callum if they had known he was there. And the police told them it was all right, there was nothing they could have done, and carted Callum away in a black plastic bag but left the pink sofa, which to them smelled of rot. They returned to their rooms and studied for their exams and waited for Callum’s parents to come for his things. They made sure to express their condolences but were more grateful that his belongings, especially the camera, were gone.

  But he wasn’t gone. Not entirely. The smell of his body became their contribution to the house’s growing inventory. Like the second broken microwave, it would never be removed, not until the fire years later.

  All it would have taken was for one of them to tell the truth, just one, and their story would have fallen to pieces. But they were all so scared of what would happen to them if the truth came out. They’d be labeled as liars and cheaters. Disappointments. The truth was, they never told the truth because they were glad that he had died. Glad that their secrets were safe. Glad that they didn’t have to face the consequences of their mistakes. Life was easier for them with Callum dead, so they didn’t fear whoever had done it. They thanked them, and though they never spoke of Callum, even to the ones they loved, they never really forgot him.

  But they never remembered me. Of course, why should they? I was part of Callum’s life, so to them, I was nothing.

  11

  Ellie

  Ellie whispered to what was left of Oliver.

  “If you had really regretted it, you would have called it rape.”

  She knelt in the mud and the blood and ran her hands over his clothes.

  “But you’re not going to hurt me again.”

  She patted all of his pockets, put her hands down his shirt, but she couldn’t find the diary. She had seen him put it down his shirt, but now it wasn’t there.

  “You won’t do this to me. I won’t let you do this to me! I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Then she heard the someone gasp and saw Maeve and Lorna staring at her from the broken window. And Lorna’s presence didn’t surprise her. Ellie knew what it was like to look into a dead man’s eyes. Lorna’s had been very much alive.

  Ellie clambered through the broken window, ignoring the glass cutting her. She saw the blood running down her arms, staining her clothes, but felt nothing. Wasn’t even sure what was hers or what belonged to the men of this house. She leaned once more on the windowpane and looked at what was left of Oliver.

  “This was all your fault and you know it.”

  She smoothed back her hair, streaking it red, and adjusted her bracelet. And then she ran. Maeve and Lorna had taken off and were now out of sight, but she heard Maeve’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. Ellie rounded into the lobby in time to see someone’s legs disappearing around the corner on the first floor. She reached the upstairs landing and heard them continuing up to the next floor. Could even hear Maeve’s wheezing breath. Then a blur dashed the opposite way—they must’ve split up. Ellie knew her chances were better with Maeve. She’d take care of Lorna later.

  She wove her way to the top floor, and there at the end of the hall she saw it. The door to the attic.

  Open. Waiting.

  Ellie could no longer see those now old scratches, but she ran her fingers over where they had been and remembered she had a choice. She could go back the way she came, out the broken window, make her way to the quay. Play her part so well when the first ferryman came. Through tears, tell him of the monsters inside Wolfheather House.

  Ellie pictured her children running up to her on Monday, telling her how much they missed her and how much they needed her and how thankful they were that she was alive. David could take her into his arms, hold her tight, and she could smile because everything would be perfect again. She could let Gordon go. Be done with him. And no one would begrudge her anything after all she’d been through.

  Or she could go into the attic.

  Ellie removed her shoes to silence her steps and made her way up the narrow staircase.

  The rain fell like gunfire on the roof so close to her head. Her hand felt for the light switch but then she stopped, remembering it wouldn’t work anyway. So she stood and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. The stillness seemed absolute. Even her breathing felt intrusive. Where would Maeve go? she wondered. Would she continue to hide like the coward she was, or would she come out and face her?

  “I know what you did,” Ellie said.

  She walked through the stacks of boxes, listening for any noise behind her.

  “You didn’t need to trick me into coming here. You could’ve just asked.”

  A shadow moved in the corner of her eye. Ellie spun, but there was nothing in the darkness. She paused, then kept moving forward.

  “I would’ve helped. I feel just as awful about Callum. And there’s no reason we can’t be friends after this. We can clean this all up together. No one will ever know.”

  She peeked around a mothballed rack of clothes. Nothing. Silence.

  “You know, it’s only fitting that we tore ourselves to pieces, isn’t it? We didn’t need anyone to help us along the way. It was inevitable that we’d be drawn back to each other. It’s chemistry. Jilly was studying chemistry for her GCSEs, and she read all about how different elements are harmless on their own, but when put together they can be explosive. That’s exactly what we are, isn’t it?”

  Back i
n the far corner, a shadow darker than the rest.

  “But it’s different now, with Hollis and Oliver gone. Especially Oliver. We don’t need to destroy each other anymore. The three of us ladies, we can stick together. After all, what happened to Callum wasn’t your fault, just like it wasn’t mine.”

  A figure leaned against the attic eaves.

  “It wasn’t my fault at all.”

  She lunged and brought the corkscrew down again and again. She brought it down to smash the events of this weekend, to shatter the memory of Caldwell Street, to erase Callum from her mind. But it was only after several blows that she realized what she had been stabbing wasn’t a person at all but pillows covered in a quilt. Wispy duck feathers floated in the air. One stuck to her lip. She brushed it away.

  There hadn’t been a person. Only pillows leaning up against the wall in a far corner of the attic, with the only path out behind her, where someone already stood.

  Maeve

  The tire iron struck Ellie in the back of the head, but unlike Hollis, Ellie didn’t fall. She spun away, striking Maeve in the hand with the corkscrew. The sharp scratch stung, but Ellie hadn’t been able to hit hard enough to do any real damage. Maeve swung again. A gash opened up on Ellie’s cheek. She pressed her long fingers to the blood with a laugh.

  “So this is how it’s going to be,” Ellie said. “I could’ve helped you. All girls together against Oliver and Hollis.”

  “This was never about them,” Maeve said. “This was about justice for Callum.”

  “I wanted that, too.” She staggered into a wall.

  “No,” Maeve said. “You wanted him dead.”

  Ellie sighed. It was the same sigh she made when someone hadn’t flushed the toilet or the microwave hadn’t been cleaned properly. The sound she’d made when Maeve had offered her the last Oreo on a cold day in January before everyone else had returned to the house for the new term.

  “I didn’t want Callum dead. He helped me. Why would I want him dead?”

  “Because he was going to the dean. He was going to confess how he got you the test answers for your finals.”

  “He was selling answers to everyone. You and your maths test. Hollis. Oliver bought more than a few. Even Lorna after she had that woman-hating lecturer again. Why should I be any different?” She staggered back into the eaves.

  “You took his money. Instead of leaving it for his parents, you took it.”

  “We all did!” Her knees bent, but she caught herself on the wall before she fell. “We all took some. For his sake. To cover for him. To protect his family from the truth. Don’t you remember?”

  “I remember you came home the next day with a new Fendi Baguette handbag.”

  “Callum helped me. He helped me! I would never hurt him.”

  “Then why did you?” Maeve whispered.

  Ellie gave a half-smile. Blood trickled down her chin. “All I did was ask him not to pick up the phone. All he had to do was listen. Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?”

  Maeve dropped the tire iron and lunged, knocking Ellie to the ground. Her fingers tightened around Ellie’s throat. Her skin was so soft. She really did moisturize well, and with that thought, Maeve detached. The hands squeezing Ellie’s neck tight were not Maeve’s hands. The rage forcing her to maintain the pressure was not Maeve’s rage. She floated above it all. It was someone else doing what needed to be done.

  When a hand lay on her shoulder, she lashed out in retaliation. But it was only Lorna kneeling beside her to tell her it was over, to tell her it was done. Lorna turned on the light from her phone and Maeve looked at the body beneath her. It no longer moved. The eyes remained open, the sclera lined red from burst capillaries. A glob of red drool trailed from her lower lip. It was over. And suddenly Maeve wanted it not to be. She wanted Ellie to get up.

  “Fuck you,” she said. “Did you hear me? Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you!” She slapped Ellie’s face. “Aren’t you going to scold me for my language? Go on then. Fuck you!”

  No answer. So she slapped her.

  “Fuck you!”

  And again.

  “Maeve.”

  “Wake up you stupid bitch and yell at me. Fuck you!”

  And again.

  “Wake up!”

  “Maeve.”

  A hand tugged at her arm.

  “It’s over. Maeve, it’s over. It’s done. Let her go. Come on. Let her go.”

  Lorna guided her down through the house and back through the foyer. Maeve waited there, watching the flameless fireplace, feeling the presence of Caskie’s body behind her, while Lorna went to retrieve the ring of keys from Oliver’s body. She returned, picking broken glass from her jumper, and unlocked the front door.

  They both sat on the ground just in front of the door, nestled between the two cracked urns, and listened to the wind. The clouds were finally beginning to clear, revealing the brilliant blue sky that had been hidden from them the entire weekend. Maeve tried to make shapes out of the remaining clouds, but nothing could distract her from the feel of Ellie’s skin underneath her hands.

  “I guess if we smoked,” Lorna said, “now would be the time.”

  “I guess.”

  The air was cold, but Maeve still felt hot. She didn’t know if she would ever be cool again, or if her skin would always feel like it was on fire.

  “What are we supposed to do now?” she asked.

  “Well,” Lorna said. “We have about an hour and a half until sunset. We could go for a walk. Make something for dinner. I didn’t eat lunch and it’s almost three, so . . .”

  “I mean James Caskie isn’t coming back for us.”

  Lorna sighed. “I know.”

  “There’s no one we can use as an alibi.”

  “It’s only Saturday. We have a whole day before anyone starts to suspect something’s wrong. We’ll figure something out.”

  Rain dripped from the gutters, streamed into the car park. Maeve followed the trail with her eyes to her own car. She felt guilty for having vandalized it when she really had just paid it off. And then she felt guilty for feeling guilty about a car, when she had done so many other bad things in the last forty-eight hours.

  “We don’t smoke,” Maeve said, “but what would you say to a drink?”

  “I’d say it’s an excellent idea.” Lorna rose, but when Maeve moved to do the same, Lorna motioned for her to sit. “I’ll get it. We both need some time out of this house.”

  Maeve looked at the open door. “But what if—”

  Lorna placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine, Maeve. There’s no one else in the house.”

  Maeve listened to Lorna’s footsteps cross the foyer. Then she chewed on the cuff of her jumper, bounced her knee up and down, but it wasn’t enough to dispel the energy within her. The tears came and she could not stop them. She thought she’d feel relief once the job was done. That her guilt over Callum would be assuaged. But it had only been replaced with guilt over Hollis and Oliver and Ellie. She didn’t know if this guilt would ever leave her. Maybe it would. Maybe one day, its last vestiges would fade to nothing. But for now it remained wedged inside her, a weight in her chest. She wiped the tears away, but they kept rolling down her cheeks. She had no control over them, and sitting still was no longer helping.

  “Lorna, I’m coming to help.”

  But when Maeve entered the study, Lorna wasn’t there. She checked the conservatory, but this, too, was empty.

  “Lorna?”

  Her voice echoed in the lobby.

  “Are you in the kitchen? Were you getting snacks, too?”

  As Maeve moved toward the dining room, she heard a noise from the back hallway.

  “Lorna? Stop being silly.”

  But there was no response. Maeve worried the cuff of her jumper. Lorna always shouted at the stupid people in horror films, the ones who followed strange noises instead of running away. But this wasn’t a horror film. Lorna was fine. And if she wasn’t, Maeve had seen
enough pain to last the rest of her lifetime. Lorna was her friend. She wouldn’t let any harm come to her.

  Maeve stepped around MacLeod’s body.

  “Lorna?”

  A scratching sounded to her left, around a corner that led to a narrow hall. Maeve followed the sound. Windows at the back of the house provided the little light that was left that day. The damp air made her cough, and she almost missed the bark. A small shadow scratched at a door on the left. Maeve held up the light on her phone.

  A small dog with shaggy brown fur panted in the hall. It remained at the door as Maeve approached.

  “Hello! What are you doing here, Gizmo?”

  The dog’s ears perked up at its name.

  “Lorna? I thought you said you were leaving Gizmo with friends.”

  She bent down to pick him up, but he darted away. The door he’d been scratching at cracked open.

  “Lorna, are you in here?” Maeve pushed it in and held up the light.

  It must’ve been an optical illusion.

  A double bed. A Take That poster. A crate of food with Oreos and tins of beans. It was all so familiar. But it couldn’t be. Her Caldwell Street bedroom wasn’t supposed to be here. Not hers or Lorna’s. These weren’t among the things Lorna said she took from the house before she set the fire.

  Maeve felt the pain in her side before the warm breath on the back of her neck.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Maeve gasped as her side burned. She had been hurt so many times before, so many times just today, but this was different. She had never known pain like this.

  “Shh, shh. It’ll be all right. Here. I’ll help you sit down.”

  One hand held the knife in place, while the other guided Maeve to the floor. Already, Maeve could not support her own head. It sank until it rested in Lorna’s lap.

  “Lorna . . .” Blood stained her lips.

  “Shh.” She stroked Maeve’s hair. “Lorna’s in the boot of my car. I killed her three days ago. You haven’t spoken to the real Lorna since the day you all moved out of Caldwell Street.”

  “Who . . .”