by Emma Snow
THIRTY-EIGHT
Martha yelled in her head, desperate for him to kiss her. The rumbling dark clouds of her past grew heavier in her mind, turning black, twisting through her thoughts, threatening to pour down at any moment and extinguish the desire she felt as Ben leaned towards her, his eyes still burning bright.
She blinked, silently cursing the thoughts, pushing them back into the cabinet they had escaped from.
Sometimes, in the years after she left the care home, she thought of her memories as thunder clouds. They would rain at the most inappropriate moments, forcing her to think about things she wanted nothing more than to forget. She, in her childish way, thought of those thoughts as rain as they would leak out of her eyes, bringing tears that she had been unable to find at the time, too caught up in the anger at Tim, the way he’d brought her out instead of the others?
She had not heard of survivor’s guilt at the time, thought in later years she came to better understand why she had been so angry towards him. She hated him for not saving them, they seemed more innocent than her, they hadn’t been the victim of his games as often as her, they hadn’t endured the touch of his hands in places that left her sick afterwards, making her hate her own body, hate the fact that it had made him desire her.
She had tried to come to terms with the idea that it wasn’t her that had tempted him, that he was twisted, that he would have taken from her no matter what she looked like. But being told she was beautiful by that man, that tortured her more than anything else, making her hate the word itself.
At other times, she saw the thoughts not as thunder clouds but as pieces of paper, moving pieces of paper, animated and alive. She had seen Who Framed Roger Rabbit when she was fifteen and that fitted perfectly with the concept she had formed.
There was a filing cabinet in her mind and within each section were the thoughts she had conjured up since birth. The earliest ones were in the lowest drawers, at the back, hardest to get to.
What she wanted was for the good thoughts to be the easiest to access, to be at the front, ready to be pulled out and dreamed about, thoughts that made her feel good. There weren’t many.
To make that happen, she used to picture herself in front of the filing cabinet. When he did things to her, she would immediately take the thoughts and memories, the emotions tied up with them going too, and cram them into one of the drawers, clasping a padlock over it, locking it tight, taping over it, making sure it would never open again.
But the thoughts were like the cartoons in the film. They might have been on paper but they were alive. They twisted and moved like snakes, squeezing out of the gaps, bursting into her mind when she let her guard down, when she let go of the lock for the slightest of seconds. She only had to relax for the briefest time and into her mind would burst a thought of what he’d done, of the things he’d made her do to herself while he watched, while the others watched. Then she’d forget how to breathe, all the air would leave her lungs and not come back and she’d be falling, falling, her eyes blank, glazed over, her mind full of the screams she hadn’t been allowed to let out at the time.
As Ben leaned towards her, the filing cabinet rattled in her head, the thoughts of the past threatening to burst out. She clenched her fists, pushing her nails into her palms, using the pain to make her concentrate on the present, refusing to give in to what her mind wanted, to let those thoughts come out and ruin what was about to happen.
He had broken her, he had spoilt any chance she’d had of a decent relationship. She thought that for a long time. But with Ben in front of her, she didn’t focus long on that thought, using the alcohol in her system to help her relax, to help her fix her eyes on him. There was no one else there. The past was locked away. It was just her and Ben.
She looked at him and suddenly thought he was the most handsome man in the world. His hand was sliding up her arm and for a second, she was repulsed, wanting instinctively to push him away, to run, knowing she was running the risk of letting the papers escape in her head. The emotions bubbled up inside her and she shivered.
“Are you all right?” Ben asked.
She lunged forwards and kissed him, refusing to answer, refusing to think. She pressed her lips to his, seeing the surprise in his eyes at the suddenness of it.
She didn’t close her eyes, knowing whose face would appear if she did. She told herself again and again that it was Ben in front of her, that it was all right, that she was allowed to feel good about this.
That was the thing she hated most about herself in that moment. She was enjoying the touch of his lips on hers, the way his tongue was easing into her mouth. And enjoyment was anathema to her sense of self control. So she couldn’t just enjoy the moment. Her mind was telling her to stop, that the emotions that were growing in her would have a way of taking over her, of stopping her from being able to control herself. What if she had a flashback? What would it do to him? He’d be disgusted with her, like she was with herself whenever they happened.
His hands slid around her back and he brought her against him, the two of them pressed into one corner of the sofa. She felt a mixture of safety, of feeling protected by him as he continued to kiss her, but she also felt trapped. Trapped not just by his arms but by her own past, by the bitter thought that she might never truly be able to overcome what happened to her.
She wanted more than anything to enjoy the moment, to revel in the pleasure of his touch, of the warmth radiating off him, of the way he wasn’t forcing himself on her as she pushed him away, he was gentle, he was slowly embracing her, making her want him, making her tingle inside.
The tingle made her feel more guilty. She screwed her hands together behind his back, her arm muscles rigid. “Take me to bed,” she muttered through their embrace.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Now,” she growled, grabbing him and almost sprinting up the stairs.
“Look,” he began as he followed her up.
She stopped halfway, putting her finger on his lips before he could get any further. “No talking.”
She was surprised by how aggressive she sounded. She was doing her best to focus on the moment, to not let all the thoughts of the past back in. They were waiting. She knew they were. She wanted to drown them out and she had decided there was only one way to do it.
She held his hand on the way to his bedroom, stopping by the corner of the bed, drawing him towards her. She didn’t say anything else, just guiding his hands up to her chest.
She felt the warmth of his fingers through her thin top, her nipples hardening under his touch. He squeezed gently, his fingers moving of their own accord, his mouth back on hers.
She blinked and her top was sliding up her body. She urged him on, tugging it free, tossing it aside. His hands were back on her and then he was kissing her neck, his lips were moving down, taking her nipples into his mouth, his tongue flicking over them.
Be in the moment, she told herself, leaning against the cabinet as heat rose within her. She couldn’t remain in control and let those feelings continue to grow. She had to take the risk.
His hands slid lower, brushing over her stomach as he kissed her again. The room seemed to grow darker, shrinking away as the only sensation she registered was need.
The waistband of her pyjamas was loose enough for his fingers to slip inside. Between her legs was a burning need, a dark feeling that terrified and excited her in equal measure. This is it, she thought. This would be the moment of truth, the moment where she would find out how damaged she was. Could she let go for long enough to enjoy the moment?
His hand slid down between her legs as he whispered, "You're beautiful."
She shoved him away with such force that he hit the wall behind him. She opened her mouth to apologise, seeing the look of shock on his face. But nothing came out. The clouds opened and her eyes began to leak tears, great wracking sobs that made her chest shake. She fought for breath, gasping for air as she sank onto the bed, her hands tightly pressed
across her chest.
Ben looked at her from across the room and she had her answer. She was damaged beyond repair.
THIRTY-NINE
Timothy knew about Martha’s pain. He had similarly suffered over the years since the fire, running over and over the scenarios that didn’t play out. Was there a way he could have saved them all? Should he have worked out what was happening earlier? Could he have stopped Samuel?
His way of handling the pain was different from Martha’s. He had written down what had happened to him in two places, each with their own variations. On his computer, he had written a diary of sorts, as clinical as he could manage. He had begun his diary long before investing in the care home but it had been a sporadic endeavour, entries coming in a blur when the mood took him, several hundred words per day. Then there would be gaps when he wrote nothing at all for weeks or months on end before the urge took him once more.
The entries became regular after the fire, detailing his attempts to understand what had happened combined with the knowledge he had gained from studying the contemporaneous reports published in the aftermath.
He kept a second diary and that wasn’t where he left it. He had left it in the bedroom of the holiday cottage before informing Jenny that he was going out for a walk. He had left her alone in the house with some qualms but had decided, based on some instinctive desire deep within him, that he needed to check on Martha, something had niggled at him for some time that she was in trouble and he was finally unable to ignore the feeling. He told Jenny he wouldn’t be long.
She had replied that her books would keep her occupied for as long as he was gone. They did at first. She had gone to the bathroom upstairs ten minutes after he left and as she stepped out onto the landing she heard a noise outside. She walked into his room and around his bed, peering out through the window and finding herself face to face with an inquisitive looking barn owl perched on the windowsill outside. She froze in place as it stared at her imperiously. Holding her breath, she watched it in silence until it suddenly swept its wings apart and took off into the dying light of the late evening.
She walked backwards a step before turning and that motion was enough for her heel to catch the edge of the bed and jolt it slightly. Turning towards the door, she noticed something sticking out from under her Granddad’s pillow. It was a book.
Curious as to what it might it, she never thought that perhaps it might be there to remain hidden from view. She was just intrigued as to what it was. Picking it up, she found herself looking at Timothy’s second diary, one that recorded in vivid detail his thoughts and feelings.
Flicking through the pages, she felt as if she was invading his privacy and a wave of guilt washed over her. She was about to put the book back when a name caught her eye. It was her mother’s name.
She paused, wanting to return the diary to its home but unable to, unable to stop herself from reading. She stood in the bedroom with her eyes scanning the page, oblivious to the opening of the door downstairs.
She read with a growing sense of disbelief, turning back through the pages, each paragraph making her want to know more, making her need to know more.
I tried to atone for what happened. Cathy told me not to but I ignored her. I visited and the sight of her bandages burned me deeper than the flames of the inferno. I was in the same hospital and was able, though it took some time, to find out where she was being kept.
Jenny flicked back through the pages, reading on, not hearing the door to the holiday cottage closing quietly.
He tried to justify what he’d done when I found him in there. Sitting there with them, her half naked, blood running down her back, tears on her cheeks and he tried to justify it. Even thinking about it makes my blood boil. Told me she loved it, told me it was her choice, her way of showing her devotion to him, her atonement for her sins, for his sins, for those of all of mankind. Did his best to convince me he was right. All the while they sat there and me barely able to believe what I was seeing. I tried to help but he was stronger than me, shoved me out of the room, locking the door.
I only went in there to find the old figures for the audit. He locked me out. I can’t begin to describe how it felt to hear that door lock. I had a key but he’d snapped his end in the lock.
I should have broken it down. I shouldn’t have gone for help. By the time I got back, the smoke was already filling the corridor and the door was red hot to the touch. I thought I had time. He had said he’d three days to prepare them for what he had planned, for the comet. I thought it was the ramblings of a madman. He’d flipped. He was always an eccentric one but I had no idea, not a single clue of what he was really up to.
Jenny paused. She’d heard something. “Granddad?” she shouted. There was no answer. Just the wind, she thought, returning to the page.
FORTY
Jenny didn’t stop reading until it was too late. She had been drawn into the words, skimming over the paragraphs too convoluted for her to understand.
The more I think about it, the more obvious it becomes. Why else start the fire there? What purpose could it serve? The room he was in was far too close to the main corridor, the risk of getting caught with them was too high for a cautious man. And he was a cautious man, despite his madness. He had managed to keep what he did quiet, had been able to keep five of them from telling for months.
He could only have done it for one reason. He would have known that the fire would burn that hot, that the chemicals would take, that the fumes would mean it took longer to bring under control. The extreme heat burned the body beyond recognition. I learned a bit about magic in my younger days, bait and switch. Keep the focus on one hand while the other does all the work out of sight. He knew. He bloody knew that they’d see a body in there and they’d be so busy sorting out the dead and being happy that he had burned up that none of them would give much thought to the idea that it might be someone else.
I know what he did. It’s so obvious now. He hid a body in the store. There’s a dead space behind the room that hasn’t been used for years. He was always in and out with that laundry cart, gathering cleaning stuff, refilling the shelves. It would have been no work at all to load a body into the cart around the back, where no one bothered to go. Put his car there, load the body in the cart, dump it in the dead space. Then when he was sure all the attention was on one hand, make the other hand do the work. Get the body out, leave it with the burning girls. If I’d been able to get back in there, I might even have seen him do it but by the time I got Martha and Lisa out, the flames were too strong, the smoke too black and choking. I still tried, though they held me back and stopped me going in. They should have let me. I might have died but at least I’d have seen the truth, I’d have known for sure what I’m now certain is the case. He didn’t die in there, he’s still out there somewhere, waiting to finish his twisted game.
Jenny flicked forwards a couple of pages, not hearing the creak of a footstep on the stairs behind her.
Human sacrifice. He was more insane than I thought. To tell them that, expecting them to be happy to help him, to want to be offered. I looked up what I could, getting more than a few odd looks at the library as I gathered up everything they had on cults. From what I can tell, combined with what he said, it must be done when the comet is nearest to earth. It’s hard to believe he can seriously think this shit could be true.
The Gods live on the Churymov comet. You’d think that he might ponder on those words, on the madness of them. But nope, he takes them as Gospel, as the Truth. He was going to sacrifice them to a comet, burn them in the flames, according to Lisa. But something stopped him, something made him change his mind. Maybe he had second thoughts, maybe there is still some hint of a conscience somewhere in that warped mind of his. I suspect that once I’d got hold of Martha and dragged her out, that was what did it. Would he have needed the body if she'd died like he planned? Would he still have tried to escape? Was he perhaps not as certain as he’d claimed? Is it even worth trying to u
nderstand the mind of someone like that?
I remember an aunt of mine, back when I was sixteen. June Riverson. She got hit by a car and the damage to her brain was fairly extensive. She was never the same afterwards. She only lived another year but in that time she changed completely. She was the only person I could compare him to. She spoke of God living in her bedroom, making her cut herself. But she wept when she talked about it, as if she knew she was wrong. My mother told me she had become like a river, she wanted to stop the water running but she had no control over it. I didn’t get it at the time but the more I thought about it after she died, the more it made sense.
I get the feeling he thinks he’s more in control than he is. I think he’s scared. I think being scared makes him more dangerous, like a wounded animal. I think he’d have got on with June, his Gods on the comet and hers sitting on the chair next to her bed. I remember seeing her talking to him, moving her face as if he was standing up and walking from left to right. I can’t remember what she was talking about but I remember thinking it was funny. I was sixteen. I don’t think I took anything seriously then, apart from myself.
He ran because he lost the nerve at the last minute. I think he’ll come back. The books say the comet will be back in ten years. They also say the offering has to be made before the victim turns twenty-five. But the books said no one has carried out such a heinous act in centuries, that the cult has pretty much died out, that we are far more civilised now that the primitive people who believed such things to be true.
They didn’t die out. He believed in it. He learned about them from somewhere, I’d put money on it being in his family. A father, probably, drilling it into him, passing the knowledge down the generations.
