Honest

by Ava Bloomfield

  ‘What?’ her lips mouthed, though the wind carried her voice away.

  I was pumped with sudden adrenaline; felt suddenly, fiercely adamant that she couldn’t escape and leave me all alone. I was afraid, like a woman trapped inside a well, desperately peering at the single shard of light visible through the cracks.

  I didn’t know what to say, or where to start. There was a corpse upstairs, and I was sure that soon there’d be one in this chair, one way or another. I’d felt the compulsion to escape before. But lately, now that I’d begun to accept my relationship with my father as a partnership of sorts, that compulsion had died and left a mute acceptance.

  But now, with hope just meters in front of me, like the last burst of adrenaline before the body gives up its life, that compulsion awoke in me for one last shot.

  My fingers grasped the collar of my T–shirt and tugged, revealing my knobbly breast plate, bruised and sore from all the knocks I’d taken. I pleaded with my eyes, hoping she’d understand; just praying she’d get the message.

  My father mightn’t have caused these physical wounds, but that didn’t make them less present inside. She could do something, surely, anything. We could be like those victims on This Morning, reaching out to each other, telling each other’s stories as if it were our own...

  Her eyes focused on my chapped lips as I mouthed the only words that came to mind. Help me.

  They glazed over, the moisture glistening under the street light, but I couldn’t be sure she’d understood me. I mouthed the words again, and I saw that flash of light in them once more. She dipped her head and hurried out of sight, leaving me shivering in the doorway. There was a creaking sound as my father rose from his chair in the kitchen.

  In my mind a collapsed lid creaked, prized open by the head of a shovel.

  ‘I thought you were going to get rid of her quickly?’ Dad said behind me, placing an icy hand on my shoulder. I gave the door a shove and let it slam closed, shutting out the wind and all beyond it. If Peter’s shadow was still walking up that hill, I couldn’t see it from here.

  ‘She’s gone now,’ I said, my heart sinking, my eyes fixed on the closed front door. I clawed at my bleached hair and shrugged his hand away.

  They’re all gone. Everybody is gone because of me.

  ‘Hey! Hey,’ said dad, coming around the front of my chair to look at me. He gripped the arms and crouched down low. He smelled of coppery old blood shrouded in a guise of disinfectant, and around his bitten–down nails I spied traces of the stuff embedded between the cracks. ‘Don’t shrug me off. We’re in this together, remember? She’s gone now. Now it’s just the two of us, the way it should be.’

  I looked at his pale, gaunt face and his sagging blue eyes. ‘I’m a murderer, aren’t I dad?’

  He stroked my cheek, bringing the unbearable smells closer to my nose. I winced and closed my eyes, blocking it all out. In my mind the coffin lid creaked open again.

  ‘No, no,’ he said, soothing, keeping his voice light and calm. ‘You just did what you had to do. And now, like any good dad would do for his little girl, I’m tidying the mess up for you. Hm? Doesn’t that make sense?’

  It was hopeless thinking otherwise. My last hope had just gone down the road in her dead ex–boyfriend’s coat.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. It was a little comforting, and true. I’d only done what any woman in my position would do — defend herself any way she could. And besides, I’d read about these situations all the time in my magazines; fathers always looked out for their daughters. A maxed—out credit card, an unpaid loan, a bad boyfriend...

  Dad had always treated me like his special little girl, and I’d always resented it. I supposed it was inevitable that there would come a day, like today, when I’d need him to help me. We were equals now, like he’d said; both adults, as well as father and daughter. We were just two people living our lives now. It was everybody else who spoiled it.

  I waited in the living room until dad had finished re–laying the flooring, and once he was done he made me a brimming hot chocolate, which I left to stew on the coffee table until it grew a slimy skin on top.

  Around 1am, he laid blankets and sheets on the sofa — I refused to sleep upstairs— and I lay awake for hours while he sat in the armchair and watched me through the darkness. He didn’t want to be upstairs either.

  By 1:30am, the Police were hammering on our door.

  Bleary–eyed, I leaned on an elbow and peered out into the hallway where dad was already positioned, hanging out of the kitchen door, before ducking back inside when the letterbox flapped open.

  ‘It’s the police. Let us in or we’ll let ourselves in. Come on and cooperate.’ the letterbox flapped closed and the hammering on the door continued. I could make out two, maybe three high–vis jackets through the slim lengths of frosted glass.

  I swallowed a burning shot of bile as it came up my throat. Who had called them here? Lauren?

  Rapidly, I recapped everything that had happened earlier. I told her David had been here, and that he’d tried to rape me, and then I’d shown her my bruises.

  Then I’d said, help me.

  And so she’d called the police. Suddenly I realised how stupid I’d been. She wasn’t interested in what had happened between myself and my own father — she was preoccupied with David. She thought he was still here, hiding, doing damage.

  She knew he was still here, more like. But had she guessed that I wasn’t the only damaged one?

  Did she suspect he’d been worse off? Perhaps she thought that my father, my creepy father, wouldn’t have let David leave the house if he’d known that he was going to rape me.

  And now the police had that conclusion too. They had a missing person and I’d led them right here — practically opened the door for them.

  I knew there was some part of me that wanted an escape, no matter what the cost; just like three years ago when my haste had cost Peter his life. I’d needed a way out, and now it was here in policemen’s uniforms.

  But what use was it? I’d wanted Lauren’s help, not theirs. I’d just wanted a friend.

  None of it seemed like a good idea now, escape or no. I couldn’t trust the police when I couldn’t even trust myself.

  ‘Dad,’ I hissed.

  ‘Sshh,’ he said.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  Dad crouched down low, avoiding the light that fell through the frosted glass from the orange street lamp outside. He crawled on his hands and knees towards me, and flinched repeatedly as a policeman banged his fist against the door.

  ‘They must suspect,’ he said. ‘It’s too late. We should’ve hidden the evidence. We should’ve burned this place down.’

  ‘We can do this, dad, please,’ I said, shaking all over, my feet still tangled in the sheets. ‘Just go to the door and tell them...tell them...’

  ‘That my little girl is a murderer?’

  I sucked in a sharp breath. ‘But you said—’

  ‘I know what I said.’ Dad’s eyes narrowed and penetrated the darkness of the living room, the whites of his eyes almost glowing. ‘And I also remember a time when you were just my little girl, no trouble, no fuss—’

  ‘No voice.’ I hitched myself up and stared back at him. ‘I remember when I had a mother and a father, not a runaway slut and a child molester.’

  His hand shot out and caught the side of my face; it burned red hot instantly. ‘Now I’ve had enough of your filth,’ he said through gritted teeth. I caught the strong smell of whiskey on his breath. He must have been helping himself while he laid the flooring, dulling the fear. ‘I’m sick of pandering to you. Look where it’s got us.’

  I hunched up, cupping my face. There I’d been, feeling as if I’d gained some control back in my life against this pathetic monster I called a father, and here he was upping the ante. I drew my hand from my face and made to grab a fistful of his hair, just to show him who was boss — that’s right, weak little cripple girl— when he snatched my
wrist and squeezed, forcing me back down onto the cushion.

  ‘You shut up. This is serious.’ He glanced up over the sofa, his eyes widening. ‘They’re going to break in the door.’

  ‘Well then fix it, for Christ’s sake,’ I said, my head crooked awkwardly against the seat cushion. I wriggled my hand free and stroked my wrist. As I lay there, listening to my father’s inane mumbling, an odd sense of calm came over me. I laid the facts straight in my mind: the police were here, we had a body upstairs, and I hated my life.

  Was there really anything so terrible that could happen? They’d find David, yes, and they might question my past when they convicted me, but I’d only be moving from one prison to another — and at least behind bars, my body was my own. No possessors, no invaders — just myself.

  Except that was the problem. I belonged here, with Peter, whichever form he took. And as I sighed and helped myself up into a seated position again I realised, quite simply, that the fate in store for me was neither here nor there. I had no friends to impress, nobody to trust...But I’d been content, delighted, even, to be back here; back to the only place I’d ever felt loved and desired, and cherished like a real woman.

  It was just a shame I’d gone and spoiled it all. And now I’d spoiled it again.

  ‘You’re sounding ever so calm, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘You won’t be so calm if they come barging in and find out what you’ve done.’

  I blinked. Sudden clarity came over me in a wave, making me smile. My knee throbbed dully, the ache worsening as my attention became more focused. I was a disabled girl with a history of tragedy. How could I have killed a man nearly fix feet tall, when I was confined to my wheelchair most of the time?

  I wouldn’t have believed I’d managed it, if it hadn’t been for the fact that I knew who really was to blame; the boy who saved me and brought out the strength in me, as he always had. My beloved Peter.

  ‘You mean when they find out what you’ve done,’ I said, smiling. It was the first true smile I’d had in ages, and I savoured it, letting the goodness swell in my gut.

  Dad’s lips parted, but only a guttural sound came out. Then he grabbed my wrist again, and looked startled when what came from my lips was not a cry, but laughter.

  ‘I’ve just realised it, but they’d never believe it was me. I bet I could confess the lot and they’d never find any proof, not when you’ve cleared up all the evidence for me. Go on, Dad, grip tighter — give them more reason to pity me,’ I said, twisting my own wrist in his grip, revelling in the pain.

  It was occurring to me then that I’d lived my entire life in fear of one thing or another. What purpose did my life have, if not to be afraid of something all the time?

  This was nothing, nothing at all. I could be rid of dad, David, everything; and everything I’d really wanted could be mine. I could dye my hair blonde and read Cosmo all day long. I could visit Peter in his soft coffin, and make an appearance on This Morning where the whole world would watch me, captivated, remarking on what an amazing girl I must be; what astounding strength I must have.

  I mightn’t have the cottage, or Peter’s hill. But I’d still have him where it counted, and Peter would still have me. He would always have me, and I knew now that wherever I would go, he would follow.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ dad said, but the fear was in his eyes. A loud crack came from the front door, followed by the sounds of policemen shouting, moving, preparing to enter the house.

  Dad looked from the door to me, panicking. ‘I won’t let you ruin us,’ he said, his voice shaking, the alcohol on his breath reeking. Then he was tugging me, and soon lifting me from the sofa with ease, while I wriggled and screamed like a little girl.

  I scraped my face against the sharp stubble on his neck, and felt his nails digging into the flesh of my thighs and back as he hoisted me over his shoulder. He hurried, ducking into the kitchen to snatch a bottle from the table, before struggling into the hall and upstairs with me.

  He couldn’t have carried David — and he wouldn’t have wanted to haul that lifeless lump over his shoulder even if he could — but I was small, and bony, and fragile as a paper doll. It was easy.

  He had left his decorating ladder beneath the attic, the place where David lay. He was shoving me up the ladder from behind when the front door burst open downstairs. Dad gripped my legs and pushed me, giving me no choice but to grasp the rudders and shove open the trap door.

  Before I could even shimmy around he was beneath me, forcing me through, crawling into the space behind me before kicking the ladder away. I caught a glimpse of a high–vis jacket and heard the commotion of the police as, panting, dad replaced door and shut us off.

  The attic was stiflingly hot and dark, and I clawed my way around, eager just to get away from dad. I froze when I blindly felt my way to the narrow, slanted corner of the attic and found myself nudging a familiar form wrapped in plastic. It made a rustling sound as I bumped it, even slumping against me.

  I screamed and shimmied back, finding myself atop the trap door we’d entered through. In the darkness I heard my father muttering rapidly, rushing about, searching for something. When he found it, I heard him give a groan of relief.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I whispered, shaking, blocking out the sounds of the police down below. They were calling out to us. I could hear the ladder rattling as they picked it up, adjusting it under the opening, ready to climb up.

  ‘We’re in this together, and we’re going out together, princess,’ said dad from somewhere in the attic. ‘I want you to trust daddy, all right? He loves you. Be brave.’

  There was a loud smash, followed by a scraping and a sound like whumf, when suddenly dad’s face was lit up before me. His eyes were mad under the shadows cast by the match he’d struck. At his feet was a kind of flossy stuffing pulled from an old mattress, and all around him was shattered glass in a pool of ever–spreading liquid, reaching my toes.

  ‘No!’ I shrieked, clawing around the door for the seam to free myself, even if it meant falling into the hall below. ‘Dad, for god’s sake don’t do it, we’ll burn to death, we’ll—’

  I screamed as he cast the match onto the fabric soaked in alcohol. Immediately it erupted into hypnotic blue flames, cloaking us in its heat, before bursting into an orange inferno.

  Chapter Twenty–Four

  My father was obscured by the raging flames as quickly as he’d been illuminated, and as I screamed I found myself choking on the billowing clouds of black smoke. Screaming, I thumped on the trap door, feeling it nudge as the police below responded with a hard shove. I needed to get off, and fast, if I wanted to get out of there alive.

  I shuffled off the door, knocking against David’s body once more. This time it was infinitely worse as, while the flames consumed the mattress and hissed along the alcohol trail, the plastic bags he was wrapped in melted against my skin. I tore my arm away and black, stringy lengths of molten bin–bag came with it. I wretched, choking up the smoke I inhaled.

  I had almost shaken off David’s melting form when my dad started screaming.

  I turned my head this way and that, unsure of which direction I was even facing now. I could just see him over the licking head of the flames, flailing wildly, smashing himself about the place. His shirt and hair were on fire.

  ‘Dad!’ I screamed. I was stuck, trapped behind the inferno. For the first time since I was a child, I looked upon my shrieking, burning father and could only think exactly that — the fact he was my father. Daddy. He was dying.

  There was no time to cry, or scream, for moments later I heard the thud as he fell to the floor, and I was forced to cover my head with my T–shirt to block out the smoke. I couldn’t see him now, and I was blinded by the flames regardless.

  The heat, though — the heat was intense, smothering, suffocating. It was like nothing I’d felt before, and nothing I could ever forget. I was sure if I didn’t burn to death then the heat would strangle me, wrapping its
impossible magma hands around my head.

  Sobbing under my T–shirt, I crawled blindly toward the sound of the trap door as the police smashed it open. I felt the wood bash my knee as it was thrown aside, so I shuffled towards it, holding my breath, stretching out an arm to feel my way.

  I could hear shouts and the sounds of retreat as the smoke billowed out through the opening, and momentarily I could see. Beside me, David’s body was a pool of black, melting plastic, as if he were made entirely of the stuff, like a sticky piece of liquorice. I launched myself toward the trap door, as near as I could, and shrieked as my bad leg was dragged through a sizzling hot pool of fiery alcohol. I slapped it profusely, yelling, my skin erupting in blisters, when finally I tugged the T–shirt off my head, bundled it and slapped out the flames.

  I could hear something; a hoarse voice calling for me. ‘Ellen!’ it was shouting, its voice splitting into a gravelly, unrecognisable shriek, like the sounds from a dying animal. I knew at once it had to be my father, and he needed me.

  Yet, just ahead, behind the black smoke and flames that had crawled so high they licked the ceiling, was the opening down into the hall.

  I dragged myself blindly towards it, all the while the voice of my father bleating my name, getting louder, more insistent, desperate, until it became a persistent, gargling scream: ELLEN ELLEN ELLEN!

  I felt my way along the floor with my hands. The skin of my leg was screaming with agony, the nerve endings scorched, my flesh bubbling at the hottest part, but still I crawled forward, towards that square of light.

  When suddenly I felt nothing beneath my hands, it was too late to stop going. Desperate to keep alive, my mind focused on my escape, ignoring dad’s wailing. I was numb and burned, my taught skin sleek with sweat, the hair plastered to my forehead. I limped into the opening and plummeted with a hard thump onto the landing below, my head cracking against the knob of the banister as I fell.

  Cool fluid poured from a gash in my head, dripping blissfully over my nose as my stiff, sore eyelids blinked up at the smoking attic above me. I could hear shouting far away, and within moments a mask was thrust over my nose and mouth, though I continued to stare up at that black hole.