by Emmy Ellis
The other side was hard, and she tried to wrench her hand away, but he held her wrist steady, and she lost the battle of strength.
“It’s time to guess, Debbie. Speak.”
She didn’t have a clue. “A pebble?”
“Wrong.” His voice.
“Um…a piece of food?”
“Wrooooong.” The other voice.
“I…I don’t know.”
“Think!” His voice.
Scared now, she fought against his hold, but he seemed intent on keeping her hand above the thing she’d touched. His nails dug into the underside of her wrist, painful and sharp.
Just guess anything so this will stop.
“A dried-up meatball.” Stupid answer, but it had been the first thing to come to mind.
“Wrong. Again.” The other voice.
Confused as to why another person was in here—because there had to be, no way he could sound like that—she pouted at the unfairness of this. What was going on? Her plan had been ruined by this stupid game, and her future seemed uncertain, her dreams of them together splintering the longer she stayed there with him. If she could get out, go home, perhaps tomorrow they could start again, and everything would turn out as she’d envisaged.
“I’m going to let you see what you touched,” the other person said in that weird, whispery cadence. “Wait a moment.”
He let go of her wrist, and she immediately brought it up to her chest to rub it with her other hand. Hot, the skin itched, and she’d swear he’d taken off the top layer. It hurt the same way as when she’d held her arm over the steam coming out of the kettle spout for a dare. See how long you can take the pain. The person with the longest amount of seconds wins.
Something was being moved. The slightest of noises, a scraping so faint she wasn’t sure she was even hearing right.
“All my little prizes in a row,” the other person said.
What’s she on about? And who is she anyway?
That lost feeling came, the one where her mind told her to make sense of this, to find a logical explanation, her heart whispering for Mum, saying sorry for getting annoyed at her when she’d made the joke about the cups of tea. Debbie hadn’t called out and said goodbye when she’d left, still too angry to give them the time of day, but now she wished she had, just so she’d heard: Love you, Deb! Stay safe!
Love
You
Deb
Stay
Safe…
Was she safe now? She thought she was—overreacting was one of her strong points—but then she thought she wasn’t. This wasn’t a fun game, this Guess What, and as for there being three of them in his summer house, that hadn’t been what she’d expected. It was supposed to be only Debbie and him, spending the evening together, Debbie becoming a woman.
“There. Don’t you look nice?” the third party said.
Who is she speaking to? Me? And how can she see in the dark?
“You do look nice,” he said. “So pretty.”
Debbie frowned and backed away.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the woman asked.
“I…I need…”
“Don’t speak unless I say you can,” he said.
He gripped her wrist again, and God, it hurt, disinfectant on scraped knees, salt and vinegar crisps on an ulcer in your mouth.
“Back over here.” He guided her forward.
She tried to resist, to dig her feet right into the floor, but he was strong, and she slid, almost losing her balance.
“Stop being such a child,” he said.
“I told you not to bring her,” the woman said.
“I had to. She needs the lessons.”
Lessons? “I don’t want lessons anymore. I want to go home.” I want Mum, Dad, Squiggly. My God did she want Squiggly, his fur beneath her hands, his bacon tongue lolling when she threw him a stick in the field at the park.
A lump formed in her throat—it’s aching, aching so bad—and she couldn’t swallow it. Panicked, she struggled to breathe, her heart thrumming a wicked beat, super-fast, then so slow she counted several seconds between each one.
“Get ready,” he said.
The woman giggled.
He pushed Debbie’s head down so her chin touched something hard, cold. “This is exactly where you need to be.”
She closed her eyes. Scrunched them up.
“Don’t do that. You need to see,” he said.
A light had switched on; the insides of her eyelids flared pink. Still she kept her eyes closed, instinct telling her she didn’t want to see, shouldn’t see.
“Open. Them.” He was angry.
She didn’t want him to be angry.
Slowly, she cracked one eye open, just a slit. It took a moment for her mind to register what was in front of her, that the item was so close it almost brushed the ends of her false lashes. She widened both eyes then, blinking, blinking, lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks, and shook her head slightly, thinking: No. This isn’t real.
The ‘in a row’ comment came back to her, and she fully accepted that, side by side, four fingertips and a thumb sat on a metal table, the scratches on the stainless steel thin as a wisp and numerous, overlapping, criss-crossed. She yanked her head up, ripped her hand out of his hold, and backed away one step, two steps, bumping into someone behind, struggling not to scream. She stared ahead, to each side and, seeing no one, spun to face whoever blocked her reversal.
She gasped, hand automatically flying to her mouth, her heart threatening to give out, burst, her legs wobbling, nausea swarming into her stomach, a miasmic gas that shot out of her mouth in a great gust, flowing on the wings of terror.
Someone stood there, Dolly Parton hair, so yellow it had to be a wig—that smell, that was the smell, Barbie… Steampunk goggles covered the lady’s eyes, and Debbie vaguely acknowledged that was how this woman had seen in the dark. And the woman had facial hair, just like his, and it was weird and wrong and frightening and confusing. Debbie cried out, snapping her eyes this way and that in search of the door, but the room had steel walls, no apparent way to exit.
How did we get in then? How am I even here?
The woman lowered the goggles, and they dangled around her neck on a thick black strap. “Do you want to go home, Debbie?” she asked in his voice.
Should she speak? Keep quiet? Survival instinct kicked in. “Yes. Yes. Please, let me go home.”
The woman smiled, showing his teeth, a row of porcelain, each top arch the same shape as the M logo for McDonald’s. “What do you think, sister?” His voice.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Her voice. “She needs to go.”
Go? Yes, she needed to go. “Please, yes, let me go.”
“But you’re not going anywhere,” the woman said.
Muddled, her mind spinning, Debbie lost it and ran to the left, to where she thought they’d come in. She slapped the wall, screaming, crying for Mum, asking God, her nan in Heaven, for anyone, someone to help her.
Then the vague shape of someone standing in the corner loomed fuzzy in her peripheral, and she glanced at it—someone bald, someone with strange shiny skin—and she screamed so hard her throat hurt.
“Nasty noise, soooo nasty,” the woman said in her ear from behind.
A sharp pain jabbed Debbie’s shoulder, shutting her up mid-wail, and she turned her head to look at it. A syringe sat there, then a thumb appeared in Debbie’s line of vision and pressed the plunger.
For a second or two, Debbie stared, thinking absolutely nothing, shock emptying her head. Then she screamed again, her body numbing, a wave of lethargy swamping her muscles, her bladder emptying, urine slithering down her legs and into her Converses.
Then she slumped to the floor.
TWENTY
She’s on the floor in a heap, lying in her own piss. Stupid mare. Filthy tart. She forced me to do that, to shut her up with the syringe. Her voice was too much. My sister didn’t like it. Now I’m going to have to wait an ho
ur or two—three, four, I don’t bloody know—before I can teach her some lessons. That isn’t how I thought things would pan out, but you can’t predict everything, can you?
I take my sister’s hair off and step to the mannequin in the corner, placing it on the head. Using the brush off the nearby shelf, I groom the strands until they’re nice and tidy. I hang my goggles on the mannequin’s wrist then contemplate how to spend the time before Debbie wakes.
While I undress the mannequin, I think about the things on the table.
I don’t believe Debbie truly appreciated what I was showing her. Ungrateful bitch, typical teenager. It took effort to chop that prosser’s fingertips and thumb off, and all Debbie could do was walk backwards as though desperate to get away from them.
Rude.
She’s going to be hard work, I can see that now, and I wish I hadn’t invited her here to my special place. It’s too late to send her home; this has gone too far for that, and she’s seen too much. That’s an inconvenience, but nothing I can’t fix.
I bundle the mannequin’s clothes up and pop them into a drawer of a filing cabinet beside my desk. Then I take out the syringe, toss it away, and peel Debbie’s jacket off her, the trashy, supposedly sexy red dress that is anything but, and the wet shoes. I stare at her underwear, at the black knickers with a red ribbon bow at the side, and the black bra, a red rose between the cups. I remove them, and as I turn to carry the clothing to the mannequin, something drops to the floor with a dull thwack.
What the fuck is that?
I crouch, pick it up, hold it in my palm. It’s one of those chicken fillet things, the kind women wear so it appears they’ve got bigger tits. I look at Debbie’s—small, immature bumps—and agree that yes, she needs the fake boost in those inside pockets of her bra.
Heat rushes to my face, anger asking to come and live inside me, and I let it in, my guest forging through my veins, propelling me to stand and decorate the mannequin with Debbie’s clothing, giblets and all. Her phone is in the pocket of her jacket, and I lay it in the mannequin’s upturned hand, its arm raised in supplication. Then I drag Debbie to my metal table, lifting her slight frame and placing her in the centre, the hacked-off fingertips and thumb resting between her legs.
I put a couple of things on her.
One is pretty. One isn’t.
The table has poles at each corner that reach to the ceiling, and I tie Debbie’s wrists and ankles to it—she’s not going any-fucking-where.
I stare at her, the scent of drying piss getting a tad ripe. Not exactly something you want to smell of an evening, is it. She was my type once, someone I was praying to turn sixteen, but things are different now, and she won’t ever be sixteen. Always young, her gravestone will probably say, gone too soon, forever in our hearts.
Forever a hair-sucking pain up my arse.
I sit on the edge of the table, mulling over the memory of her arriving here earlier. I’d been watching the street to make sure no one was about. She’d run up the path. When I’d opened my front door, she’d pressed herself into the dark corner of my front porch. I doubt very much anyone saw her, but you can’t be too careful, can you. All it takes is someone putting a rubbish bag in their wheelie bin out the front, hearing footsteps and seeing her trotting along.
I can’t think about that now.
A ringing has me jumping, edgy, off-kilter. It’s coming from the corner, so I go over there and, bugger me, it’s Debbie’s phone. The screen is alight, and a dark strip across the centre has writing on it: ALARM. GO HOME.
Well, this could be a bit awkward, couldn’t it.
I swipe across the strip, silencing the racket, and consider how long it’ll be before her parents start panicking when she doesn’t turn up. An hour? Two?
My stomach rumbles—all that hard work has got me hungry—so I collect the steel panel remote from the wall shelf beside where the door hides. I press a button to open the panel, then I’m through the doorway, stepping outside into the crisp air, thankful it smells clean and not like some kitten’s litter tray like it does in the den. I secure my little hideaway, press the CLOSE button on the remote. The hum and shuffle of the panel easing into place eases my nerves a bit.
If she wakes and screams, no one will hear her.
Sorted.
TWENTY-ONE
Charlotte roused to the blare of a phone ringing. Groggy, she fumbled for the lamp on the bedside table and couldn’t find it. She frowned, propped herself on her elbow, and patted for the lamp base, eyes still closed. The phone trilled on, so she opened her eyes, realising it was hers, the screen light casting a rectangular blue beam upwards, illuminating the bedside cabinet a little, showing there wasn’t a lamp because this wasn’t her bedroom, it was Kane’s spare.
Dread poured into her. The only people who had her phone number were Jez and Henry.
Should she answer it or go and find Kane?
Kane had said, after she’d declared she was knackered and needed her bed—in reality, she’d wanted to be alone—he was tired, too, and hoped he’d sleep right through until morning.
She glanced at the clock on the other bedside cabinet. Just after midnight.
No, she wouldn’t wake him.
The ringing stopped, and she blew out a shaky breath, her neck throbbing at the pulse point. With Jez out of the nick, it was bound to be him contacting her. She was surprised he’d left it this long, though. Or maybe he didn’t even miss her. It wasn’t like he’d seen her much when she’d lived there.
Her phone screen went black. She sighed, hands sweating, chills sweeping over her. She imagined he’d be angry she hadn’t answered—he’d never stop to think her phone might have been taken away for her safety by the police, to fit with Kane’s cover story, monitoring any calls in case the fictious note-writing killer tried to get hold of her.
She settled back in bed, wide awake now—fright was a sod for doing that—and stared into the darkness. Then she closed her eyes, thinking if she breathed deep and listened to the sound of the air sawing in and out of her, she’d fall asleep.
A rattle had her eyes springing open, and she stifled a scream by shoving her fist to her mouth, biting on the knuckles. What the hell was that?
It came again, to her left, and she swivelled her head to face the window. Then a single ping, another then another, followed by a scattering noise, stone or gravel falling and hitting concrete, and she knew what it was.
Someone throwing stones at the window.
Fuck…
She got up, her legs seeming hollow, and managed to slip-slide to the window over the laminate flooring, her fluffy bed socks easing her way. She stood to the side and moved the curtain across an inch or so and peered out. It was murky, the high hedge creating more darkness than there would be had it not been there, but she made out a face, a hovering oval in the blackness, as if it didn’t have a body attached.
She shivered, dropped the curtain, and backed away.
She should wake Kane.
At the door, she pressed the handle down.
Her phone rang again.
“Oh God. Oh God…” she whispered. “Go away. Please, just leave me alone.”
The person in the front garden coupled with Jez ringing her was too much, mental overload, and she dashed to the bed, throwing herself under the covers, a little girl again, hiding beneath the quilt, the cover protecting her from the bogeyman.
The ringing went on and on, and if she didn’t shut it up, it would get Kane up. She stretched her hand out from beneath her tent and slapped about for her mobile. In her hand, it vibrated, the sensation bringing the ridiculous thought to mind that his badness was in that vibration, touching her, burrowing through her skin to infect her inside. Bringing the phone into her hideaway, she stared at the screen with JEZ on a blue stripe and his image underneath.
The sight of him had her retching.
She took a deep breath.
Pressed the ACCEPT CALL button.
Held the
phone to her ear.
“I know where you are, Char,” he said.
And his voice, his tone, it sent a spiral of nausea through her. She let out an involuntary whimper, and he laughed in two places at once—in her ear and faintly somewhere else…outside…outside in the front garden?
Her stomach rolled over.
How the hell had he worked out where she was? Was the taxi driver one of his mates or something? Fuck, she should have had him drop her in the next street instead.
“I told you, Char, I’ll always find you.”
The relative safety of the past twenty-four hours melted away, ice in the sun, creating a puddle of regret. She wanted to shout at him, to tell him to fuck the hell off, and she would have had he not been outside. She’d known, when she’d been at the window, that the hovering face was his, but she’d refused to entertain it as anything that could be real.
“You need to go home,” she whispered. “You could lead the killer to me.”
That sounded stupid—like Jez would be worried about a killer, for God’s sake—but it was all she could come up with.
“And the police are here with me,” she said. “If they know you’re here…”
“I don’t give a fiddler’s fuck, love. Outside. Now.”
“I can’t. I’m not allowed.” Her throat threatened to close, unshed tears not far away, and she swallowed—dry, so dry—and swiped a hand over her cheek. Tears she hadn’t realised were there dampened her palm.
“If you don’t come out, I’m going to your mum’s.”
Bastard. You’re such a bastard.
Was it just a threat? Could she risk it?
“I need to get dressed,” she said. It would give her some time to think.
“Don’t take too long about it. Five minutes, then I’m off to your mother’s.”
The call ended.
She shoved the quilt off her, too hot now, adrenaline slinking into her system, slowly at first, then racing around. She got up and ran for the door, yanking it back and flying out onto the landing. With no idea which room was Kane’s, she peered into each one as she passed. All were empty so far, and at the last one, she stared at a bed with rumpled sheets.
