by Lee Moan
“You all right, love?” the taxi driver said.
Rachel nodded, shaking her head. “Yes. I won’t be long,” she said. “Keep the meter running.”
The driver threw her a look in his rearview mirror which said, You bet your ass I will, honey.
She held her clutch bag on top of her head and then jumped out of the car. Slamming the door behind her, she skipped up the path to the relative shelter of the door eave. She rang the doorbell and waited.
The door eventually opened and Cameron’s face appeared. He looked tired, pale. He managed a smile when he recognised it was her.
“Hey, Rach,” he said, opening the door wider. “Good to see you. Thought you’d left already.”
She stepped into the warmth of the hallway and shook off most of the rain from her overcoat. “How is she?” she asked.
Cameron shook his head in disbelief. “Hanging in there. I don’t know where she gets the willpower.”
“Is she awake now?”
“Yeah. She’s been sleeping most of the day, but I’ve just given her a bed bath and she’s talking like her old self.”
Rachel walked into the bedroom, that cloying scent of piss and perfume and sterile things filling her now with a melancholic feeling. Cynthia’s pearl grey eyes found her instantly, and a polite smile creased the lines in her face.
“Hello, Cynthia,” Rachel said, approaching the bed and sitting down gently at the old woman’s side. “I wanted to see you, to say goodbye.”
Cynthia searched Rachel’s face for a moment. “Leaving?” she croaked. “Leaving the island?”
Unexpected tears sprang into Rachel’s eyes. Perhaps it was the sad expression on Cynthia’s worn face, or perhaps it was the stating of exactly what she was doing that brought it on. Whatever it was, she couldn’t hold back the tears which fell onto the crisp white sheets.
“It’s too painful for me to stay here, Cynthia,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Cynthia said. Her usually slack face became animated, eyebrows arched in mock anger. “Don’t you apologise for nothing, you silly girl,” she rasped. “You have done me a world of good. You may think we never had anything in common, but we do. At least, now we do. I’ve lost a son, you’ve lost a daughter.”
Rachel bowed her head.
“I can see in your eyes that you’ve lost hope. Lost hope in everything. And that’s no way to go on.”
“I lost my little girl, Cynthia, my baby. She was everything to me.”
“And your husband?” she said. “You’re going with him, aren’t you?”
Rachel shook her head.
“Oh, girl, why ever not?”
Rachel thought of Sam’s infidelity, of an already dying relationship, but decided against pouring all that out onto the shoulders of a dying woman. But she didn’t want to lie. Not now.
“My husband did something,” she whispered. “Something I can’t forgive.”
“What did he do? What could be so bad that you can’t forgive the man you love?”
Rachel was about to tell her, but Cameron stepped back into the room, and for some perverse reason, she didn’t want him to hear it. She shrugged.
“Where does this lack of forgiveness come from, my dear?” Cynthia said, her expression full of wonder. “How did you get to be so unforgiving?”
“My father,” she said, “was an alcoholic. On the rare occasions he was sober he was the best dad a girl could ever have. But when he drank . . . he was mean. Meaner than you could ever imagine. He was violent towards my mum, then as I grew older he would take it out on me, too. And every time I would pray that my mum would kick him out, tell him to go to hell, but every time he would apologise, say all the right things and convince her it would never happen again. But it did. He never stopped. Well, until the heart attack stopped him.” Rachel blinked back tears, the dark memories flashing across her mind. “That much forgiveness? It’s just something I can’t do.”
Cynthia shook her head slowly in admonishment. “But, Rachel, dear, where there are two people, there is always hope. Don’t you know that?”
Rachel shrugged. “I need to get away from this place, Cynthia. Everything about this island is death to me now.” She realised what she’d said, but it was too late to take the words back. She’d let down her professional guard once more. “Oh, Cynthia, I’m so sorry.”
Cynthia looked away, a misty glaze falling over her eyes. “He’s coming,” she whispered.
Rachel looked at her, eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”
“He’s coming.”
Rachel glanced round at Cameron, who shrugged. “Who, Cynthia?” she asked.
Cynthia looked her in the eye, the glare of madness flaring brightly, like a twin set of candles. “Who do you think?” she said. “My boy. My boy. He’s coming to see me.”
Rachel studied the woman’s features for a long time, undecided on which approach to take. The delirium had usurped her mind again. What good would it do to point out the awful truth?
Rachel smiled and patted Cynthia’s bony wrist. “Try and rest now,” she said.
Without warning, the lights winked out in the house. She gasped as they were plunged into total darkness. She looked out through the bay window and saw that the entire village and the Port were drowned in blackness.
“Oh my God,” she said.
In the silence which followed, the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock.
45
“Here they are,” Lily said, emerging from the room behind the bar with a handful of loose candles. “I always keep some for times like this. We used to have a lot of blackouts years back, didn't we, boys? Before they put the new power lines down.”
She handed them out to the bar customers. Sam took one, thumbed his Zippo and put the flame to the wick. McNamara lit his candle from Sam's, a wry smile on his face.
“Feels like I'm in church and it's the Easter Vigil.”
Lily approached the bay window, her candle raised. She squinted into the darkness. Thunder rumbled on the horizon.
“We haven't had a storm like this in years,” she said. “Looks like you boys were right.”
“Aye,” the fishermen said in unison. “Shame on you for doubting us, Lily Hartman,” Lionel said with a wink to his colleague. “I think a round of free drinks is in order.”
Before she could respond, a flash of lightning lit up the grassy area at the back of the pub. The old barmaid gasped and dropped the lit candle onto the carpet.
“Jesus, Lily!” Harry scalded, dropping to one knee and scooping up the candle. But Lily said nothing in response, seemed hardly aware of having dropped the candle at all. She was staring out into the pitch black at the rear of the house.
“Everything all right, Lily?” Lionel asked.
She said nothing, her hand clamped over her mouth.
Sam peered over her shoulder, searching the blackness outside. “Lily, what is it?”
“Someone’s out there,” Lily said in a hoarse whisper. “I saw . . .” She turned slowly and looked at Sam. “Sam, it was a little girl.”
“What?” Sam said.
“A little girl. Walking across the playing field. I swear.”
Sam decided to withhold any cynical questions until he’d had a good look himself, and so he stood there in absolute silence, staring into the night, waiting for the next crack of lightning. McNamara joined him, followed by the two fishermen. Time seemed to expand in the gloomy quiet.
“Lily, are you sure–”
Lightning flickered, flooding the world outside the window with light. Sam held his breath as the figure of a child appeared in the half-light, walking over the brow of the hill. The treacherous light was too ephemeral to gain a clear picture of the person, but it was definitely a girl. A little girl. She was walking away from the pub, but in that brief period of light, she turned her head to face the window. Her eyes were glowing orbs of silvery light. Then total darkness again.
&nbs
p; Sam felt a chill invade his body. McNamara was staring at him, but Sam couldn't meet the older man's gaze.
It looked so much like Becky, but that was insane. What the hell was happening here? Was he seeing ghosts now?
Thunder broke the silence with devastating force, and a lightning strike bigger than anything before lit up the night. Something exploded on the street at the front of the house. A crunching sound followed, glass shattering, then a car alarm.
Everyone ran to the front door and Sam yanked it open. Wind and rain lashed his face and he raised an arm for protection. A telegraph pole lay across the roof of an old Ford Escort, blinding sparks of white light flashing in the dark.
“Oh, bloody hell!” Lionel exclaimed. “My baby! I knew should have left her at home tonight.”
Another flash of lightning exploded above the Lighthouse Inn, blinding everyone momentarily.
“Mother of God,” McNamara said.
“Lionel?” Sam said. “Can I borrow your waterproofs?”
“What?” the old fisherman said. “Why?”
“Please?” Sam said with an insistent hand gesture.
“All right, young man,” Lionel said, taking off his weather-proof overcoat, and handing it to Sam. “I hope you're not thinking of doing anything stupid, son.”
“Actually, I think I am.” Sam pulled the coat on and raised the hood.
“Where are you going?” McNamara asked.
“To find that little girl,” Sam said. “She's out there in this storm. God knows why, but she's out there and someone has to find her.”
Before McNamara could say anything in response, Sam rushed off down the windswept street. Everyone looked at each other. The old priest raised his head and said a silent prayer, then pulled up the hood of his coat and followed him into the night.
46
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The force of the blows made Rachel flinch. From where she was sitting in the armchair in the bedroom she could see the front door bowing inwards with the impacts.
Cameron appeared at the far end of the hall, his face stricken with fear and alarm.
“Who the hell is that?” he shouted to Rachel.
Before she could answer him Cynthia sat bolt upright in the bed, her arms outstretched towards the front door, her eyes wide, piercing.
“It’s him! He’s here!”
Rachel grabbed the old woman’s shoulders and tried to wrestle her back down onto the bed but she fought back, fired by a previously absent strength.
“I told you he would come! I told you, didn’t I?” she screamed.
“Cynthia! Calm yourself!” Rachel yelled back.
Without warning the old woman’s open hand came up, connecting with Rachel’s cheek. The force sent her toppling backwards and onto the floor. Dazed, Rachel lay there on her back, staring up at this strangely animated cancer victim who looked to the hallway with all the zeal of a lover reuniting with her long-lost Romeo.
Cameron rushed down the hall, preparing himself for an encounter with who knew what.
Then the front door exploded inwards. Cameron’s body flew backwards against the hall wall, the impact leaving a shallow crater in the crumbling plaster. Horrified, Rachel watched Cameron’s body slump to the ground, unable to tell if he was unconscious or dead. But she had no time to wonder. A hulking figure stood in the empty door frame. All she could make out were two huge, deathly-white hands, clenching and unclenching. Then the figured stepped into the hall, bringing the lashing rain with it. After a momentary pause, the dark shape moved towards the bedroom, huge booted feet leaving shallow puddles on the hall carpet.
“My boy,” Cynthia Garrett was saying in a strange sing-song voice. “My boy, come to see me.”
Rachel realised that the she was lying in the stranger’s direct path and frantically scrambled round to the far side of the bed. She grabbed the leg of the armchair and cowered there, her eyes transfixed on the towering figure now standing on the threshold of the bedroom. The lack of light made it hard to make out the man’s features, but the pallor of his skin was unmistakable. It was bone-white, devoid of all life, a mask more than a face. The eyes were sunken deep into the brow, more whites than pupils. Then came the smell, hitting Rachel’s nostrils like a noxious gas. She clamped her hand over her mouth, more to stifle the rising scream in her throat than to protect herself from the stink. She wanted to scream because the smell, the stink of death, told her absolutely and unequivocally who the dark figure was, even before he spoke to the dying woman in the bed.
“Hello, Mother,” he said.
“Hello, Benjamin,” she whispered, and tears fell from the old woman’s eyes.
47
Scared. So scared.
What was that? Lightning. This rain is so heavy, but why can’t I feel anything? I don’t even feel cold. Why don’t I feel cold? Need to get to Mummy and Daddy’s house. Mummy will make me feel better. Mummy will make me feel warm again.
Oh God! What was that?
Thunder. Just thunder.
Which way is home? It’s so dark. The lightning will help. Come on, lightning. I’m not scared of you anymore. I need you now.
What happened to me? How did I end up in the doctor’s? Why did Mummy and Daddy leave me in the doctor’s all on my own? And that man. Who was he? I remember his face, but . . . how? Where have I seen him before?
What was I doing there with him?
Wait, why can’t I breathe? I’m not breathing. I can’t breathe! But I’m all right. Why am I all right?
Oh, Mummy. I’m scared. I’m trying to be brave but I’m not brave, I’m so scared.
I need you, Mummy. I need you.
48
The bed groaned as the giant lowered his huge frame onto the mattress.
Rachel watched the reunion with wide-eyed horror. She kept her hand over her nose and mouth as a defence against the rotting-meat stench that had pervaded the room. Then Rachel noticed the back of his skull was missing, exposing pale brain tissue to the air. Cynthia Garrett, inches from the abomination that had entered her home, seemed not to notice the smell. At least, she showed no signs of being affected by it. Her eyes were wide and glassy and clear, as lucid as she had been in weeks. But behind it, Rachel saw something not quite right, something that was bubbling just beneath the surface.
“Oh, Ben. It is you,” she whispered. “I waited so long for you to come to me, Ben. So, so long. I thought I would never see you again.”
The hulking figure remained silent, staring at the old woman through dark, cloudy eyes. Tiny halos of blue lightning skittered over his face and hands, discharging in the air with an audible snap.
“I wanted to tell those men, those people who kept you prisoner, that they were wrong to lock you away.” Tears filled Cynthia Garrett’s eyes, and she went on through a storm of emotion. “My boy was no monster. I wanted to tell them that you didn’t kill that girl. My son is no rapist. My son is no killer—”
“Mother,” the man replied, his voice a rumble in the darkness, the sound of sand falling on stone, “I am a killer. I am the man who raped those girls. I did throw that girl off the cliffs. And I am what I am because of you.”
Cynthia stared back at him, eyes wide with surprise. Her hand recoiled from his arm, touching her own lips absently.
“Because of me?” she whispered. “Ben, what do you mean?”
“Don’t you remember, Mother?” he said. “Don’t you remember the night on the beach?”
49
For years he had buried the memory like a rock in the earth, buried it so deep in his subconscious that for years his conscious mind had forgotten it even existed. But, like anything rotten which lies buried beneath the earth, eventually it putrefies and begins to infect the soil around it, eventually rising to the surface . . . one way or another. The memory had risen, slowly at first, like an animal rising from a long hibernation. Now, in this strange form of life he had been given, it sat in the front of his mind and there was no avoidi
ng it.
And it began like this . . .
The sun had sunk below the horizon, sapping all the heat from the world. The remaining partygoers drew around the fire which burned on the beach, drinking and laughing and playing adult games which the young Benjamin Garrett did not understand. He was only twelve, a lonely child in a world of adults. He sat on the periphery of the party for the entire evening, sipping from his bottle of Coke and watching his mother flirt like a whore with all the men at the party. If Dad had still been around, he thought, he’d have killed her. But then there wouldn’t have been a party like this. There had never been parties when Dad had been alive. His mother’s parties were in some way a celebration that the old man was dead. Ben hated that. His dad had been pretty hard on him when he was alive, but he was still his father and he missed him.
For most of the evening, his mother had ignored him. She was drunk-happy and lounging in the arms of a young fisherman. Lucian, or Lucan, or something. Big muscles and big, stupid, floppy hair. Ben had stayed out of her way, sitting on the sand beneath the jetty and drawing detailed pictures in the sand. He loved drawing. Drawing helped him forget about the unhappy things. He was thinking about going home to bed when a shadow fell over his sand-picture. When he looked up his heart skipped a beat.
