Shattered

by C. S. Kane

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Join the Kindle Book Club

  First Edition

  Shattered © 2013 by C. S. Kane

  All Rights Reserved.

  A DarkFuse Release

  www.darkfuse.com

  Twitter: @darkfuse

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/darkfuse

  Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/jOH5

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  To my husband, who is my strength; my parents, who are always full of encouragement; my sisters, who are there through thick and thin; my nephews and niece, who make me smile; my friends, who keep me laughing; and, of course, Dexter, who kept me company on the long, lonely nights fixing up edits sent to me by the marvelous Dave Thomas, who thankfully gave me a chance. Finally, I’d just like to say thanks to the rest of the DarkFuse team for the opportunity to share my sinister story.

  True! Nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then am I mad? Harken! And observe how healthily, how calmly I can tell you the whole story…

  —Edgar Allan Poe, “The Tell-Tale Heart”

  Prologue

  Her hands shook and her stomach heaved as she lit the gas lamp. Fresh vomit filled the sink, casting the kitchenette in a putrid stench. She had noticed blood mingled with thick, milky bile and some lumpy black tissue. She supposed it was part of her stomach lining. She knew she had to act soon—she had to escape this hell.

  From the other room, the children began to sing. Her body shook and she collapsed to the floor, wracked with quiet sobs. She’d been watching her beautiful babies begin to rot, their pale little faces gaunt and glassy-eyed, like delicate flowers trampled again and again.

  She heard her little Lottie giggle as the boys put on funny voices. Her poor little Lottie. The child’s hair had started to come out in clumps, but even in the depths of all this madness, she and the other innocents had managed to survive.

  But they had to get out.

  She pushed herself up from the floor, wiped her face and began rummaging through the kitchen drawers. He had taken all the knives. She needed to send him a message. He needed to know his game was over. Her eyes glanced down toward the skirting board, and in an instant she was scrambling on the floor and pulling at the teak wood. As she yanked the wood, it began to splinter. Her fingernails snapped and throbbed, but with an almighty yank, the skirting finally came loose. And then she saw it. A nail. A long, flat-tipped nail protruding from the broken wood. She pulled it free. Grasping it in a fist, she raised it to the kitchen wall and began to scratch.

  “Children!” she called, furiously dragging the nail against plaster. “Children, come here!”

  The children shuffled in beside her. The boys gazed at her curiously and Lottie ran to her and clung to her skirts. She dropped the nail to the ground and knelt beside her little girl. She put her arms out and the boys ran to her. She clasped them all tightly.

  “Listen to me, children. We need to leave here tonight. There is only one way out and it may seem scary. I need you to be brave just as your papa was. Do you remember? Do you remember the day he went away?”

  They nodded.

  “You are my soldiers. Just do what I say and trust me. Your mama is going to look after you. Don’t be scared.”

  She stood, turned, and gazed out the cracked window above the kitchen sink. A framed picture of blackness greeted her. With a deep breath, she stepped forward, curled her hand into a fist and punched the right-hand corner of the windowpane. The crack splintered and began to widen. She wound up again and shattered the glass, tearing open the flesh on her hand. Blood spilled across the white floor tiles, and she bit her lip in an attempt to stifle a scream as one of the children tugged at her skirts.

  “What is it?” she murmured, looking down at Lottie.

  “He’s here,” she whispered. “The bad man is here, Mummy.”

  As she turned, a shadowy silhouette leaned into the doorway holding a black leather bag. Carefully placing it on the floor, he unzipped the bag and pulled free a long-handled silver knife. With a sinister grin, he stepped forward into the flickering lamplight.

  And then the screaming began…

  1

  I gazed up at swirling, slate-colored clouds through the rain-blotted glass of the bus-stop roof. With my thickest scarf wrapped tightly around my neck, I breathed in the autumn air. Although I was protected from the rain, the harsh gusts of wind hitting my face were rough and bracing. Thanks to several deep puddles I’d encountered on my way to the city center, my jeans were soaked, saturated to knee level, which left the skin beneath numb right down to my toes.

  I snuggled closer to my fiancé, Liam. He put his arm around me and squeezed me tight, as he stared at the looming shadows of Compass Bank’s regional headquarters, his current workplace. I grabbed his hand and gently leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. I knew he hated his job. He never complained about it, but anyone who spent countless hours taking abuse from angry customers—most of whom he agreed with but was forced to pacify with apologies and unfounded promises—was bound to crack sooner or later. And Liam was on the verge. It was soul-destroying to see him lose some of the spark he’d had when we first met, and I knew something had to change. For both of us.

  “What do you think? Should we take it?” I asked quietly. I didn’t feel confident about the place but tried not to show Liam my misgivings.

  Liam’s pale blue eyes met mine. “It’s the best we’ve seen in our price range.”

  “The modern flat was a million times better,” I said.

  “Yes, it certainly was, but it’s a hundred pounds more a month, which I don’t think we can stretch to, especially with you out of work.”

  I forced a smile and did my best to regain focus. “You’re right, it’s settled then. We need a place in the city because you’re starting a brilliant new job with ridiculously early shifts, and more important, you’re finally escaping Compass.”

  “I’ll call the Realtor now and let him know,” Liam said with a smile, rummaging in the deep pockets of his camel coat.

  I could hear him mumbling into his mobile as I turned, looked down the street and saw some young men emerge from the alley beside the bank. They walked quickly, heads bowed in an attempt to shield themselves from the rain. A young woman in a sharp suit and killer heels tottered toward us holding a transparent umbrella. Her blonde hair blew out behind her as she walked, looking like a model from one of the magazines I secretly tended to devour with a cup of coffee and a calorie-laden chocolate bar. In a way, I envied women like her. She was so well put together, so confident. I looked down at my scruffy, waterlogged Converse sneakers and frowned. Comfort was the key to my wardrobe. Jeans, tees, long-sleeved jumpe
rs and sneakers characterized my style. Still, I consoled myself with the fact that I was a busy girl and, even if I could somehow afford five-inch Jimmy Choos, they wouldn’t be compatible with racing for buses, jumping onto trains, or walking for miles saddled with library books.

  The cars in Ballast city center were now in total gridlock. Car horns blared and the sulphuric smells of bus exhaust hung in the air. As I watched the men and women hurrying to get home, I thought of our current place—a tiny but homely flat in the neighboring town. It had been practical for me as it was only moments from my part-time store job and the bus stop that took me directly to King’s University. But now we were preparing to move into the “big smoke” as they say in the movies, and I had already given my notice at the store. It was all really happening. I looked back over at Liam, who was returning the cell phone to his pocket.

  “He says he needs a month’s rent for deposit and a month in advance. Can you bring the money up during office hours on Friday?”

  “No problem. We’re getting the deposit back from our place so we can just use that.”

  Liam put his arm around my shoulders as our bus pulled up to the curb. I gave the grim-looking driver the fare and headed straight to the back. I put my head against the glass, staring at the creeping darkness outside, watching the amber streetlights flash past hypnotically. My eyelids grew heavy, and I soon fell into a deep sleep.

  2

  I stood beneath a golden, predawn sky, in a field of waist-high barley. Three small figures stood holding hands in the distance, looking toward the sky with their backs to me. They were singing:

  Three little daisies,

  Standing in a row,

  Linked together forever,

  In the earth they did grow.

  Then the wind changed,

  And a gale began to blow.

  The poor little daisies,

  In the earth they did fold.

  With the storm they were crushed,

  And the poor little daises cried,

  Linked together forever,

  In the earth they died.

  I woke with a jolt as the bus shuddered to a stop.

  “Love, are you okay?” Liam asked, touching my forehead. “You’re sweating.”

  “I’m fine,” I whispered. “The rain just got to my bones is all.”

  “Are ya’s getting off or not!?” the driver yelled.

  “That’s us,” Liam said as he grabbed my bag. “C’mon.”

  I stumbled out of the bus and we crossed to our building, where I had a restless night’s sleep, haunted by broken lyrics from a strange little song.

  3

  On my first day of postgraduate studies, I stood hunched up against the wall of the English corridor, holding a pile of books, including Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw, which I planned on deconstructing for my master’s thesis.

  I surveyed my new classmates, whom I’d met at a brief meet-and-greet at the local book shop, as Dr. Simon King abruptly opened his office door and stood looking at us as if expecting something more.

  “Why the hell are you all standing out here?” he demanded.

  We were ushered into the classroom, which I’d spent a lot of time in during my undergraduate years. It featured a lovely period sash window overlooking the main courtyard of the university. A number of well-worn and completely mismatched armchairs filled the space, and the walls appeared to be constructed entirely of books.

  Although I liked watching people, I wasn’t much of a socialite. I had acquired a small group of friends but ultimately preferred to keep to myself, concentrating on my studies, working evenings and weekends to pay for my tuition, never mind food, electricity, and books. I settled myself in a chair in the middle of the classroom as Dr. King sat down and lifted his chipped earthenware mug.

  “Help yourselves,” he said, pointing to the coffee caddy and pile of Digestives on the table. I poured a cup and passed on a biscuit.

  “Today we aren’t going to get into anything heavy. I’m just going to hand out a pile of reading material on how you are to format your work this year and you are going to copy down what you have to read for next week,” Dr. King said. “I also expect one thousand words in the form of a thesis outline to be in my pigeonhole by Wednesday so we can discuss your various topics on Friday. I hope that over the summer period you all decided on what you are going to write about. You aren’t undergraduates anymore. I won’t be spoon-feeding you. Any questions?”

  “No, Doctor,” the classroom replied, almost in unison.

  “Stacey Sheldon,” Dr. King said.

  “Yeah,” I said awkwardly, aware that every eye in the room was fixated on me.

  “Are you still thinking of exploring the representation of children in Victorian literature?”

  “Yes, sir. I am looking at The Turn of the Screw.”

  “Brilliant. It will be hard work but if you do it right, not only will it be submitted for publication, but we will also be entering it for the King’s Academia Award.”

  “No pressure or anything,” I said with a smirk.

  “Right then, pens at the ready,” Dr. King boomed.

  4

  It took me a long time to locate The Rental Shop on Ballast’s golden mile. As I trudged along in the misty rain, I thought about our dream to buy a house. We had always lived in flats, usually high above ground level, and I yearned for something more—a proper place to dry my washing, grow my own vegetables, and to have a place for Liam and me to lie out in the summer sun and enjoy a cold beer. Someday, I thought.

  The Rental Shop’s turquoise sign jutted out between a convenience shop and a solicitor’s office. I jerked myself out of my thoughts and wrapped my hand around the wad of cash in my pocket, grimacing at the thought of handing over money bound for yet another landlord. I had long since come to the conclusion they were soulless beings.

  I pushed into the small office, glanced around, and plonked myself down on a seat in the makeshift waiting area. As I surveyed the artificial plants, gray walls, and piles of paperwork on the desks, I surmised this was definitely not the most professional outfit in the business. I had passed many sleek glass-fronted real-estate agencies along the road, housing stylish young men and women sitting at plush desks, talking into phones, and organizing papers. Those people had it together. They had a name and reputation to protect. You could be guaranteed service and luxury with them, along with a hefty monthly bill. As our budget dictated, we were stuck with The Rental Shop.

  The silence in the room was suddenly shattered by the shrill sound of a telephone ringing. A shuffling noise came from the back of the offices. I whipped my head around and saw the real-estate agent that had given us a brief tour of the property stumble down the hallway. He knocked into a table and a pile of papers tumbled to the floor.

  “Shit!” he shouted as he reached for the phone.

  I could barely stifle a giggle.

  “Goddamn it!” he yelled as he realized the person on the other end had already hung up.

  “Nearly,” I said, trying to get his attention.

  Jake Clarke turned and threw me a half smile.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, shoving papers from the floor onto the desk.

  “I’m here to collect the keys to our new flat. You showed us around briefly the other day?”

  “Oh yeah…Shevlin, was it?” he said hopefully.

  “Sheldon. Stacey Sheldon.”

  “Sorry…Stacey, just let me get the contract and the keys.”

  I glanced at my phone and the time on the screen flashed 1:40. Liam would be on his lunch. I really wished he would change his mind and text me saying STOP! GET OUT! I could just make my excuses and leave. But my message inbox was empty. Before I knew it, Jake Clarke was striding toward me with a wad of papers in one hand and a bunch of jingling keys in the other.

  “Here we go.” He grinned as he produced the papers and shoved the keys in his pocket. “If you could just sign this and give me the money,
you can have your keys and you’re all set.”

  I scanned the document and quickly scrawled my name on the agreement.

  “Now just for the money.” Clarke grinned.

  “I’d like a receipt,” I said as I handed over the wad of cash.

  “No problem,” Clarke mumbled, then opened a file and scribbled down the details of the transaction.

  I looked at the heading on the receipt and saw THE RENTAL SHOP was emblazoned in deep teal ink across the top. Company-headed paper was good enough for me.

  “Is there anything else?” Clarke asked as he slammed the file shut.

  “Uhm…keys?” I said with an arched eyebrow.

  “Oh yes, of course.” He rummaged in his pocket and produced a clump of mottled silver keys dangling from a ring. “The keys to 24C Claremont Street.”

  5

  Houses towered on either side of Claremont Street and tall Victorian terraces loomed, casting palpable shadows over my path. Overflowing trash bins lined the curbs, some of which bore the scars of those drunken evenings when inebriated local kids had set them alight and cackled as the flames had risen and the plastic had melted.

  I shuffled between vehicles and clambered up the steps of the last house on the street. I was finally at the front door of 24 Claremont Street.

  I unlocked the door but the hinges were stiff, so I gave it a good shove and it finally gave way. I stumbled into a narrow hallway and shut the door behind me. I was immediately confronted by a strange musty smell. Doing my best to breathe through my mouth, I located a dilapidated electric box on the wall to my left. Dozens of unopened letters were piled high on top and many more had fallen to the floor. I rolled my eyes and kicked them aside. I was used to this kind of mess. It was a common trait in student communal areas, but the smell was like nothing I’d ever encountered before.