The Lost Ones

by Ben Cheetham

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll look after her.’

  Tom’s gaze rested on him a moment. Then he nodded as if to say, I know you will, and ran for the front door.

  DAY 2

  3.11 A.M.

  The knocking brought Seth out of his dreams. He squinted at the alarm clock. He’d barely had three hours’ sleep. His head felt as foggy as the forest. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Holly. The search is back on.’

  He switched on a bedside lamp, pulled on his cords and shuffled to the door.

  The scrapbook! yelled the voice in his mind.

  The book was open on his bed displaying a teenage girl with a pretty smile and a perm. The photo stared out of a newspaper clipping dated ‘Monday, 22 May 1972’. A headline shouted ‘Local Girl Falls to Her Death at Beauty Spot’. Red horns had been drawn on the girl’s head. A pitchfork had been inserted into her hand.

  ‘Won’t be a minute.’ Seth quickly put the book in his bag.

  Get your head together. Moron!

  Wincing at the shrillness of his grandma’s voice, Seth sucked in a head-clearing breath. He opened the door, forcing himself to confidently meet Holly’s eyes. With a mixture of arousal and resentment, he noted that she looked as fresh as when he’d first seen her outside the Town Hall. Even after a good sleep, he always woke up baggy-eyed. But then he’d been brought up – or rather, brought himself up – on fast food and exhaust fumes, not fresh eggs and fresher air.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

  ‘Much better.’

  ‘Good. I thought you might need this.’ Holly handed Seth a polystyrene cup of steaming tea.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’d better drink it quickly. The buses are leaving in five.’

  They looked at each other for several awkward seconds. Seth’s arousal threatened to become embarrassingly apparent as he wondered what would happen if he tried to kiss her. Would she fight him off? Or would she kiss him back, shove him onto the bed, move her lips down his neck—

  Stop thinking with your cock, cut in his grandma.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘OK what?’ asked Holly.

  Seth’s heart jumped. He hadn’t meant to reply out loud. ‘OK, I’ll be quick. I’ve just got to get a few things together.’

  ‘I’ll wait for you in reception.’

  You’re pathetic. Weak and pathetic like all men, berated his grandma.

  Seth took slow breaths until her voice faded to a background hum like white noise. He gathered together the few things he needed – pay-as-you-go phone, voice modifier, lock-knife – before heading downstairs.

  The bus was full of the same faces as earlier. Several nodded hello. Seth mirrored their nods and their expressions. The atmosphere was subtly different from before, more apprehensive. The engine grumbled into life, the noise accentuated by the funereal hush.

  Three buses headed out of Middlebury, a convoy of unspoken hope and fear. When they were a quarter of a mile or so beyond the town, instead of taking the turn for Fontburn Reservoir, they continued along the main road. ‘We’re heading into the forest from the other side,’ said Holly.

  The bus passed through a corridor of pines into a long stretch of grassy fields strung with tatters of mist. Then the road descended gently past a handful of houses into a small wood of oak and birch with a winding lake at its centre. Everything – the fields, the trees, the lake’s surface – was serenely still.

  ‘I love it out here at night,’ murmured Holly.

  ‘Me too,’ Seth said reflexively, although to him the scene seemed as distant and alien as the fading stars. He wished he’d kept his gob shut when he noticed Holly looking at him as if she wasn’t sure she believed him.

  The bus climbed out of the wood to a crossroads. It took the right turn signposted CAMO 4, HEXHAM 22. After a few hundred metres, it turned right again through a farm gate into a mixed wood of deciduous and coniferous trees. The other two buses continued along the main road.

  ‘This is Gallows Hill Wood,’ said Holly as the bus juddered along an overgrown gravel track. ‘They used to hang criminals here.’

  The bus stopped behind a cluster of police vehicles and, to Seth’s delight, Tom Jackson’s Volvo. Police and other emergency service personnel were milling around, their jackets shining like cats’ eyes in the crisscrossing confusion of torches and headlights. Seth spotted Tom and Henry peering at a map, their downturned faces half hidden in steel-blue darkness. Graham Jackson was standing with his collie, Bob, a few metres behind them, his face as unreadable as a concrete slab.

  As the volunteers filed off the bus, constables handed out torches and long sticks. Seth worked his way towards Tom and Henry, eager to get close. Holly was telling him how hanged criminals used to be left to rot in their nooses as a warning to others. He made as if he was interested, but his attention was hungrily focused on the two men.

  Tom and Henry lifted their heads as Sergeant Dyer addressed the volunteers. Something was missing from Henry’s face, some spark of vitality. He had the look of someone contemplating the possibility of failure for the first time. Tom held himself as rigid as iron, his eyes bright with nerves.

  ‘Two teams will make their way to the north end of Gallows Hill Wood,’ said Sergeant Dyer. ‘The rest of us will follow Harwood Burn towards the forest. Please take it slowly. We don’t want to miss anything in the dark.’

  Seth stayed close to Tom and Henry as the volunteers were divided up. As he’d hoped would happen, Henry spotted him. ‘Seth, Holly, you’re with us. You two have got sharp eyes.’

  The search team gathered around Henry for instructions, but Tom took the lead. ‘We’re going to be searching the eastern half of the wood. Our search grid is narrower than before. Obviously with it being dark, we need to stay closer . . .’ His voice faltered. He briefly struggled with his emotions, then jerked a nod. ‘Let’s get started.’

  Seth’s gaze lingered furtively on Tom as they spaced themselves among the trees at roughly ten-metre intervals. He took up a position to Tom’s left. Graham lined up to the right of Tom, with Henry beyond him. ‘Poor guy,’ Holly remarked quietly. ‘He looks like he’s ready to fall apart.’

  Seth wasn’t so sure. Beneath Tom’s brittle surface, he sensed a deep core of strength, an ability to endure like the rocks of the nearby hills.

  ‘Wait up!’ Eddie came running through the trees and inserted himself into the line. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  The searchers swept the steadily rising ground with their torches, prodding the undergrowth with their sticks. Pines gathered thickly towards the top of the slope, squeezing out the birch and oak. The hoot of an owl echoed through the night. Another rang out in reply.

  ‘Barn owls,’ said Holly. ‘That’s their mating call. We’ve got a pair nesting on our farm. I think they’re the most beautiful of all owls.’

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Seth.

  ‘Really? What do you like so much about them?’

  Seth tensed at the note of challenge in Holly’s voice. Unthinkingly agreeing with everything people said was an old habit of his. Experience had taught him it was a bad habit too. Sooner or later, people saw the superficiality it concealed. As one girl he’d been briefly infatuated with had said, What’s your problem? Haven’t you got any opinions of your own? He’d struggled to come up with an answer and the girl had never spoken to him again. He’d tried to kick – or at least moderate – the habit but he had a tendency to lapse back into it when his mind was distracted.

  ‘I just think they’re nice,’ he answered unconvincingly. Mocking laughter escaped from the darkness of his mind.

  They searched on in silence. The wood’s top end was bounded by a stream, beyond which a grassy field faded away into the darkness. Tom called everyone together. ‘We’re going to cross the stream and head for the forest.’

  As the searchers hopped over the stream, Holly said to Seth, ‘You know you don’t have to say you like something just because I do.’

/>   ‘Yeah, I know,’ he replied defensively. Seeing Holly frown, he realised he had to give a morsel of something real to feed her feelings. ‘It’s just that . . . well, you make me nervous because I . . .’ He trailed off awkwardly. I like you. Why was it so difficult to say? He’d said it to other girls.

  ‘You don’t need to be nervous.’ Her voice was as soft as the air. It set his head reeling with the urge to kiss her.

  Go on, do it, his grandma taunted. Throw it all away like I knew you would.

  Seth felt the conflicting voices pulling his features out of shape, distorting his carefully composed mask. He was saved from having to decide which one to listen to by Henry calling, ‘Come on you two. Keep up.’

  They crossed the stream and took up their places again. The ground rose steadily, passing beyond the north-western tip of the woods after a couple of hundred metres. Yellow sheep eyes gleamed in the beams of their torches. The dim, bulky shapes behind the eyes scattered and thudded away into the distance. A spear’s throw to the south dozens of torches swayed their way across the fields. Maybe a mile to the west more pinpricks of light blinked like SOS signals.

  Imperceptibly, then noticeably, like paint being mixed, the sky lightened – black to blue to red to pink. They turned off their torches and quickened their pace. Seth glanced across at a swishing, thwacking sound. Tom was wielding his stick like a sword, his face fixed in a clench-toothed grimace. Beyond him, his brother was quietly and methodically working his way forwards. Seth’s gaze passed over Graham’s barren face to Henry. In the sun’s first pale rays, Henry looked slightly deflated, like a slow-punctured balloon.

  ‘Seth,’ said Holly.

  He pretended not to hear. She repeated his name, but still he didn’t look at her. He wasn’t ready to face up to the voices again.

  DAY 2

  3.36 A.M.

  Jake watched his mum from the sofa. She was shivering even though he’d draped a blanket over her. Occasionally she jerked her head as if she’d been slapped. Once she’d sat up so suddenly he jumped. Her eyes had been filmy and vacant, not seeming to recognise where she was. After a few seconds, she’d closed them and slumped back into unconsciousness.

  There was a knock at the front door. Jake sprang up and ran to it. He let out a relieved breath at the sight of his grandma. ‘Jake, I thought you’d be in bed,’ she said, running her gaze over his tired face.

  ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on Mum.’

  ‘Why would you need to keep an eye on her?’

  ‘She’s been drinking.’

  Cathy cocked an eyebrow as if to say, Who can blame her? She followed Jake to the living room and bent to examine her daughter. ‘Do you think we should try and get her to bed?’ asked Jake.

  ‘Best let her sleep it off here. You should get to bed though.’

  Jake hesitated to leave. He’d seen his mum laughing drunk plenty of times, but he’d never seen her unconscious drunk. She’d always seemed invincibly full of life. But standing there looking at her, it hit him blam in the chest – she wasn’t invincible, one day she would die. And if Erin wasn’t found safe, that day might come sooner rather than later. The thought gave him the frightening feeling that if he took his eyes off her she, too, might vanish into thin air.

  Cathy cupped his chin in her soft, manicured hand. ‘Go on, darling. I’ll look after your mum. You need your sleep if you want that arm to heal.’ She tapped her cheek. ‘But before you go give me a kiss.’

  Jake pecked her cheek, inhaling the familiar floral scent of her perfume. She smiled. ‘I needed that.’

  He trudged upstairs, flopped onto his bed and closed his eyes. Instantly, his agitated mind bombarded him with a stream of fragmented images – Erin playing with her dolls; no not Erin, Mary Ingham; his dad hitting him; Rachel and Hank holding hands; his mum’s booze-slackened face; the rook attacking him; the rook dead; Erin dead . . . His eyes popped open. He reached for the diary and flipped to the next unread entry, which was dated ‘Wednesday, 10 May’. After a row of alternating red and black hearts, it began,

  I met Hank at the usual place after school. We sat by the river again and held hands. We talked and talked. Hank said he likes to go walking at night when the moon is out and especially if it is a full moon like tonight. He said he loves the full moon because it makes him feel as if he can do anything he wants. He asked if I can sneak out of the house and go for a walk with him. I said I’m scared Daddy will catch me. He said that if he could find a way for me to sneak out without being caught would I come? And I said yes. When I got home Mummy asked where I had been and I lied that I went to the library.

  Jake blinked and rubbed his watering eyes. He was too tired to read, the words kept sliding out of focus. But neither did he want to shut his eyes. He stared at the ceiling for a while, then got out of bed and made his way to the airing cupboard. As quietly as possible, he peered into the box. The chick was asleep. Watching the barely visible rise and fall of its chest gave him a calming feeling. He stroked his forefinger over its silky fluff, wishing he could somehow climb into the box and snuggle down beside it. He returned to bed. This time when he closed his eyes he held the chick in his mind’s eye, using it to fend off the images.

  Sleep came fast. But just as suddenly, it seemed, he was awake again. Pale light pressed against his window. His arm throbbed within its cast. Had the pain woken him? He wasn’t sure. A vague echo of something else – some piercing sound – seemed to bounce around his mind. As he reached for his painkillers, it came again. A scream. His mum’s scream! He leapt out of bed and sprinted downstairs, almost tripping in his heart-pounding haste. His mum and grandma were standing with their backs to him at the open front door. His grandma had a hand pressed to her mouth.

  ‘What is it?’ he anxiously enquired.

  His mum turned. The first thing he saw was her face – sickly as the morning light. Then he saw what she was holding and his breath caught in his throat. It was a doll. But no normal doll. It had a stuffed felt body maybe twenty-five centimetres long and an oversized head made from what appeared to be papier-mâché. It was wearing knitted brown boots, blue denim shorts and a white T-shirt with a pink butterfly design stitched into it. The same outfit Erin had been wearing when she disappeared. It had long wavy auburn hair, brown eyelashes and matching eyes, a button nose and dimpled rosy cheeks. But whoever had made it hadn’t simply used Erin’s features, they’d captured her mischievous smile too. Normally Jake would have thought it quite cute. But right then it seemed as sinister as a voodoo effigy.

  ‘What is this?’ wondered Amanda, her voice clogged with dread.

  ‘It’s just a sick joke,’ said Cathy. As if trying to convince herself, she repeated, ‘A sick joke.’

  Amanda’s bloodshot eyes goggled at Jake like he might have an answer for her. He stared wordlessly back, although a voice was ringing out in his mind – a voice he’d never heard but instantly recognised as Rachel Ingham’s – She would always love her dolls and they would always love her.

  ‘Put it back where it was,’ urged Cathy. ‘It might have fingerprints or something on it.’

  Amanda quickly set the doll down on the doorstep beside two bottles of milk. She continued to stare at it, shuddering with repulsion, yet seemingly unable to tear her eyes away. ‘What kind of person would do something like this?’

  ‘An evil person, that’s who,’ said Cathy. She flicked Jake a keep an eye on her look. ‘I’m going to phone Inspector Shields.’

  Amanda leaned heavily against the wall as if to stop herself from keeling over. Jake rushed to her side. ‘It’s OK,’ she said, holding him at arm’s length. ‘I’ll be OK in a moment. You go back to bed.’

  ‘But Mum—’

  ‘Just do as I say,’ snapped Amanda, her voice quivering with nerves. She added more softly, ‘I’m sorry, sweetie’, ushering him towards the stairs with an exhausted waft of her hand.

  Jake had that same feeling as in the living room, but even more strongly. It was
as if everything he’d believed to be as permanent as rock had suddenly revealed itself to be as insubstantial as mist. He wrenched his eyes from her and ran back to his room. He snatched up the diary and scanned through it until he found the passage about the dolls’ tea party. Was there a connection? He read the lines over and over as if searching for some hidden meaning. But the more he looked, the more his head spun with uncertainty. He needed a fresh pair of eyes.

  He grabbed his iPad and FaceTimed Lauren. It rang for a long time before her sleep-rumpled face appeared on the screen. ‘Have they found Erin?’ Her voice was eager with concern and morbid interest.

  ‘No.’

  She irritably picked sleep from her eyes. ‘What did you wake me up for then? It’d better be something—’ She broke off, her mouth forming a shocked ‘O’. ‘What happened to your hair?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yeah, it does. I loved your hair.’

  Jake felt a twinge of regret for impetuously cutting his hair. ‘Just listen. Something’s happened.’ He told Lauren about the doll.

  Her eyebrows arched. ‘Freaky. Sounds like some voodoo shit.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. And I also think it might have something to do with Mary Ingham.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘I went back to the Ingham house last night and—’

  ‘Hang on,’ Lauren cut in. ‘You went back without me. I thought we were a team. Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to get in any more trouble.’

  ‘Fuck off. You know I don’t give a toss about trouble.’ Lauren smiled crookedly. ‘I like a bit of trouble.’