Cruel Minds

by Malcolm Richards

  She took in a breath, then let it out slowly. “I knew the minute I drove to the police station it would all be over. And I wanted it to be over so badly. But this was my doing. If I had stayed at Sam’s last night, then everyone would still be alive. Sam would...” her voice trailed into silence. “But then, when everyone had returned to their rooms, Pamela came up with an idea that would make everything go away.”

  Suddenly, Emily knew what that idea was. She strained her neck and peered over the edge of the boat.

  “You’re setting up Melody,” she said. “You’re making it look like she’s responsible.”

  Marcia sighed. “Do you know how difficult she’s made things? Turning up here all the time like she has a free pass, forcing her way into our lives, pretending we’re all friends sharing a funny secret.”

  “She’s lonely. She has no one else.”

  “She’s trouble, is what she is. Leaving flowers on Franklyn’s grave, carving his bloody tattoo on the tree he’s buried under. It’s all just a game to her. It’s all make believe. It didn’t matter how many times Pamela talked to her, or I talked to her, or Sam talked to her. She wouldn’t listen.” Marcia turned her head sharply towards the jetty. “But she’s listening now.”

  The rope was getting looser, the knot easier to manipulate. Emily stared at Marcia’s shadow.

  “No one’s going to believe that Melody’s guilty,” she said. “She’s just a lonely girl desperate for friendship.”

  “And that’s exactly why people will believe it. Poor, lonely Melody. The girl with no friends, who finally snapped down in the woods. Who’d murdered Franklyn in a crazed fit of rage, then Oscar when his presence threatened to expose her crime.”

  “What about Sam?” Emily spat the words out. “How are you going to explain his murder?”

  Marcia fell silent. The boat swayed as she wept. “Sam wasn’t part of the plan. He would have stayed quiet. He would never have said anything. But she wouldn’t believe it. After he cut down the body, she said she knew he was going to ruin things, that it was only a matter of time. But she was wrong. He would never betray us.”

  Marcia’s sobs echoed over the lake. A sickening wave of nausea threatened to spill from Emily’s throat. It was suddenly clear. While they’d been searching Meadow Pines for Sam, Pamela had been busy killing him. Then she’d taken his blood and drawn out the chaos star, knowing it was another element that could be used to incriminate Melody.

  “Your mother murdered the man you love,” she said.

  Marcia clamped her hands over her ears.

  “Your mother murdered that man you love and you stood by and did nothing!”

  Marcia slammed her fist against the side of the boat. “No! Melody killed him. She killed Franklyn and Oscar. She attacked me and crashed the Land Rover. When the police arrive they’ll find me tied up and badly beaten—a victim of Melody’s crazed obsession.”

  “Your story’s full of holes,” Emily said, anger coursing through her body. “You really think people will believe someone like Melody is a killer?”

  “They will when they find her suicide note, confessing to the deaths of five people. They’ll find her hair in Sam’s hand and Oscar’s picture of Franklyn under her pillow. Helen will write all about it, as one of the few survivors of the Meadow Pines Massacre. Meadow Pines may not recover but we’ll be free. We’ll find a new place and we’ll start again—Pamela and me.”

  Emily stared at her in disbelief. Conflicting feelings of pity and disgust tore her mind in two. So many terrible things had happened to Marcia, and her own mother had forced her to internalise the fallout. Marcia had buried her trauma so deep inside her mind, she had ruptured its very foundations.

  “You already have blood on your hands,” Emily said. “How will you live with more? How will you get through each day knowing that you’re responsible for the deaths of all these people? Including your boyfriend.”

  Fresh tears squeezed from Marcia’s eyes.

  The knot between Emily’s fingers suddenly unravelled. Her hands were free. Blood trickled into her palms. “Don’t you see, Marcia? You were right all along. The only future Pamela is concerned about is her own. There’s still time to put things right. When the police get here, we can tell them the truth. Tell them what Franklyn did to you. Tell them how your mother has manipulated you all along.”

  Slowly, sadly, Marcia shook her head. She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

  “It’s too late,” she said. “By the time the police arrive, you’ll be dead. Jerome too.”

  A chill ran the length of Emily’s body.

  “I’m sorry,” Marcia said.

  She sprang forwards. Wrapping her arms around Emily’s ribs, she hoisted her out from beneath the thwart. The boat rocked dangerously.

  Emily cried out. Her hands shot up to Marcia’s throat.

  For a second, Marcia stared in shock. Then, thrusting her knee into Emily’s chest, she slammed her against the bottom of the boat.

  Emily’s head hit the hull with a dull thud. White sparks filled her vision. Pain ricocheted through the back of her head to her swollen eye.

  Marcia tugged on Emily’s legs, twisting her around until her calves flopped over the side. The boat rocked violently to the right.

  Marcia fell backwards.

  Emily swung a fist, catching her in the stomach. Then, as Marcia doubled over, Emily dragged her legs back in.

  Before her fingers could reach the rope binding her ankles, Marcia flew at her. Grabbing Emily’s hair at the roots, she lifted her head skywards.

  Emily sank fingernails into her face.

  With a shriek, Marcia slammed Emily’s head hard against the side of the boat.

  The night flashed in bright colours. Blood dripped down the back of her throat. Dazed and groaning, Emily watched Marcia pull an oar from the rowlock.

  She turned towards Emily.

  “Stop fighting,” she said. “It will be easier for the both of us.”

  She swung the oar towards Emily’s head.

  Emily kicked out, striking Marcia in the shins, sending her tottering backwards. The back of her legs hit the thwart. For the briefest moment, Marcia looked as if she were floating in space. Then, she fell, hitting the edge of the boat, tipping it over.

  Water rushed in.

  Her legs still tied, Emily rolled twice, struck her head, and plunged into the lake.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Silence filled Melody’s room like quicksand, slowly drowning its only occupant. Jerome sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the locked door. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Definitely minutes, perhaps half an hour. He’d tried throwing his weight at the door but the door opened into the room, and so there was no chance of breaking it down. A search of Melody’s possessions for a tool to help him remove the door lock had proven fruitless, with not even a pair of tweezers in sight. He’d then resorted to screaming for help until his throat was raw. No one had answered.

  Getting up from the bed, Jerome paced over to the window. The thought had already crossed his mind several times, but it presented itself again: there was only one way he was getting out of this room. But he couldn’t do it. From the window, there was a drop of about twelve feet onto the porch roof. Even if he managed to land correctly, there would be the risk of slipping in the rain and breaking untold amounts of bones. Then there was the risk of not landing correctly, of smashing straight through the porch roof. Then there was his morbid terror of heights.

  Jerome returned to the bed. He eyed Melody’s tablet. She had been there the night of Franklyn’s attack on Marcia—a fact that Pamela had neglected to mention. What did that mean? Did he even want to know? Picking up the tablet, he sifted through Melody’s photographs once more and came to rest on Franklyn’s haunted face. Who sneaked around, stealing pictures like that anyway? It was creepy.

  He stared at the door. Was Melody behind everything? Had she killed Franklyn? But if that were true, then it
meant Pamela was covering it up.

  A dragging unease clawed at his stomach. He couldn’t sit here any longer. Helen was downstairs, slowly bleeding to death. Emily was out in the forest, getting herself into all sorts of troubles while a psychopath was stalking Meadow Pines.

  Jerome leapt up from the bed. Unlocking the catch, he slid the window open. A cold mist of drizzle draped his skin. Sticking his head through the gap, he looked out over the darkness of the treetops. Then, attempting to ignore the terror climbing his throat, he peered down. The world spun around him.

  Pulling himself back into the room, he pushed the window up to its fullest extent. He took a breath, held it, then let it out.

  “Emily, I hate you!” he said between clenched teeth.

  Feeding one leg through the window, he straddled the sill. Then, swivelling himself up and around, he fed the other leg through, followed by the rest of his body. He dug the tips of his shoes into grooves in the stonework and pulled his head out. Now, all he needed to do was to hang and drop. Stretched out to his full height, that would leave just under six feet between his shoes and the porch roof. Simple enough. Just as long as he didn’t look down.

  Behind him, treetops swayed in the night time breeze. The air around him felt infinite. Shutting his eyes, Jerome let one foot slip, then the other. His hands now bore his full weight. Cold fear hit him. He tried to bring his feet back to the wall but found his limbs had become paralysed. Panic hit him in waves. His heart punched against his breastplate. His fingers began to unpeel themselves.

  With a cry, Jerome dropped from the window. Before he could catch his breath again, he hit the porch roof, slipped in the rain, and tumbled over the side. One hand shot out and gripped the guttering. Jerome swung in a wide arc and slammed into the porch railings. When he opened his eyes again, he was sprawled at the foot of the porch steps, nursing bruised shins and a graze on his right cheekbone.

  “Fucking hell,” he said.

  He was on his feet in seconds. The back door was locked. Rounding the corner of the house, he headed towards the Hardys’ living room window. Edging along the wall, he peered in. Helen was sprawled on the couch, her head propped up with pillows. Her bandages had been changed again. In the opposite armchair, Pamela sat with her legs crossed and a book rested on her knee. Jerome’s eyes narrowed. Now, it was obvious who’d locked him in Melody’s room. But the question was, why?

  Anger heating his insides, he headed towards the front of the house, pushed open the gate, and entered the garden. Emily had left the front door unlocked.

  He cleared the corridor in seconds, cut through the dining hall and entered the kitchen. By the time he headed out again, he was carrying a large butcher’s knife and a battery-powered storm lantern. At the dining hall door, he stopped and listened for signs of life. Satisfied that Pamela was still in her quarters, he pitched forwards and raced out of the house.

  He didn’t know where he was going. There were several acres of land to search. He paused in the garden, clearing his mind, trying to think like Emily. Where had she headed? She had been looking at Melody’s tablet. She had discovered Franklyn’s picture, realised that Melody had been present the night Franklyn had died. Something else ... but what? Franklyn’s tattoo. The chaos star that was carved on the tree.

  He cleared the garden and bolted across the meadow, crushing wildflowers beneath his feet. It took him a minute to locate the trail. Then, lantern held in front, he followed the muddy track into the forest. The rain had eased off, sparing him a soaking in his t-shirt and jeans. The cold, however, was less forgiving, stinging his bare arms and travelling down his neck to the base of his spine.

  The trail twisted and turned. At every corner, Jerome peered beyond the peripheries of the lantern light. Darkness circled him like a ravenous pack of dogs. When they got back to London, the first thing he planned to do was to run out into the street and inhale big lungsful of traffic. He didn’t care what nature lovers had to say about the great outdoors; to him, it was a dangerous, cruel place which no good could come out of.

  The trail opened up into the clearing. Oscar’s body still lay under the oak tree. Jerome looked away. Images of Oscar’s reanimated body crawling out from beneath the tarpaulin taunted his mind. Too many horror movies, he thought, as he strode past.

  Emily wasn’t here. He swung the lantern, catching a large mound of freshly dug soil in the light. Inching forwards, his eyes fell upon the shallow grave and the shovel lying next to it. Fear shivered through his body.

  “There’s nothing there,” he assured himself as he peered over the edge and into the muddy water below, half expecting a skeletal hand to reach out from the depths and drag him down. What had Emily found here? Or who? In either case, Jerome didn’t want to know. He turned around, nausea and fear making his head spin. Where was she? Where else was there to go?

  If you get lost in a forest, you stay in one place so people can find you. Emily had given him that little nugget of safety information on the drive down. He couldn’t imagine that she would take her own advice. But he couldn’t imagine her wandering aimlessly through the forest either. There were three possible locations where she might be: the tool shed, the lake, and the Land Rover crash site. He immediately crossed off the tool shed—she’d already been back there to fetch the shovel. The lake was closest to him, with the Land Rover on the other side of it.

  Tightening his grip on the knife, Jerome exited the clearing and continued along the trail. He would be at the lake in ten minutes. He just hoped he’d find Emily there, safe and sound.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The first thing to hit Emily as she plunged sideways into the water was the cold. It was paralysing, as if her body had immediately turned to ice on impact. She went under, face slapping against the surface before sinking into darkness.

  Above her, the boat capsized, creating an umbrella of inky blackness that blotted out the moon and the stars. As she’d been tumbling towards the water, Emily’s lungs had had the good sense to suck in a deep breath. Now, pressure began to build in the centre of her chest.

  As she sank deeper, she had the impression of falling in slow motion through a dream. None of this was real. She would wake up at any moment and realise she’d been in the grip of yet another nightmare. But as her senses kicked in, as the icy water bit into her limbs, Emily instantly became aware of where she was and what was happening to her.

  Her first instinct was to kick her legs, but her legs wouldn’t move. Her second instinct was to scream, but screaming beneath a lake would result in lungsful of water. The pressure in her chest grew. She could feel the weight of the entire lake pressing down on her sternum. She tried to move her arms, to bend her knees, but the darkness had taken hold of her limbs and would not let go.

  Emily sank further. She could hear pounding in her ears like a timpani; an ominous, deep rumble that began slowly at first but was now increasing in speed and intensity. The pressure on her chest grew unbearable, threatening to fracture her breastplate. She just needed to breathe. To open her mouth and suck in lifesaving air.

  The darkness around her began to change colour, from black to yellow to red. From it, a familiar face appeared. Young, haunted eyes watched her. Phillip Gerard. Why was she seeing him now? She tried to reach out a hand, to stroke his face, to wish him peace. But his face had already disappeared into the murk.

  Her lungs were going to explode. Her body usurped control from her mind. Her mouth opened. The lake flooded in.

  She could feel life releasing its hold on her. Or was she relenting, giving up? Months ago, she would have happily allowed the water to take her, for her body to rot away on the lakebed until it was nothing more than algae-covered bones. But things had changed. The thrashing of her heart reminded her so. She had made peace with Phillip Gerard’s ghost. She had said a final goodbye to her mother. She had let the past die inside of her so that the present could live. Was she really going to throw it all away now just to be fish food at the
bottom of a lake?

  Regaining control of her body, Emily brought her knees up to her chest. She flapped her arms and kicked with all of her strength, propelling herself upwards. She repeated the movement, flapping like an underwater bird, legs bucking like a dolphin’s tail. Up she went, the last of her breath shooting from her nostrils in tiny bubbles. Her clothes and shoes acted against her, trying to drag her back down. But Emily kicked and she flapped and she wriggled.

  She erupted on the surface in a froth of water, limbs, and painful gasps. She went under again. She thrust her arms, broke the surface and spun around. The upturned boat was inches from her. With a cry, she lunged towards it. Her palms slapped against fibreglass. Her fingers scrabbled against the round, slippery hull. There was nothing to hold onto.

  “No!” She went under again.

  Her strength gone, she sank like a stone. Her arms flailed above her head for a moment longer. Then they were still, trailing behind her like streamers. She was going to die down here after all. Water filled her insides until she became liquid, until she and the lake were one. The pressure in her chest floated away. Then there was darkness. Darkness everywhere.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  And then there was light. And stars. Hundreds of thousands of them, glinting and shimmering, filling her vision. Voices echoed around her like memories. She floated through time and space, blissful and at peace. But then she felt hands on her chest, and a cloying, tightening pressure in her lungs. All around her, stars crumbled and fell. Voices came together and spoke in unison. The hands on her chest pressed down, over and over, crushing her. She wanted them to stop. She tried to bat them away but her body was cold and still. She wasn’t breathing. She couldn’t breathe!