The Debt

by Mark Lumby

  Anja woke in the morning. Mist hovered over the lake like a ghostly blanket, beads of cold moisture wetting her face. The trees on the other side of the lake were hidden behind the fog, smoke swirling casual waves like they were on fire. Her body was wet and naked and made her shiver. Her skin was painted red. She could feel her wounds throb and sting, blood still weeping. As she struggled to her feet, nearly losing her balance from the weakness in her right leg, she managed to wipe off some of the shingles that were stuck to her body, but then gave up. She inspected the blood on her skin, not yet dry, and looked for the wound where so much blood had come from. She had been shot—she faintly remembered that—but as painful as it was, she was sure it wasn’t fatal. She touched the hole in her leg, inspecting it with her index finger, rimming the edge before pushing in her finger. She cried out, a scream that echoed around the lake and forcing birds to scurry from their branch. Deeper she went, but she could only just touch the bullet. As she released her finger, fresh blood poured out again, a deeper red descending her leg and turning the beach crimson.

  But as she could explain the blood that was from her wounds, there was no reason why the rest of her body was caked in this way, as though she had purposely smeared blood all over her body in delirium for some satanic ritual.

  The blood couldn’t all be hers. Then she remembered the driver.

  The driver’s car was still parked, and at the place where she had last seen him was a pile of flesh and shattered bones, flies buzzing around what once breathed. Feeling dazed, Anja ruffled her hair in slow motions, pulling away segments of skin and flesh. She looked back at the body before heading back inside. It would only be a matter of time until her father would send another driver, and although the party was over, she was suddenly aware of the rage he must feel towards her. Maybe he would arrive in person. That was certainly a possibility. If he did, then he would arrive soon.

  He would kill her for this.

  She thought about taking the car, but the road was long and lonely and they would surely find one another along the way.

  No—she knew that if her father came for her, then she wouldn’t leave the lake house alive. Just as she was about to enter the house, and (she didn’t know what she would do) wait, she supposed, from the wooden bridge something small and dark caught her attention. Then she checked at the other side of the lake and saw a parked car barely visible through the fog. She stepped outside and watched the bridge, the man sauntering across, watching her—always watching. And even though he was still too far away to see a face, she was absolutely aware of whom it was. That slow walk belonged to her father.

  There was no running or hiding now. Not much time to get rid of what remained of the body, and even if she could without her father seeing, there was still the issue of the car. All she could do was wait for him to come and pray that the monster inside of her would show for a final time, but as she glanced at the drivers remains, she realised that the monster had been fed.

  No—her father had won. She hated to admit that. It hurt her more than the bullet wound in her body, even more than seeing Jack being eaten on that polished chrome table. This is the way it had to be. Francis Dupont would kill her—she squeezed her eyes shut, not to imagine how he would end it, but to try and block out the thoughts that terrified her. As she opened them again, he wasn’t much closer. He was taking his time with her as if to inflict more punishment, and as he approached, she couldn’t yet see the features on his face, although she guessed he was grinning at her, mocking her for her mistake.

  It was at this point where she turned her attention to the lake once again. She took a step out of the doorway, and she smiled, a memory of happy times flooding her thoughts, moments spent swimming in the lake. She saw an eight-year-old Lucy paddling about in the shallows and daring herself to go that little bit further. Then Lucy at fourteen floating on her back where it was deeper, still waters like a mirror around her. Jack used to swim daily to the other side and back: a part of the Dupont fitness regime. Most of the time Anja would be waiting for him with a towel, and she thought, was this because she had loved him or was it her obligation to care for him in this way. Her part of making sure he had stuck to the rules her father had set out for Jack, and towards a fate in which he didn’t know. It was hard to decipher where love actually began. Was it love? But then she remembered the lovemaking: Lucy hadn’t been an accident. She was planned because of how they felt towards one another. And had they not been in love, then she was damn sure that she wouldn’t have sacrificed her life to a child.

  Her father was close enough to see his face, and it leered at her, a tight thin smile that worried her the more, but his eyes showed anger and ill intent. Still, his walk wasn’t hurried. As Anja’s eyes began to glisten, an emotion that she rarely showed, a sign of weakness she was taught, she looked beyond the lake. Could she see Jack on the other side, faint like a ghost within the clearing fog? He was standing on the opposite shoreline, stripped to his trunks and ready for the swim across. He stepped into the water, and before he pushed head first into the lake, he waved at her.

  Anja waved back, although unknowingly waving at nothing, and started to limp across the cobbles, passing the towel that was always left on the beach for after his swim, and took a step into the water. The water around her turned red as her skin was cleansed of yesterday evening’s events, and her wounds, not yet healed, started to bleed again. But she could feel no pain. She saw Jack and all thoughts of pain had gone.

  As she waded deeper, the water made her body tremble as it rose to her waist, and it made her giggle, too. Because she could see Jack. He had started his swim. She had started to wave at him, but his head was down, his arms thrashing through the water. As Anja pushed into the water, too, heavier at every step, she never heard her father shout behind her. He had gained pace, had passed the car and his employee’s remains beside it. Initially, he had thought that she was trying to get away from him, swim to the other side and disappear. So, Francis wasn’t too concerned. She would be easily enough caught.

  Anja had her sights on Jack, dived under and swam towards him.

  Francis now jogged to the shoreline and, noticing the trail of blood that led to the water, he became more concerned about Anja’s well-being. The tips of his black polished shoes were absorbed by the water. He had started to remove his jacket from his shoulders with the intention of going in and saving her, not as a father would his daughter, but because she had betrayed him, had embarrassed him, and now he wanted to make her suffer—his way. As he saw his daughter get further away, her head ducking under to reappear seconds later, there was a moment’s pause when it had been longer than a few seconds.

  The seconds turned into minutes. Ten minutes had passed before Francis slipped his jacket back over his shoulder. He stared out into the lake, at the last place he had seen her, the ripples that had long since passed, and then he looked beyond that, at the fading fog dancing through the trees like it was mocking him. In his head, he heard the laughter of Anja mocking him, too. As he stepped back, he kicked out his shoes; water had flooded them. And as he looked back at the water, he had a feeling of emptiness.

  17

  The fireplace was lined with framed pictures. Jack and Anja and Lucy posed together under the dark but warm lights of Romeo’s. Sam had taken the photograph at Jack’s fortieth birthday. Other pictures showed Sam and Sandra holding their newborn baby. They had called him Daniel. Another was of Daniel when he was two, and then one more when he was eight. Their son was now ten and recent photographs were hung in the alcoves three at a time in vertical precision.

  From the kitchen, voices sing a happy tune and are coupled with the smell of burning candles. Lucy sat at the head of the table. Daniel was to her left. She ruffled his hair and forced a smile just after she blew out the candles from the cake. But she was thinking of them; her parents, and gets lost in a vivid memory. Without realising, she was staring down at her half finished meal. Daniel grabbed her attention b
y jerking at her sleeve and Sandra told her to make a wish. She knew what she would wish for, although that would be impossible. So she changed her wish. Sandra reminded her that it’s bad luck to tell, so she didn’t.

  From under the table, she was holding her Uncle Sam’s hand tightly as if she didn’t want to let go. She wondered how long it would take to feel safe again.

  Sam suspected something was wrong and knew that eventually, she would tell him. He looked at her, and squeezed her hand to reassure her.

  Everything’s going to be fine, I promise.

  The rest of the table was empty. Lucy imagined her mum and dad were sitting opposite, but she shook away the fantasy, wiping away a tear because wishes don’t come true.

  Someday, she will open up her burden and tell her Uncle Sam what had happened, but for the moment she just wanted to enjoy the feeling of being a part of a real family.

  When everyone was in bed, Lucy laid on her back above the covers. She stared at the ceiling thinking about her mum, wondering what might have happened to her. She tried to convince herself that she was okay and that she would, one day, knock on Uncle Sam’s door wanting her back. But she knew something wasn’t right. And if she searched deeper into her rationalistic beliefs, she knew that her mum was already dead.

  Lucy thought about her wish and prayed that one day soon her wish would come true and Francis Dupont would die. She tried to plan in her mind how she could overcome such a man. For a start, she would need to discover where he lived. The more she thought about it, the more she became aware of the impossibilities.

  For now, Lucy hummed to herself the ‘happy birthday’ song and closed her eyes hoping for a worry free sleep, but the tapping on the window from the tree outside made her think about her grandfather again. She raised herself to her elbows, frowning at the window.

  Curious.

  She got up to double check. The window wasn’t open. She opened it so that she could lean out and look down both ends of the street, but there was no one around. Suspicion didn’t leave her as she slid the window shut, locked it, and went back to her bed.

  Once again, she found herself in her thoughts, staring at the ceiling. As her eyes felt heavy, and her mind became distant, her stomach protested. She rolled over, wrapping the covers around her body, cocooning herself, holding her abdomen tightly in an attempt to squeeze away the cramps that had caused so much discomfort.

  As her skin tingled, her eyes shot open and the taste of copper injected her mouth.

  The monster needed feeding.

  18

  Down North Avenue, oak trees hung across the road, branches reaching out from either side to gracefully touch each other, and unknowingly creating a roof over the cracked surface where trash cans lined the path ready for tomorrow’s collection. It was a little before midnight and a couple of the residents were still organising their trash, and scanning the street for any suspicious activity before retreating to the safety of their home and locking their doors. The street was empty by now. As people marked their place in the current book they were reading, they placed it on the side and turned out the lamp. Bathroom lights went dark; flicking lights from late television shows were the only lights now. Apart from the odd dog barking in some other street, and the street lamps slicing through the peace with a low hum, all was quiet.

  Francis waited under the oak tree outside Sam’s house, watched the room where Lucy had just shut the window. He stepped out from the shadow of the tree, and under the street lamp. He took off his black hat, played with the rim between finger and thumb, all the time looking at Lucy’s bedroom.

  Headlamps illuminated the night from a car across the road, and the engine ignited. A driver dressed in black exited the car, opening the passenger door ready for his employer. Francis looked at him with discontent, replacing his hat, then turned to look at her room for a final time.