by Lara Dearman
He ordered a tonic water with a slice of lemon and, as it was suppertime, a plate of fish and chips. They stayed out there, smoking cigarettes, their voices getting louder as the light faded. He was just thinking he would have to move when she pulled away from the group, shaking her head. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it looked like she was leaving. She walked directly under the window he was sitting at and crossed the road, heading towards the Crown Pier. She was going home. He would meet her there.
He parked at the side of the road, just before the entrance to the Delancey Housing Estate. These were the worst States’ houses on the island. They were vulgar. Dirty and poor. He’d read a report once, probably commissioned by the States at great expense, which concluded that real poverty did not exist on Guernsey. Perhaps it didn’t, not absolutely. After all, satellite dishes adorned most of the houses, cars, which appeared to be in good working order, were parked at the side of the street, and no doubt the residents had food on their tables each night. Teenagers leant against the wall at the corner wearing tracksuits, white running shoes and baseball caps, smoking Bensons and drinking bottles of Brody.
He checked the rear-view again and wondered if he’d misjudged. Perhaps she hadn’t been heading home after all. Perhaps she’d stopped off on the way or decided to stay over at a friend’s. It was already after nine. He could not wait here all night. He should go home. But then this would all have been a waste of his time, and time was a dwindling, precious commodity. He would stay. It was the right thing to do.
He hated this. The indecision. He clenched his teeth together until his jaw hurt. His face felt hot and he could hear the beating of his own heart as if his ear were pressed to his chest. It fluttered. Once, twice, three times. Palpitations – a weakening of the body to match the weakening of his mind. He wound down the window and gulped down the cool air.
It was just then that he saw her. She was alone and swaying slightly. She must have stopped for a few drinks at the Red Lion on the way home. Perfect. He closed his eyes. All would be well.
* * *
Two a.m. It was done. He lay naked on his bed. He could smell her and the sea on his skin. He would not wash. Not until the morning. He felt cold and he pulled the bed sheets around him. Usually, afterwards, sleep took him quickly. Tonight, there was a buzzing. Like a tiny wasp was trapped inside his head. This was not the first time he had noticed it. He knew it. Knew its name and purpose. It was called Doubt. And it was here to torment him. He tried to kill it, to flatten it with his thoughts. He closed his eyes, went all the way back to the beginning. To Elizabeth. Remembered that morning; her, resplendent in the golden sunlight. And those that had followed, he thought of them. Tried to soothe his tired, aching brain with the memories of their deaths; the sweet smell of their skin, the feel of it, cool and wet against his own, the elation he felt at the knowledge that he, and he alone, had saved them.
The buzzing.
He opened his eyes again. Could he see it? On the ceiling? A tiny shadow, flitting round and round the lampshade.
He got up and switched the light on. Nothing. The sound of a motorbike revving in the distance. He pulled on his robe. He climbed the ladder to the attic. Although he had lived alone for years now, he could not shake off his habit of retreating away from the rest of the house when working. He needed to be separate from everything that anyone else had touched or seen. He had thought about moving everything out to the bunker, but he liked to keep that just as he found it, a monument of sorts, to his and the island’s heritage. And, besides, there was always the chance, despite his best efforts to secure it, that a tourist or an amateur historian would stumble on it and get in somehow. It was better to have his work here. Where he could protect it.
He sat at the desk. Flicked through his research. Reassured himself. She was a clear-cut suicide risk. Alcoholic father, possibly abusive; ill-educated mother who struggled to cope. She’d been getting into trouble for years. And then there was the drinking, the downward spiral. It made sense, after today, that she would load up on alcohol and Valium and walk into the water, leaving her short, troubled life behind her. He rearranged the desk. This was idiotic. It was unbecoming. He’d done this so many times. He was careful, cautious. He knew how it worked. Nobody would question this, he was sure of it.
He went back to bed. He slept like the dead.
27
Jenny
Wednesday, 19 November
They stood outside the entrance to the Fermain Tavern, or ‘The Tav’ as it was affectionately known, while Sarah texted the sitter for the second time since they’d left her house fifteen minutes ago. A deep, thudding bass permeated the air and the crowd whooped and cheered from inside as the tune picked up. Jenny had spent many a night here as a teenager. It was the best place on the island to rock out with a pint of Breda. At least it used to be and, judging from the noise coming from within, it was as popular as ever.
‘So this is Simon’s band.’ Jenny looked at the poster on the door, a sepia-tinted photograph of four men, one of whom was Sarah’s husband, Simon, sitting on the edge of a tractor-trailer filled with musical instruments – guitars, a drum kit, violins, a harp, a flute – sticking out of the top of the pile. Across the bottom it read, ‘Live Tonight! Tom Le Jardin and The Wrecks.’
‘Yep, Simon plays bass. And that’s Tom, the guy I was telling you about.’ She pointed to the man at the front of the photograph. ‘He knew Hayley Bougourd. Went to school with her. Which is fantastic, because, let’s face it, you wouldn’t have come out just for the fun of it, now would you?’
‘I would have! It’s just a bonus this guy knew Hayley. Thanks for asking around. He’ll talk to me, you think?’
‘Sure. He’s a nice guy. Friendly. Good-looking. Single.’ She did not meet Jenny’s eye.
‘Are you and my mum in some kind of club?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you want to borrow my lip gloss?’
* * *
It was crowded inside. Packed. There was hardly room to stand. And it was dark. Much too dark. Jenny took a step backwards, towards the open door behind her, tried to give her eyes time to adjust, but already there were more people coming in and the momentum of the crowd carried her towards the bar. Bodies pushed and shoved against her and the air was warm and heavy with other people’s breath. When she reached it, she held on to the countertop of the bar with one hand. She pressed her other hand tightly to her side, squeezing her thumb and index finger together, simultaneously releasing a long, slow breath. She had a safe place for when she was stressed. The therapist had apparently locked it in her brain, somewhere, and the thumb-squeeze was the key to opening it. She had a sneaking suspicion it was bullshit, but the act of doing anything at all to combat the fear seemed to help. She tried to visualize her room as it was when she was a child, her bed, the smell of newly washed bedclothes, the sounds of the birds in the garden and of her dad mowing the lawn. Safe. Calm. Safe. Breathe.
‘Do you want a drink?’ Sarah shouted into her ear, shutting the door to the room in her memory and bringing her back to reality.
‘I’m going to the loo,’ she shouted back. Her voice reverberated around them, the sound waves bouncing off those of the music, vibrating and distorting.
‘What?’ Sarah cupped a hand around her ear.
‘Toilet!’ She pointed towards the door to the ladies, a few feet from where they were standing.
Sarah nodded. ‘I’ll get you a beer!’ She mouthed the words slowly and gave her a thumbs up.
Cooler air washed over her as soon as she opened the bathroom door and she breathed in deeply, filling her lungs with the smell of bleach and urine and artificial pot-pourri air freshener, dispensed, unprompted, every few minutes by a small white machine stuck to the wall. The music was muffled in here, only a little, but enough for her to calm her racing thoughts. She stood at a sink, the white porcelain stained yellow, the plughole rusting, and splashed cold water over her face, letting
the droplets run down her neck. She’d been in plenty of dingy bars over the last few years with no problem. She was already anxious, that was the reason. Pushing herself too hard. And for what? The News didn’t want the story. This was all on her. She could stop whenever she wanted to. Maybe she should. She would talk to this friend of Hayley’s then she’d go home, take a bath, read a book, try to relax.
She patted her skin dry with a paper towel, trying not to smudge what little make-up she was wearing. Next to her, three girls crowded around a phone, discussing the right way to respond to a text message one of them had received. One of them wore a tight Care Bears’ T-shirt, her large breasts straining against the bright pink fabric. They all wore skinny-jeans and had private-school accents, the air of the returned university student about them. One of them caught Jenny looking, asked her if she was all right. Jenny nodded and forced a smile but didn’t move, and then they were all looking at her and she realised they wanted her to leave so she did, although she wasn’t really ready to. She’d needed a couple more minutes to clear her head.
She pushed her way back to the bar, where Sarah was waving a ten-pound note at the barman, trying to get served. Jenny tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the door to the beer garden, which was on the far side of the stage. Sarah nodded and Jenny started to make her way through the crowd. The band had stopped playing and fill-in music blared from the speakers. Stage lights flashed, bathing the room in colour, first blue, then green, then red. People jostled around her, heading back towards the bar: the brush of a damp T-shirt, a bare arm, the sharp tang of fresh sweat and spilled beer, faces washed in red. One or two were familiar and she nodded, forced a smile as she pushed past. One step, two steps, she was making progress. A group with their backs to her, heads tipping back as they swigged from bottles, blocked her way. She reached out, tapped the shoulder of a man. A man in a black hooded top. He turned.
It was him. It was Jamie. He looked different, broader, his once-lanky teenage body now filled out and older, obviously. But she’d never forget that smile, twisted and sardonic. Her cheeks burnt and her eyes watered as blood pumped furiously to her head, flooding her brain, slowing her thoughts so they became thick and foggy, like in a dream. He showed no signs of recognition but stepped aside with a little mock bow and held his arm out, making way for her. She walked past, forcing each step, her legs heavy, head down, pressing forward, heading for the door, but the further she got from the stage the darker it became and soon she could see only shapes, black against red, and it felt like she was swimming through thick tar and it was filling her eyes and her nose and the music throbbed and hummed and flowed through her ears and filled her head, and for a moment she fancied she could actually taste the noise; it flooded her mouth with metal and salt, thick like blood but cold, ice cold, like seawater.
* * *
She’d been sixteen. It had been the first time she’d lied to her parents, at least about anything important. She’d said she was going to Sarah’s house. Sarah said she was going to Elaine’s, and so on and so forth so that none of them were where they were supposed to be and nobody’s parents had the faintest clue what they were up to. Which was nothing very much, really. A few beers, some cigarettes – and one of the boys had some pot.
They met at a house near Fauxquets Valley, Jamie’s house. Jenny didn’t know him very well, but he was tall and good-looking and all the girls fancied him. Not Jenny, though. He made her uneasy, although she often wondered if that was hindsight, if she remembered it differently after the fact. Jamie had suggested they walk through the valley to look for the headless horseman. She’d laughed and said everyone knew the horseman only came out in the winter. Then they’d all laughed except him and he’d looked at her strangely, asked her what the fuck did she know?
They’d walked through the valley on a rough path of dust and shale, shaded by trees, drinking beer and making stupid ghost noises. It was a hot summer’s evening, a rumble of thunder in the distance but the sky clear and blue through the canopy of leaves above them. She’d been happy and relaxed, smoked a couple of cigarettes, chatted along with everyone else.
They’d turned off the path, through a metal farm gate secured with a loop of rope. They’d walked through long, dry grass until they were on high ground, looking down over more fields as far as the sea. Storm clouds gathered out over the water, a safe distance away. Someone had brought a blanket, someone else a portable stereo. Soon they were listening to Gomez and drinking warm beer and waiting for the sun to set over Albecq.
Jenny had remembered there was a bunker in the fields somewhere. She’d asked Sarah if she wanted to look for it, but Sarah was stoned, or pretending to be, lying on the blanket waving her fingers in front of her face and giggling. So Jenny walked alone.
At least, she’d thought she did.
It was a little further than she’d thought. She’d crossed two wide fields, the sun warm on her back, dry grass tickling her bare ankles and grasshoppers scattering with each step she took, before she found what she was looking for. It had been fenced off and covered with ‘keep out’ signs. She could see the entrance, a hole in the ground, a little wider than a well opening. It ran vertically down about fifteen feet where it connected to a narrow tunnel, which led off into a deep chamber. Last time she’d been there she and her dad had climbed down the rusty iron ladder attached to the side and explored the dank space with a torch, but from what she could see through the fence, the ladder had been removed. She remembered thinking she would have to tell Charlie. He would moan about health and safety ruining all the fun. She’d turned. Jamie was standing there, a few yards away.
‘What you looking at?’ He’d ambled over. Those relaxed, sloping shoulders, a practised nonchalance in the way he moved.
‘It’s a bunker. You used to be able to climb into it.’
‘Let’s have a look then.’
He’d climbed over the fence easily, crouched down, looked right into it. She shouldn’t have followed. The sun was setting. And she’d known there was something not right about him. But it was her bunker. She’d set out to find it. It annoyed her that he should be the one in there. She’d climbed over the fence. Crouched down a few feet away from him. Looked down into the blackness.
His hands on her. One on her breast, one on the back of her head and he’d pulled her towards him, pressed his lips against hers so hard it hurt, and she had tasted the beer on his breath and felt his tongue in her mouth and she’d tried to pull her head away but he’d forced her towards him so she’d done the only thing she could think of to get away. She’d bitten down on his tongue. He’d yelled, pushed her back, held his hand to his mouth, pulled it away, bloodstained. And then he’d laughed. Bitch, he’d said. Fucking bitch.
It had happened so quickly she’d had no time to scream. A shove, a rush of air, and then suddenly she was face down in a pile of leaves and rubbish, which softened the impact, but her nose felt broken and maybe her wrist. She’d cried. Looked up, saw him standing there, a dark shape above her.
And then he’d left her. At the bottom of a pit, with no way out.
She’d shouted. Then she’d waited. He would come back, she’d thought. Or one of her friends would come looking for her. By the time she’d realised no one was coming and she’d started to scream there was nobody there and the rain had started.
She’d moved inside the tunnel. The ceiling was not high enough for her to stand. The failing light outside meant she could see only four or five feet in front of her and then it was pitch black. She’d stayed calm. Someone would come. Her friends would ask Jamie where she was. He would tell them. But some part of her had known that he wouldn’t. Her parents wouldn’t worry – she was supposed to be at Sarah’s house. But she’d kept calm. She’d gone back into the entrance. Looked up at the twilight. Felt around for a foothold. Run her hands over the walls but felt only slick, cold concrete. She’d found the holes where the ladder once was but there was nothing substantial enough to get a hold
of and eventually, soaking wet and exhausted, she’d crawled back into the tunnel.
She’d huddled there, in the dark, her head throbbing and she’d shivered against the cold and the wet. That was when it started.
Flashes. Flickering shapes.
As they came closer, she’d seen that they were faces. Ghoulish, twisted faces, each one more frightening than the one before. They’d floated passed her. She’d closed her eyes but that only made it worse. They were brighter, closer, scarier in her head than they were outside. She’d known it was some kind of trick of the mind and she’d folded herself into a ball, wrapped her arms around her aching head, creating her own cocoon, inhaling her own breath. She’d felt safer like that. She’d relaxed, just a little, felt almost sleepy after a while.
Until she’d heard the noise.
From behind. From the chamber. A scratching and scraping, like something was trying to burrow and claw its way out. It got louder and louder and then the shrieking started. High-pitched and relentless, like no creature on earth she’d ever heard, and she’d screamed until she hadn’t been sure if the noise was coming from her or whatever was behind her and she’d thrown herself out of the tunnel and scraped and clawed at the walls until her nails were broken and bloody and her hands were shredded and she’d screamed and screamed for what felt like hours until she’d heard shouting from up above, not just any shouting, someone calling her name. ‘I’m down here,’ she’d sobbed. ‘I’m down here!’ And it was her dad who’d replied, who had brought the rope and a couple of mates to help drag her out.
