by Sam Millar
‘Why?’
Dorothy shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Just seems so sad. I would hate not to have my mum and dad.’
‘From what I was told, my ma and da weren’t up to much anyway. Give me away when I was three months old, the bastards. Anyway, enough sob stories. Do you want to hear about Scarman, or not?’
Dorothy reluctantly nodded. In truth, monsters were the last things she wanted to hear about in this house of horror.
‘When I came out of the wee shop, Scarman was standing beside a van. He had a photo of a wee girl. He tried showing me it, saying it was his daughter, she was lost, and had I seen her.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I’m nobody’s fool. I ignored the bastard. He made a grab for me, but I kicked him in the balls, hard.’
‘You kicked him? Are you joking?’
‘He’s not the first scumbag I’ve kicked in the balls. It was sweet, watching his ugly, scarred face fill with pain.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I clawed his revolting gob. Took his skin clean off. Broke a couple of fingernails, but it was worth it. I don’t remember much more than that. I think he poured something over my face to knock me out, some sort of drug, probably.’
Dorothy’s voice suddenly filled with despair. ‘He’s gonna do dirty things to us and kill us, isn’t he, just like on TV?’
She started sobbing, her shoulders shaking violently like a pneumatic drill. Tara’s hand reached out to Dorothy’s shoulder, but stopped before touching it, as if fearful of contamination.
‘Listen to me, and listen good. You do anything you need to do to survive in here. Anything. Got that?’
Dorothy didn’t answer. She continued sobbing, quieter now.
‘Don’t you want to see your ma and da again, and your wee sister?’
Dorothy sniffed. ‘Yes…’
‘You will, but not if you keep crying. Sometimes you have to die to stay alive.’
‘But…I don’t want to die.’
‘I mean die inside. Do things that are horrible.’
‘I don’t want to do horrible things.’
‘Then you will die. Really die, and Scarman will win. Do you want him to win?’
‘No…’
Tara brought her face right up against Dorothy’s. ‘Then remember this: you do anything you need to do to survive. Anything. Right?’
Dorothy was hit by the stench of Tara’s bad breath, and lack of washing. It was overwhelming, but despite wanting to puke, she knew better than to let it show on her face.
‘O…kay…I…I’ll try…’
‘You better do more than try.’
Dorothy started sniffing the air, screwing her face up. ‘What’s that terrible smell? It’s disgusting, like rotten cabbage.’
Tara pointed nonchalantly towards the far corner, where a rusted metal bucket lurked.
‘You have to use it if you need to take a shit or a pee. The chain on your leg stretches to the far corner, so you can get to it easily enough. Sometimes, Scarman brings old newspapers to wipe your arse with. It’s rough, but better than nothing.’
Dorothy pinched her nose. ‘I…I couldn’t use that thing. It’s horrible.’
‘Then you’ll shit yourself, won’t you? Do, and you’ll not be on this mattress for long. I can tell you that for nothing.’
‘But…you’ll be watching me go to the toilet.’
‘Why would I want to watch you taking a shit? Think I’m sick?
‘No, of course not. I….’
‘Just be careful Scarman isn’t watching, though. He has a wee peep-hole in the door.’ Tara grinned.
‘Don’t say that. I’ll just hold it in.’
‘Then you’ll burst open, won’t you? That should be fun.’
‘That’s not funny…’
‘Look, if it helps, just pretend you’re out camping in the woods, and this room is your tent. That’s what I do. Scarman comes every other day and cleans the pot out. He also brings scraps of food with him when–’
‘Oh, my stomach. I’m gonna be sick.’ Dorothy began to retch violently.
‘Not on this mattress, you’re not!’ Tara kicked Dorothy roughly off the mattress with her foot. ‘Use the bucket if you want to puke.’
Dorothy went rush-crawling to the bucket, as if her very life depended upon it. She retched like hell, before puking her stomach out. After a few minutes, she returned to the mattress, shaking terribly, tears rolling down her face.
‘I…I feel horrible…’
‘Get used to it.’
‘Can’t…can’t you stop tormenting me, just for a second?’
Tara forced a laugh. Stared directly into Dorothy’s face.
‘You should be thanking me. You said you couldn’t use the bucket, but you did. Lesson learned. There’ll be other things you don’t want to do in here, terrible things, but you better learn to do them if you want to survive.’
‘You…you’re a…horrible person.’
‘I’m not here to babysit a baby. I’m here to survive. With or without you, I intend to escape, and I won’t let you get in the way with all your moaning.’
‘Escape?’ Dorothy’s face lit up. ‘Will…will you take me with you, Tara? Please. I’ll do anything you ask, if only–’
‘So, you will do anything, after all, when it suits? See how easy it can be, once you set your mind to it?’
‘You…you will take me with you, won’t you?’
Tara began to smile, like a fox with a chicken clamped firmly in its jaws. ‘Of course. I would never dream of leaving you behind…’
Chapter Eleven
Doubt everything. Find your own light.
Gautama Buddha
Next morning, despite a buzz-saw hangover, Karl phoned his best friend, forensic pathologist Tom Hicks.
‘Tom? How’re things?’ Karl stationed his mobile between shoulder and ear, attempting to read the obituary page in the morning newspaper, killing the myth that men can’t multitask, at least some of the time.
Hicks’ voice sounded tired and raw. ‘Apart from dying with flu, migraines and backache, I’m still breathing. I haven’t been able to get out of bed in days. I can’t even–’
‘Okay, enough about you. Time is money. I need a bit of info, on the fire last week in the New Lodge, where the entire family died.’
‘The Reilly family? What about it?’
‘I’ve a client seriously doubting the official version. He’s the father of one of the victims. Was there anything strange, anything out of the ordinary, about the case?’
Karl could hear Hicks move slightly, as if trying to get comfortable in the bed.
‘Apart from some irresponsible person stacking over fifty bottles of propane gas beside a wall and causing an explosion?’
‘Apart from that, yes.’
‘I haven’t read the full report. Barney Blaney is standing in for me. But from what I did read and was able to discern, the fire started in the kitchen, or in the proximity to it, and was probably caused by a cigarette that wasn’t fully extinguished.’
‘Could the fire have been started maliciously?’
‘All things are possible, but let me give you a few statistics before you start making assumptions and getting yourself into trouble. Kitchens are the principal area of origin for home fires, and smoking is a leading cause of fire deaths. Eighty percent of all fire-deaths occur when people are asleep. Put alcohol into the mix, and you’ve an invite for disaster. Those are the hard facts, and appear to be cohesive in this scenario, as well as backing up Blaney’s report.’
Karl thought for a moment. ‘Do you rate Blaney’s judgement?’
There was a slight pause. ‘Well…he’s a highly qualified and competent pathologist. He knows his stuff. Foul play was ruled out, more or less.’
‘More or less?’ Karl added a suspicious tone to his voice.
‘Nothing has been conclusively established, because of the sheer ferocity of the f
ire caused by the explosion. The house practically disintegrated, along with the adjacent building, a grocery shop. Not all the bodies were accounted for, or what was left of them.’
‘Why do you think that was?’
‘Instantaneously vaporised, is one appalling explanation. Or pure incineration. Coupled with this were the gale-force winds that morning, and throughout the day, creating extreme conditions that would have hindered finding all particles from the bodies.’
‘I see…’
‘When you say it like that, you clearly don’t see at all. Look, if it makes your client feel better, ninety-nine percent of the time, friends and family are wracked with guilt at not having been able to prevent the unpreventable. They end up conjuring conspiracy theories about fires being started deliberately. Ninety-nine percent of the time they are wrong, of course.’
‘What about the other one percent, who are proven right?’
There was a five-second stony silence before Hicks replied.
‘That’s why they hire people like you, Karl, hoping to prove people like me wrong.’
Chapter Twelve
If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.
George Orwell, 1984
‘Do you want to see something?’ Tara said, grinning at Dorothy.
‘What?’
‘A secret.’
‘What kind of secret?’
‘The best kind. The dangerous kind.’
Dorothy didn’t want to be part of any secrets this strange girl might have, especially dangerous secrets, but she also didn’t want to insult her.
‘What is it?’
Tara turned, edged up to the top of the old horsehair mattress. Slid her hands inside. When she extracted her hands, she was holding three items: an ancient cutthroat razor; a busted cigarette lighter; and a miniature, moth-eaten teddy bear, encrusted in dirt, most of its face missing.
‘I’ve been chipping beneath the boarded-up window with this old razor. I’ve already made a wee spy-hole to see outside. If we make it bigger, we can escape. The wood isn’t very strong. It’s filled with woodworm. This whole shitty place is falling down.’
‘Won’t that take forever, using that rusty razor?’
‘Not now that there’s two of us. Don’t you see? I can work away at the wood, while you listen out for Scarman.’
The mere mention of Scarman’s name made Dorothy’s stomach percolate with nerves. ‘But…what if he finds out? Won’t…won’t he punish us?’
‘The trick is not to let him find out, isn’t it? Any wee bits of wood from the cutting, I shove it out through the hole. That’s what I’ve been doing, every chance I get.’
‘But how are you able to reach the window from here? It’s so far away.’
‘Not when you can do this.’ Tara arched herself downwards towards her ankles, her hands pulling slowly on the manacle. Within seconds, she had slipped her bare foot out of the metal enclosure.
Dorothy looked on in amazement.
‘How…how did you do that?’
‘I’m double-jointed. It comes in handy when I break into houses to steal. Give it a try. You might be double-jointed as well, without even knowing it. Go on. Try it.’
‘Okay…’ Dorothy took a deep breath before reluctantly carbon-copying each of Tara’s moves. She slowly pulled on her ankle. Her face cringed. ‘That’s sore! My skin’s coming off!’
‘Can’t you stop fucking moaning for a second? It’s only a scratch. Try it again.’
Gritting her teeth, Dorothy reluctantly attempted the manoeuvre again. This time, blood appeared beneath the shredded skin. ‘Arhhhhhhhh! I’m bleeding!’
‘It’s nothing. A wee speck.’
‘It’s not a wee speck. And it’s sore.’
‘It’ll toughen you up. You’ll need that, if you want to get out of here, and beat this bastard. You need to keep trying it, every chance you get, wee bit by wee bit. Eventually, you’ll be able to get your foot free from the chain.’
‘I…I’m sure there are people looking for me, right now. My mum and dad won’t give up until they find me. They’ll rescue me.’
‘Stop fooling yourself. No one’s gonna rescue you, except you. Get that through your thick head.’
‘Why are you being so nasty to me? I didn’t do anything to you, did I?’
‘Shut the fuck up!’
‘Okay…I…I don’t want to make you angry. I’ll keep quiet, if that’s what you want.’
‘Just stop getting on my nerves and messing up my head! I was fine until you came here, asking question after question.’
Watching Tara pace up and down, mumbling, tightened Dorothy’s stomach like a taut spring. There was something unpredictable, malevolent even, about Tara that frightened the life out of her.
After a few minutes of pacing, Tara said, ‘I saw an old man walking along the grass-way, the other night. I think he was a farmer, the way he was dressed, and walking like a duck. I flicked the lighter a few times, you know, like Morse code, hoping he’d see me.’
‘What’s Morris code?’
‘Morse, not Morris. Don’t you know anything? I can’t be arsed explaining everything to you. Morse code is like secret signals.’
‘How would the farmer know if it’s secret?’
‘You really are daft, aren’t you? C’mere. Let me show you something.’
Tara walked to the door. Dorothy hobbled behind her.
‘Do you see that metal box inside the door?’ Tara said, pointing.
‘Where the keyhole is?’
‘Behind that is a large bolt. That’s what Scarman locks the door with. Not a key.’ Tara placed her shoulder against the wall, and began snaking her arm through the tiniest of gaps in the plaster. A moment later, Dorothy could hear metal scraping against metal.
She watched in horror and amazement as the door creaked, opening a sliver.
Tara smiled at the look on Dorothy’s face.
‘I don’t blame you for looking scared. Sometimes even I get the shits, putting my arm out there, as if he’s waiting with a big butcher’s knife, ready to slice my arm off.’
‘Won’t…won’t he…see it open?’
‘No, I can slide it back in place without him knowing. A couple of times, when I heard his van drive away, I sneaked down the stairs, looking for grub.’
‘You didn’t, did you? You’re mad for doing that.’
‘Mad…?’ Tara seemed hypnotised by the word. ‘Yes I am, aren’t I? That’s what they said about me in Blackmore.’
‘Aren’t you terrified, putting your arm out?’
‘Shitting bricks, but I get a real strange thrill in my stomach, as if it’s being tickled from inside. It’s like, don’t do it, but the more I tell myself not to, another part of me is daring myself to do it. Like a devil and an angel, on my shoulders.’
‘What’s downstairs?’
‘Rooms. Lots of rooms. All the windows are boarded, with wood and metal bars across them. The front and back doors can only be opened from outside. I tried getting out, but it’s no use. I found some hard bread, though, in a filthy cupboard in the kitchen. Rats had been feeding on it, but it was delicious.’
Dorothy made a puke face. ‘You ate filthy bread touched by rats?’
‘You think you wouldn’t? Just wait until you get pains in your stomach from the hunger. You’ll wish you had a slice, even a crust, anything to stop the pain and cramps.’
‘I don’t care how hungry I was, I’d never eat it.’
‘You said that about the bucket…’ Tara put her arm back out through the gap, securing the bolt in its rightful place.
A wobbly smile of relief appeared on Dorothy’s face, seeing the closed door.
‘Why do I feel safer now that it’s closed, Tara?’
‘Fear. You’re filled with it. You’ve got to overcome it, face it. That’s how I survived in Blackmore.’
‘Blackmore? You keep saying that. What is it?’
‘The o
rphanage I was in, until I escaped. They used to scare the girls in there, with talk of the devil taking them away if they didn’t do what they were told. There was an old tower in the centre of the yard. It was black with age, like something out of a horror story. Pastor Kilkee always told us, that’s where Satan comes at night, watching. If we didn’t do things for him, Satan would take us away with him, to Hell.’
Dorothy shuddered involuntarily. ‘Don’t talk about…you know, “S”. I don’t like hearing his name.’
‘Satan? Ha! Know what I did when they told me Satan was in that big dark tower?’
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘One night, I sneaked right over there in the pitch dark, a black candle and a deck of cards in my hands. I lit the candle, and spread all the cards out in front of me. It started raining, thunder and lightning, the entire fucking show. Then I called Satan up from–’
Dorothy placed her hands tight against her ears, trying to block the sound of Tara’s words from her head, hobbling back to the mattress.
‘Please, Tara, stop talking about–’
‘–Hell, told him to take me away.’
‘Stop it!’
‘Next thing I knew, footsteps started coming up the stairs. Really weird footsteps, like a goat would make. The footsteps were getting closer and closer. Then I saw him – yellow eyes, fangs, tail, face all hairy…’
‘Stoppppppppp it!’
‘It was Bonzo.’
Dorothy slowly took her hands away from her ears. ‘What…?’
‘Bonzo. The cook’s shaggy dog.’
‘Dog…?’
‘That’s right. Not Satan, but a stupid dog. Next thing I know, Bonzo’s licking my face and wagging his tail, like I’m this big dog biscuit. That was when I knew, there’s no such thing as Satan. That was when I knew, I had the power to overcome my fear. That was when the staff began to fear me, especially Pastor Kilkee…’
Chapter Thirteen
As a dog returns to its own vomit…
Proverbs 26:11
Karl’s car rolled to a slow halt outside the Naughton home. He looked out the side window, disbelieving the scene before his eyes.
