by Sam Millar
‘Please don’t let it be her…please…’
He advanced cagily down the corridor. The stench was more pronounced down here, the darkness more complete. He glanced into the room to his left. Entered.
Karl didn’t recognise Butler’s corpse initially, but once he saw the carved-up and bloated forearm, he knew. Death in all its brutal nakedness can make hot blood run cold, make one more reflective of past thoughts and deeds.
He pitied Butler, lying on the floor naked, dead and alone, tortured and humiliated and ultimately snuffed out. If someone had told him a few days earlier that he would one day feel sympathy for the crime boss, he would have laughed. Yet, here he was, feeling exactly that.
But why in the hell was Butler here? Had he partnered Arnold, joined forces to snare Karl? Had it all gone awry, for some reason known only to the duo? He wouldn’t have pictured Butler – despite his faults – as wallowing in child abduction and abuse. Still, you can’t judge a book by its cover. No doubt it would all come out in the wash. Karl hoped he would still be around once that wash was done and the wrongdoers were hung out to dry.
He made his way up the stairs, easing each footstep down gently in the hope of not making too much noise. Even after all these years, he still remembered which wooden steps squeaked, which didn’t.
The rain outside was gathering momentum again. The emptiness of the great house multiplied its sound. He could barely hear himself thinking. Then thunder filled the air, unnerving him further. He stopped for a moment, just to steady the boat. Lightning hit the top of the house, sending slates rattling off the roof in a mad stampede.
Instinctively, he ducked his head, as if they were raining down on him. He pointed the shotgun towards the roof.
‘Fucking bastards…’ He laughed nervously.
Lightning struck again, momentarily giving brightness to the suffocating dark. A ghostly figure of a woman looked down at him from the top floor. She seemed to be pointing to the master bedroom, jabbing her finger in an urgent indication. The eerie sight took what little breath he had left.
‘What the…?’ She was attired in her favourite sweater of teapots. ‘Mum…’
The figure disappeared as the gloom settled again.
He blinked a few times, trying to clear his eyes, rally his thoughts. He began to tremble. A heroin addict in the depths of cold turkey. The pills. He needed the damn pills. Now. Help to calm the situation. Regain his composure. Help him think straight. Not see ghosts. Not see dead mothers long turned black-boned and empty-eyed.
He took a deep breath. Exhaled. Nice and slowly. Repeated. Let the oxygen go to the brain. It slowed the hammering in his chest a touch.
No ghosts. Only a monster, and you need to slay it before it slays you…
He inched onwards, strangely feeling more confident, but also more reckless. A cold calm began to assert itself. If he was to die, then fuck it. But he wouldn’t die until he had killed Arnold, this night, in this house.
Outside the master bedroom, he pushed his back against the wall, and listened. He could hear a sound. Someone hiding in the dark, waiting to ambush him? Is that what the woman was pointing at? He berated himself for such puerile thoughts. No. There was no woman. No mother. Lightning playing tricks. Still…
He brought the shotgun up to his waist. Poked the barrel into the darkness. Placed his finger on the trigger. He would fire one shell into the room, towards the ceiling. From the gun’s flash, he would have a microsecond of advantage, might see where the bastard was hiding. The flash would hopefully confuse Arnold as well. That’s all the advantage he would have, a microsecond. With the second shell, he would blow Arnold’s head clean off his fucking shoulders.
Karl slowly inhaled. He did a countdown in his head.
Three…two…o–
Whimpering. A heart-breaking whimpering.
Karl stopped counting. Brought the shotgun down to his side.
‘Who’s in there?’ he hissed.
The whimpering stopped.
‘I said, who the hell’s in there?’
Nothing.
‘Dorothy? Is that you, Dorothy? Say something to me, love.’
Nothing.
‘I…I’m a friend of the family. Your granny and granddad sent me to find you. Theresa and Tommy Naughton. Say something, Dorothy. Please, love.’
Nothing.
Then.
‘I’m…in here…please don’t hurt me,’ a small voice finally sobbed. ‘I don’t want to be hurt any more. I’m sorry for all the bad things I did. Just don’t hurt me…please…’
Karl stepped in. Quickly scanned the room. Dorothy was curled up in the far corner, knees up to her bowed head. It was pitiful to behold. Karl could feel his heart clench into a hard knot, then fill with such anger he silently cursed a god who turned a blind eye to such evil. He quickly knelt beside her. She was shaking.
‘It’s okay, Dorothy. You’re going home. Tiddles is waiting for you.’
Slowly Dorothy brought her head up, daring to peep out over her knees.
Karl was shocked by her scrawny, emaciated appearance. An urchin from a Dickens story. He would never have recognised her from the family portrait. He thought of his beloved Katie. Tears began to form in his eyes. He quickly brushed them away with the sleeve of his coat. Took the coat off and wrapped it around Dorothy’s shaking shoulders.
‘Tiddles? You…you know our wee Tiddles?’
‘I sure do know Tiddles, Dorothy. She’s the queen of all cats. She found you. Not me. Tiddles.’
‘How? How did she find me?’
‘It’s a long story, but I’ve got to get you out of here first, before telling you all about it.’
‘Will…will you take me home to my mummy and daddy, and our wee Cindy?’
Karl couldn’t look her in the face. Tears were threatening in his eyes again. ‘I’m taking you home.’
A feeble smile appeared on Dorothy’s face. ‘What’s…what’s your name, Mister?’
‘Karl.’
‘Karl? Just like my bear.’ Dorothy held out the old, mangled teddy bear. In a flash, Karl recognised his bear. Remembered the day his father bought it for him. He forced a smile. Patted the bear’s head.
‘That’s a great bear, Dorothy. Many’s the night he helped to get me through the dark. Come on. Time to go…’ Only then did he see the chain attached to her tiny ankle. His blood started to rise again. ‘You…you’ve been chained all this time, to this damn wall?’
Dorothy nodded. ‘Yes…me and Tara.’
‘Tara? Who’s Tara?’
‘She escaped. Scarman did terrible things to her.’
‘Scarman…?’ Arnold.
‘She pretended to be my friend. Said she was going to take me with her, but she didn’t. I hate her now.’
He rested the shotgun against the wall. ‘I need you to turn your head away, Dorothy, and close your eyes. Just for a few seconds, in case the dust gets into them. I need to try and pull this chain from the wall. Ready?’
‘Okay.’ Dorothy turned her head, squeezed her eyes shut. Hugged the bear tightly. ‘We’re ready.’
Karl wrapped the chain around his wrist twice, then a third time for good measure. He began pulling. Nothing. Attached too firmly to the wall. He gritted his teeth. Pulled. Nothing.
‘C’mon! You can do it!’ This time he thought of Arnold, of all his degraded, malevolent deeds. The chain became Arnold’s neck. Karl pulled again. His face bulged, turning red with pressure. Dust started to tumble from where the chain was esconced. He could see Arnold’s smirking face on the wall, laughing at him in defiance. ‘Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!’
A link in the chain snapped, shooting into the air. Karl slipped onto the floor, landing on his arse, winded.
‘Karl!’ Dorothy shouted, rushing to him. ‘Karl! Are you hurt?’
Karl smiled, despite everything. ‘My pride, Dorothy. That’s all.’
‘Look! You did it! The chain snapped. You’re Superman!’
>
‘I’ll have to remember that in future.’ He quickly stood, and scooped her up in his arms. He grabbed the loose chain on her ankle and gathered it up. ‘We’ll get this off once we get outside. No time to do it here.’
He took the stairs as quickly as he could without tripping over anything, his eyes and ears hunting the darkness for sight or sound.
Outside, the torrential rain was creating tiny nomad streams, passing the side of the house as if trying to flee. King waited. Motionless and soaked. Only when he spotted Karl did the tail wag slightly.
‘I thought you were smarter than that, boy.’
‘Oh, he’s beautiful, Karl. What’s his name?’ said Dorothy, staring down at the dog.
‘King.’ He put Dorothy down.
Immediately she started to pat King’s head and hug his neck. Karl straightened up to his full height. ‘Can you do something for me, Dorothy? Something very important?’
‘What?’
‘Can you look after King for me, just for a few minutes?’
Dorothy’s face suddenly became fearful. ‘You…you’re leaving me. I don’t want to be left alone.’
‘You won’t be alone. You’ll have King. He’s a great guard dog.’
Dorothy slowly nodded. ‘Okay, but you’re coming home too, aren’t you?’
Karl smiled. There was a sadness to it. ‘Of course I’ll be going home…I just need to go inside for a few moments.’
‘Okay. I’ll look after King. But don’t be long.’
He ruffled her hair, then turned and went back inside.
Chapter Forty-Two
It is the desperate wail of the Cicada, surprised in his quietude by the Green Grasshopper, that ardent nocturnal huntress, who springs upon him, grips him in the side, opens and ransacks his abdomen. An orgy of music, followed by butchery.
Jean-Henri Fabre, The Wonders of Instinct
Karl slammed the door behind him. Slid the middle bolt into its niche. Tried calming the tiny jumps in his stomach. Took a couple of deep breaths before shouting into the darkness.
‘Just you and me now, Arnold! No kids. No women. No little girls to take your evil perversions out on. Man-to-man, though we both know you were never a man to begin with. Just a gutless animal, a spineless–’
‘You were in such a hurry to get out, Karl, you forgot something!’ The voice called out from above, loud and powerful, but flat, as though incapable of emotion.
An unmerciful clatter of metal landed at Karl’s feet. He glanced down.
Sweet fuck! The shotgun. What a clown you really are. You know it’s still not too late to turn and run. Do something smart for a change. Think of those who love you – Katie, Naomi. They don’t want a dead hero. They want you back in their arms.
‘I suppose you’ve taken out the shells, Arnold?’
‘Why don’t you pick it up and see for yourself? I’m not an unsporting person.’
The darkness seemed to become denser the longer Karl stood there, debating with himself. He looked down at the shotgun, as though he could determine whether it was still loaded – any indication, no matter how flawed. It looked loaded. It looked empty.
‘Who’s the coward now, Karl, standing there shitting yourself, instead of grabbing the weapon? All of your brave talk is nothing but vanity and chasing after wind. Even that smelly farmer gave more of a fight, before I blasted his fat belly all over the wall. Took him an hour to die, you know. I had a meal in his kitchen while I watched him squirm and twitch.’
Karl buckled his knees, fell onto his shoulder, scooping up the shotgun, and rolled for shelter beside the staircase’s wooden ribs. He waited for his head to be blown into a million pieces of meat, but nothing came.
‘Well, Karl? Is it loaded or not?’
Karl checked. It was loaded.
‘See? Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t unsporting? You owe me big time, Karl. Oh, and don’t forget, I killed Butler for you. The cheek of him, thinking he was going to take my pleasure away. No one gets to kill you. No one except–’
Kaboom!
Karl fired towards the voice, moving at the same time to the bottom of the staircase, forcing his feet to take the steps two at a time. He flattened his body out on the second floor landing, out of breath, sweating and gagging on air. He was still alive! He wanted to laugh with joy, scream it out at Arnold.
‘That was dirty of you, Karl. Missed by a mile, but still, very dirty. It seems that I won’t be able to take you alive as I had planned, fuck you in the arse again, the way you loved it, all those years ago.’
Don’t let the bastard screw with your mind. Let him talk his way to his own grave.
‘No answer, Karl? You mother loved it, getting in the arse. Oh, she dearly loved it. I think that’s why you enjoyed it so much, knowing my cock had been up her arse first. Come on now. Tell the truth, shame the devil.’
Arnold was laughing, but it had a dullness to it.
The bastard is hunched down somewhere, hiding. He’s as fucking scared as I am.
Karl crawled along the landing, stopping at the blind spot where the stairs ran into the third floor banisters. The old storage room directly to his left. If he could get in there, it would offer a slight – very slight – advantage.
He took the chance, almost breaking his neck in the process. The shotgun hit the side of the door and went spinning out of his hands, down into the abyss.
‘Fuck!’
For a few seconds, Karl sat immobile, trying to dream up some new strategy. The old wardrobe mirror, in the far corner of the room, reflected his desperation right back at him through the shadows. He hardly recognised himself. He looked terrified. Lost.
‘I hate guns. Too loud. Too vulgar,’ said Arnold, standing at the door, holding the shotgun and a serrated hunting knife. He threw the shotgun at Karl’s feet. ‘Take it. You have one shell left, remember?’
Karl looked at the shotgun. Then at the monster standing before him. Arnold’s face was strapped up with silver duct tape, the spaces in between covered in dried blood, his features barely recognisable as human.
‘Well? What are you waiting for, Karl? Take it. You get one more chance. Make sure your aim is true and–’
Karl rugby-tackled Arnold. They both went flailing backwards, towards the banisters, crashing through them as though they were mere matchsticks. They went hurtling downwards, each grabbing the other in desperation, as if somehow that would save either of them.
In slow motion, Karl watched his life flash in front of him, as he gripped Arnold’s throat.
The sudden impact bounced both men off the mattresses, sending each in a different direction.
‘Argggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!’ screamed Karl, both legs snapping instantly upon impact. ‘Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!’
Arnold fared much better, his upper body cascading off the bottom of the stairs, dulling impact. However, he then landed awkwardly, snapping his left wrist and breaking three fingers. He moaned but, unlike Karl, he did not scream.
Karl felt consciousness leaving him. The blackest ink seemed to be seeping into every part of him. Strangely, he could no longer feel pain, as if he had destroyed that particular barrier and it could no long hold any power over him.
Arnold dragged himself over to Karl, knife in hand. Like Karl, he could barely breath and was taking great gulps of dusty air into his lungs, making him cough and splutter. He placed the knife under Karl’s throat.
Arnold seemed to be saying things, but Karl only saw a mouth moving in soundless syllables. His eyelids were becoming heavier and heavier, his will to live and fight quickly ebbing away.
Behind Arnold, someone appeared. A girl? A woman? She was holding a cutthroat razor. She was wearing that sweater.
‘Mum…?’
She was smiling down at Karl, but not in a nice way. The last thing Karl remembered was warm blood. So much of it. Stinging his eyes. Filling his mouth. He was swallowing it, choking on it…
Hidden in t
he midst of brambly bushes across from the house, Dorothy watched as a stream of police cars snaked up the hilly path. Some of the cars were having difficulty navigating the mucky road.
‘Look, King. We’re safe now. Here come the police.’
King wagged its tail, but kept its eyes trained on the front door.
‘I know, King. I wish Karl would hurry up too. I wonder what’s keeping him?’
Just then, the door opened. A figure stepped out. Covered in blood.
‘Tara!’ Dorothy ran towards her. Wrapped her arms around her waist. ‘You didn’t leave me after all!’
Tara hugged her tightly. ‘I told you I would never leave you, didn’t I?’
‘Yes…’
‘Now you’ve got to listen to me, for one last time.’
‘Okay.’
‘Soon, you’ll be home. Home with people that love you.’
‘I know, but aren’t you coming with me? They’ll love you, as well as me.’
‘I can’t go with you, Dorothy. I’ve…I have people who love me too. I can’t let them down.’
‘You’re my best friend. You can’t leave me.’
‘Listen, I don’t have much time. Do you really love me, Dorothy? I mean, really love me?’
‘Yes! You know I do, Tara.’
‘They’re going to ask you questions about me.’
‘Who, Tara? Who’s going to ask me questions?’
‘Everyone. The police, newspapers, your family. You mustn’t tell them anything. Do you understand? I would be in trouble if you do.’
‘Trouble? What kind of trouble?’
‘Big, big trouble. They’d put me back in Blackmore for ever and ever. They’d beat me every night. Do bad things to me. Is that what you want?’
‘No! I won’t let them take you away. I won’t!’
‘Then you mustn’t tell them anything.’
‘I…I won’t, Tara. I won’t.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
Tara gave Dorothy a long hug, and then kissed her cheek.
‘I’ll always be watching over you, Dorothy. Never forget that.’
Dorothy watched Tara disappearing into the forest, the rain following behind her like a giant cloak of darkness. She watched until there was nothing more to watch, and then she began sobbing.
