Black Cairn Point

by Claire McFall

  ‘Here!’ I screamed, brandishing the brooch. ‘Here! Is this what you want? Come and get it! Come and get it!’

  It worked. The creature howled and Dougie’s body dropped. There was a sickening crunch as he crumpled onto the rocks nearby, missing the relative softness of the sand by my feet. He lay unmoving, half in, half out of the water.

  There wasn’t time to go to him, to check if he was okay. My heroic action had done what I hoped: it had saved Dougie. It had also put the spotlight firmly on me.

  I tripped backwards, unable to tear my eyes away from the creature as it swooped towards me. The brooch was still clutched in my hand, half raised, clearly visible. I snatched it away, hiding it behind my back. I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t know how to destroy the brooch, or if that would help. The only thing I could think of was to get rid of it.

  Taking one panicked breath, I turned and began to run. I bolted past the glowing embers of the fire, expecting every second to feel claws hook into my back, wrench me skywards. Air rushed around me as the winds that announced the coming of the creature whipped up in warning. My eyes hunted through the darkness, looking for a weapon, an escape route. I found neither.

  The wind was picking up. The back of my neck prickled, as though it sensed the presence of danger. Too terrified to think clearly, I did the only thing left to me: I hurled the brooch away with all the strength I could muster. Though it was pitch black, the dark even more suffocating than usual, the brooch seemed to glow, emitting its own light. I watched it arc away from me, then drop back towards the ground. My throw was pitiful; I hadn’t even cleared the sand. Instead, the spinning disc flew neatly in through the semi-circular doorway to Dougie’s tent. I lost sight of it as it nestled down amongst the sleeping bags.

  Now what? The brooch was still here, still far too close. But so far away that I couldn’t retrieve it. If I went into that tent, I wouldn’t come back out. Not with the creature so close behind. I stared helplessly ahead of myself, hoping desperately that the brooch would magically reappear, fly far away and take the creature with it.

  Though my eyes were fixed, my feet kept running. I didn’t see the hole, the hole I’d dug with my own foot, sitting waiting by the fire. My ankle twisted awkwardly beneath me and my leg buckled under my weight. I fell, landing on the sand with a thud.

  My heart stopped. I took one quick breath, hunched my shoulders, closed my eyes. Waited for it.

  The whispering screeches of the wraith grew nearer, so close it seemed they were hissing in my left ear. But they passed me by. A shadow blocked out the light of the world for a heartbeat and then continued on. Towards the tent. Towards the brooch.

  I didn’t pause to wonder. I threw myself to my feet, using the chair to scramble my way up. The soft wool of Dougie’s jumper still covered the arm of the chair, and it came away in my hand. I stared at it, stared at the fire. At the lighter fluid sitting neatly beside. Click, click, click. A plan formed in my brain.

  Swinging my arm, I slapped the garment into the fire, clinging on to it by the sleeve. There wasn’t much heat left, but I snatched up the lighter fluid and squirted it wildly. It landed on the beach, my clothes, my hand, but enough sputtered onto the smouldering ashes and the jumper quickly caught fire.

  ‘Yes!’

  I turned and bolted for the tent. The wind was even stronger, sending blizzards of sand up into my face, blinding me. I ran on, trailing the burning bundle of cloth behind me. In one smooth movement I zipped up the tent flap, sloshing the rest of the lighter fluid over the flysheet.

  I’d no idea if the creature was inside. Couldn’t see it; couldn’t hear it. But the brooch was, and I had to hope that meant the monster would be somewhere nearby. I swung the jumper round, slapped the flaming end against the side of the tent.

  As soon as the burning embers touched the shining fabric, flames erupted out of nowhere. The blaze was blinding, engulfing the tent, reaching up into the sky like a dozen writhing snakes. An agonised hissing rose above the roar of the fire. The sound escalated to a snarl, then a scream. It peaked in waves, deafening me. It sounded like dying.

  The creature.

  Good. Die. That was what I wanted.

  I stepped back, away from the sound, away from the intense heat prickling at my skin. The noise diminished as I put one metre, then another, between me and the fire. But not the warmth. If anything it grew worse. My face was hot, but the source of the heat was lower, spreading across my abdomen. Burning, blistering. Excruciating.

  I was on fire. My jumper, where I’d spilled just a few drops of the lighter fluid, was wreathed in flames. The brilliant light of the tent had dimmed the smaller fire, but I was aware of it now. Shrieking and dancing on the spot, I beat at it with my hand. The flames fought back, forcing me to slap at my scorched clothes again and again. Each second that passed, I could feel the heat cooking my flesh. A nauseating smell wafted up, burning plastic from the nylon in my clothes mixed with something almost like food. Me. I gagged, pounding my stomach harder with my bare hand.

  Finally I won. The ragged material hung smoking, gaping holes revealing my t-shirt underneath. It was blackened too, but I ignored that. My every attention was focused on my hand. Or what was supposed to be my hand. I lifted it up, illuminating it in the glare of the raging fire still surrounding the tent. In silhouette, it was skeletal. Skin and muscle had been scorched away, revealing raw sinew and bloody bones. My arm shook as I tried to flex my fingers. I could feel nothing. Nothing but agony. Scalding, burning agony. It ran up my arm, straight to the centre of my brain where it pulsed, like a siren. My vision shimmered, blurred to black at the edges. Then my whole body went into shutdown.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Now

  I’m crying now. There’s no way to hide it and I don’t even try. Let Dr Petersen see. Let Dr Petersen see and let him think he’s won. I don’t care.

  I thought I’d forgotten the fear, the panic, the sense of helplessness. I thought I’d buried it deep down where it could no longer hurt me. I haven’t. The flood of icy blood in my veins, the pounding of my pulse, the adrenaline spiking my system, my hairs standing on end. I feel it. Feel it just as strongly as I did back then.

  I let out a choked gasp and realise I’ve been holding my breath. My hands are clutching each other, and my ravaged right is screaming in protest. I can’t seem to unglue them, though.

  I look up, those tears Petersen’s been working so hard for sparkling in my eyes. What now?

  He’s gazing at me strangely, and I wonder if I’m seeing a glimpse of the real him. He looks … confused. As if for the first time he might be considering that I’m telling the truth. I feel the first flicker of hope in more than a year.

  But the moment passes. We’re back to who we always are: him, sceptical and superior; me, crazy.

  ‘You did it, Heather,’ he says softly, his eyes focused very intently on me.

  I don’t respond, but the question is clear in the furrow of my brow.

  ‘You did it,’ he repeats. ‘You killed your friends.’

  Don’t react. Don’t. I close my face down just in time to stop the pain and outrage from showing.

  I knew he thought it, of course I knew. I could see it in his eyes, in the curl of his lip. But it hurts to hear him say it. Every time.

  But Dr Petersen isn’t finished. He continues in the same quiet, monotonous voice, as if he’s trying to lull me into a trance; like he’s a hypnotist, trying to burn this fact, this deceitful ‘fact’, into my brain.

  ‘You killed them. Martin and Darren and Emma. You murdered them. Strangled Martin and Emma, drowned Darren.’ He raises a hand to stop me before I get halfway through shaking my head. ‘They found the bodies, Heather. They found them, half buried in the cairn. Not broken like they’d been dropped from a great height, or clawed at by giant talons. The autopsy report found bruising round the necks of all three, identified asphyxiation as the cause of death.’ Petersen pauses, making sure he has my com
plete and utter attention. ‘If you hadn’t passed out from your burns, would you have succeeded in killing Dougie, too?’

  Burns.

  I flinch at the word. Burning. Sizzling, blistering, melting. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and believe for a few terrifying moments that I’m still on fire. I scream, then. Scream until pounding feet thunder up the corridor and my door swings open with a series of clicks and the orderlies pile in.

  But I am saved from the heat of my memories by the mention of Dougie. Anger takes the sting out of my scalding thoughts. I would never hurt Dougie. Never. I gaze at Dr Petersen steadily. He looks back, letting the silence go on and on …

  And on.

  And on.

  Finally he sighs, leans forward. One hand reaches out as if he’s going to touch me, but he thinks better of it and rests his palm flat against the satiny wood of the desk. Good. If he lays a finger on me I will do my best to rip it off before my escort manages to restrain me.

  ‘You killed them, Heather. Your friends. Somewhere, deep down, you know the truth. Admitting and accepting it is part of the healing process.’

  He takes a slow breath. I resist the urge to spit at him.

  ‘I want you to tell me what you did. I want you to tell me that you took the lives of three of your friends, attempted to take four. That you did it on purpose. And that you tried to hide the bodies. Admit it, Heather, and we can start to move on.’

  No.

  The first time I heard this version of events, I was in a hospital. A normal one. I was strapped to a bed – to keep me still and stop me aggravating my injuries, I thought – and there were tubes under my nose, sticking into my arm. My right hand was coated in bandages up to my elbow and I was so tired it was like trying to see through a fog. I did notice a policeman standing just outside my room. I noticed, but I didn’t wonder why he was there. Not then.

  It was days before I could stay awake long enough to talk to anyone. Then a man in a suit visited me. He asked me what had happened and I told him. He went away and another man came. I didn’t know his face then, though I’ve been looking at it at least once a week ever since. Dr Petersen asked me what happened and I told him, too. He didn’t frown like the other man had, he smiled. All the way through, right to the end. I remember thinking how odd that was.

  Then he told me a story of his own, one where I had a starring role.

  In Petersen’s version of events I lured Martin away from the campsite, up towards the cairn, where it was quiet. Private. Then I plied him with alcohol until he passed out, and once he was unconscious, I put my hands around his throat and squeezed. Hard.

  And stuffed the body inside the cairn.

  Back at the beach, I explained Martin’s disappearance away, hid his stuff. And congratulated myself on a job well done. But Darren and Emma had seen me leave with Martin, and they became suspicious. And so I had to silence them.

  One murder turned into three.

  Afterwards, I panicked. I doused the tent in petrol and set fire to it. I spilled some on my hand, too, and it caught fire along with the tent. That was the only part I recognised; I could feel the burning pain even if I couldn’t see the damage under the pristine white bandages. Dougie – who’d been ill and passed out in the other tent while I’d apparently done away with three of his friends – tried to stop me, and I hit him with a rock. Hit him so hard I fractured his skull and put him into a coma. Then I passed out from the pain in my hand before I could finish the job.

  A story. A story that was told to my parents, repeated in court.

  A story that became the truth. To everyone except me.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ I ask, accidentally speaking my thoughts aloud. ‘Why would I kill my friends?’

  Dr Petersen starts. I’ve never even entertained this story before. He scribbles a quick note to hide his glee then considers me.

  ‘You know why, Heather. Curiosity.’ I stare at him, appalled. ‘Death. You’re obsessed with it. You wanted to watch, to witness life drain away. You wanted to feel the power of playing God.’

  I don’t know what to say; how to respond. Dr Petersen has shocked me to my very core.

  I say nothing.

  Tick tock. Tick tock.

  This conversation is over. I stare at the clock until Petersen has no choice but to acknowledge what I’m looking at. His face crumples. Out of time.

  ‘We’ll continue this next time, Heather. But I want you to think about what I have said. You know the truth. It’s there, right in front of you. Grasp it. Help yourself.’

  I do help myself: out of the chair. Then I turn my back on Petersen and his stories. My escort opens the door for me and I am gripped by a sudden desire to run. I won’t get anywhere, I know that, but I can’t bear to stay in this room another second. Not another millisecond.

  I am practised at swallowing back foolish urges. I walk sedately through the door, past Helen who’s still tip-tap-typing. She doesn’t look up to acknowledge me as I pass.

  There’s a headache throbbing at my temples. Tension has kept my head gripped in a vice for the last two hours. It’s always the same. I know that the ache will take all night to dissipate, longer if I let myself dwell on the session, vindictively snarling snide responses at the imaginary Dr Petersen in my head. Usually I try to forget about it as quickly as possible, but I know that’s not going to happen today.

  It’s what he said about Dougie. It’s rankled me. The idea I would have turned on the one person to make it through this nightmare with me … For the millionth time I wish I could visit him. I’ve asked, but of course they will never let me. All I know is that Dougie’s in a hospital somewhere, bleeping machines monitoring his breathing, his heartbeat. He must still be there. No one’s told me so, but I know. Otherwise they would have switched him off, let him fade away. Then it would be four lives against my name.

  Walking slowly back down the corridor, plimsolls squeaking on the highly polished, marble-effect linoleum, I glance around, make sure no one’s watching. Then I close my eyes – just for the briefest of seconds – and say a prayer.

  I need Dougie to wake up.

  I need him to wake up and tell Dr Petersen and my mum and everybody else that I’m not a murderer.

  I need him to wake up and get me out of here.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Then

  I left the hospital in a wheelchair. It wasn’t that I was incapable of walking so much as nobody wanted me to. Because if I could walk, I might run. I really wasn’t capable of that, but no one seemed to want to take the chance.

  I was confused. Confused and scared. I’d told them what had happened. Told my story so many times I’d lost count. But that didn’t seem to be enough; didn’t seem to make anyone happy. I was alone too. My parents had been to visit me several times in the little room I had all to myself in the hospital, but the more I’d seen the smiling man – who I now knew as Dr Petersen – the less I’d seen them.

  I was loaded into the back of a vehicle that seemed to be a cross between an ambulance and a prison van. There was a trolley-like bed, an array of equipment hanging above it, but the person pushing my chair – a sombre man in a spotless white uniform – reversed me up the ramp and guided the wheelchair to a purpose-built space against the other wall. I heard a series of clicks as he locked the chair in place. Right across from me, dead centre in the railing of the bed, were a series of loops. Dangling from one was a set of metal handcuffs. That was when the first block of ice dropped down into my stomach. As the doors slammed closed on my right, and the engine started up, I felt the chill of a couple more. What was going on?

  I twisted my neck round to stare at the man. It was the only part of me I could move – I was strapped into the chair with a seatbelt-type contraption. He had taken a small, folding-down bucket-seat, like an air hostess without the smile.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  I hadn’t questioned anything up to this point as the whole manoe
uvre had been sprung on me so suddenly. One minute I was in bed, forcing down the lukewarm hospital breakfast, the next I was in a wheelchair, trundling quickly along the corridor, down in the lift, through the foyer …

  ‘You’re being transferred to another facility,’ he said. He looked at his watch as he spoke, avoiding eye contact. He was tense, his rigid posture adding to my discomfort.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  This time the orderly turned to face me, but his eyes were guarded, his expression unreadable.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  I didn’t believe him.

  ‘Where am I being transferred to?’

  He turned away from me again and spoke to the neatly folded sheets on the bed opposite.

  ‘Dr Petersen will be able to answer all of your questions when we get there.’

  Why not tell me now? I tried to slow my breathing, but it felt like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the cramped space. I plucked at the strap across my front, but that wasn’t the thing making my chest tight. I looked to the doors, desperately wanting them to open, but the gentle vibrations shaking the chair told me we were still moving.

  ‘How long will it take to get there?’ I asked, my voice croaky, my throat choked.

  ‘Not long,’ the orderly replied.

  That was the end of our conversation. I wasn’t wearing a watch, so it was hard to keep track of the minutes as they crept by. I paced them out by drumming the fingers of my good hand against my knee in double-time. Under the bandage, my other hand itched to join in, but there wasn’t room to move a millimetre under the painfully tight dressing. I made do with jiggling my whole arm restlessly.

  When the door finally opened, I barely had a second to glance at my surroundings before my view was blocked by two men wearing uniforms identical to the one the orderly wore. They went straight to my chair and unhooked it from the wall of the vehicle.