The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito)

by Tania Carver

  The table that he sat at was different too. It was a copy of the real one but not right. The one in their house in Mosley came from a store that had gone under in the credit crunch and no one had stepped in to take their place. No one made furniture or furnishings like that shop any more. A good copy, then, but not perfect. A detail that jarred.

  But the cutlery, the plates were all the same. They might have been his.

  There was one other thing in the room. A doll. The same shape and size as his daughter. Dressed like his daughter. Sitting at the other end of the table, half in shadow. A dish of food in front of it.

  A mad woman’s idea of a complete family.

  He thought it best not to mention it.

  ‘Well?’ she said eventually, eyes gesturing towards the food. ‘D’you like it?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s good.’

  A satisfied, even smug, smile appeared on her face. For only a few seconds, then it was replaced by doubt.

  ‘Good? That’s it, is it? Just good?’

  ‘Yeah, good. It’s pork and chorizo goulash, what more would you like me to say?’

  ‘Is it the best one you’ve ever had? Better than Marina’s?’

  He put his fork down, stared at her. ‘I thought you were Marina.’

  Anger flashed in her eyes. Anger and an unhinged malice. ‘Don’t get clever, you know what I mean. She’s gone. Old and worn out.’ A smile. Still with the same unbalance in the eyes. ‘I’m here now. And I’m her. But I’m so much more than her. So I’ll ask you again.’ She picked up a knife as she spoke, began idly toying with it, caressing it. ‘Is mine better?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phil, becoming afraid of arguing, ‘yes it is.’

  She sat back, beaming once more.

  ‘Though to be fair, she never cooked it. It was always me. My dish.’

  Her eyes stared at him once more. Unblinking, unmoving. Unreadable. But not good. He knew that.

  Eventually she regained her composure. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘from now on it’ll be me cooking it.’

  He said nothing. She smiled once more, head to one side.

  ‘I want to make you happy, Phil. I want to give you everything you love.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I understand you, Phil. Like no one else on this Earth. I understand you.’

  Phil said nothing. Just ate in silence.

  He had one hand free. The other was strapped to the arm of the wheelchair. As were his legs. It must have been quite a struggle to get him into it from the bed, he thought. And then to get him into this room. Did she have help to negotiate the stairs? Were there any stairs? Was there a lift? Too many questions.

  And then there was what she had said to him, whispered, in the bedroom. Those two words had stunned him. While he ate he had thought about them, tried to rationalise her knowledge. Anyone could have discovered that, he tried to convince himself. Anyone. That wasn’t so special. But there was something in the way she had said it, the look in her eyes. Like she knew what she was talking about. Like she had been there… And that was something that terrified him. He had to get away from her as soon as possible. He definitely wasn’t safe.

  But he didn’t think he would get answers by being confrontational. Despite the creeping fear he was experiencing, he knew the best thing to do would be to tamp down his rising hysteria, go along with her, find out what she wanted. Then hopefully identify her weak points and exploit them.

  And hope – somehow – that in the meantime Cotter and her team were looking for him and would find him. Before it was too late.

  He finished the goulash, put down his fork. She was still sitting there, staring at him, face expectant. She needed something from him.

  ‘Great,’ he said. He tried to remain calm, despite the pounding in his chest. But it seemed he had said the right thing.

  ‘Now,’ she said, getting up, ‘don’t worry about the dishes, leave all that to me.’ She looked down at him. ‘Am I going to have to taser you again to get you back to bed?’

  ‘Do I have to go back to bed? I’ve just eaten.’

  She frowned, thinking.

  ‘It’s not what I would do at home.’

  She didn’t even say You are home, he noticed, so busy was she thinking. She was taking his words as a test, proving to him that she knew his routine.

  ‘No,’ she said eventually, ‘let’s go into the living room.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Phil. Careful not to antagonise her, but also demonstrating to her that she knew what he did with his evenings. He hoped she would find the gesture – at least on the surface – respectful. Then he tried to push the point. He nodded towards the doll at the end of the table.

  ‘What about her?’

  The woman glanced at the doll, back again. The expression on her face was of incomprehension. ‘She’ll stay here. She doesn’t leave the table until she’s finished her dinner. And then she can go to her room.’ She smiled. Back in control. ‘Leaving us alone.’

  ‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘So into the front room we go.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you can tell me more about this darkness you think I have inside me.’

  She froze. Turned to him. Her eyes as icy as her voice when she spoke. ‘I’ll decide when we talk about that. I’ll decide when you’re ready.’

  ‘Same with those little pills.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Phil managed what he hoped was a shrug, which was a struggle when all he was feeling was increasing despair. He had been counting on getting her to open up, find out more about her. He would have to be patient. Hope that she didn’t get tired or bored and do something deranged in the meantime. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, trying to make his voice light. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘I’ll have to blindfold you first, though.’

  She didn’t wait for him to speak, just pulled a blindfold from somewhere on her person and tied it tight round his eyes.

  ‘There.’ He heard her voice beside his ear. She smelled like Marina. Or rather almost like Marina. But not quite. A flawed copy. ‘Exciting, isn’t it?’ She giggled. He said nothing. Gave no indication that he had heard her or would respond.

  He felt her pull him away from the table, manoeuvre him across the floor. He tried to work out where the door would be, if he was heading towards that. He was. Then, with a slight bump, he was pushed over the threshold. Immediately the air changed. Became colder, dank almost.

  Then the air changed again and he was turned to a stop.

  ‘There now.’

  His blindfold was removed and he found himself in a facsimile of his living room.

  She spread her arms out, smiled once more. ‘You like?’

  ‘It’s…’ He looked around. Again it was too dark, again flat and two dimensional. ‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Homely.’

  ‘Oh it is, my love, it is. And you’ll be very happy here. In your new life. Your old life and with me again.’

  Phil said nothing. She walked over to the wall where he had his hi-fi equipment. Music filled the air. She turned to him once more, almost jumping up and down with joy.

  ‘Like it? It’s one of your favourites, isn’t it?’

  It was. Band of Horses. Their second album. ‘Yeah,’ he said, still feigning enthusiasm, ‘great.’

  ‘And I’ve got you this.’ She passed him a bottle of beer. ‘Your favourite as well. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it used to be.’

  She had been quivering with emotion, at getting things right. Now she stopped dead. Like a marionette left hanging without a master. Phil said nothing more, knew he had made a mistake. He waited.

  The room held its breath, Band of Horses singing about funerals and monsters.

  ‘What?’ she said. Her voice was flat, the word intoned. Not a question, a warning.

  ‘I just… I don’t drink that any more. Lager. I’ve gone onto craft beer now. That’s all.’

  Nothing. Just those unblinking eyes.

  Phil was beginning to fe
el fearful. ‘You weren’t to know. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I wasn’t to know.’ The same dead monotone. ‘I wasn’t to know…’

  She began advancing towards him.

  Phil looked round, realised there was nowhere he could escape to. He was still bound to the chair, only one arm free.

  ‘I wasn’t to know…’ Low and chilling.

  ‘It’s… no. Don’t… it’s no big deal…’

  She stopped directly in front of him, stared down. Breathing like she was trying to keep something under control. Phil felt fear. Real fear. He couldn’t move, couldn’t escape.

  ‘What about the darkness in me?’ he said, desperately. ‘I need to know about that… You can’t… I need to know… Please… the words you said to me, I have to know about that. About how you know about that.’

  She ignored him. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘What?’ Phil was genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Anything else you think I’ve got wrong?’ The words dripped with disdain.

  Emboldened now by a sudden hopelessness, by the thought that he had nothing to lose he said, ‘That table.’

  ‘What?’ Hissed at him.

  ‘The dining room table. Close, but…’

  She swooped down on him then, plucked the beer bottle from his hand, raised it above his head.

  ‘Just… no, wait…’

  He tried to lift his arm to protect himself. It didn’t work.

  The bottle came down, glancing across his head. The pain was immediate and immense. He tried to cry out, to reason with her, but she was beyond that.

  ‘Can you… wait, I’m —’

  Down again. Beer frothing and raining everywhere. Glass connecting with skull. More, even deeper, pain.

  ‘Please, I —’

  She swung the bottle again. This time he tried to react, to move. Using his free arm he propelled the wheelchair forward with as much speed as he could manage, aiming for her legs.

  He made a sloppy connection, but it was enough. He unbalanced her and she dropped the bottle, losing her footing and stumbling backwards.

  She righted herself, stared at him. Didn’t speak.

  Phil held his breath and, through the pain, waited to see what she would do next. Fearful of what she would do next.

  He didn’t have to wait long. She came forward, grabbed his free arm and secured it to the arm of the wheelchair with the same thick leather straps his other arm was held by.

  ‘No, wait…’

  She ignored him. Stood back, stared at him.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  She turned, left the room. Flicked the light switch off.

  Phil was left alone in the darkness, only the throbbing, debilitating pain in his head for company.

  Biting Back

  She had thought she was immune to flattery. She was wrong.

  He was older than her. Obviously. And he knew a few of the girls at the home. Came to pick them up, take them out. She could guess what they were getting up to. And she was jealous. Just a bit. No. Not jealous. That wasn’t right. Curious. That was a better word.

  Sex was something she hadn’t tried. Hadn’t even had much of a desire to try. She was happy with her studies and the way the other kids treated her. With respect. Or rather fear. But for sex she didn’t have any feelings that way at all. And it didn’t bother her. If she was meant to have them, or going to have them then she would. But she knew about it. They all did. Some of the older girls, leaving the home and trying to get a place at the YMCA already had kids of their own, or they were on the way. Some had contracted STIs. All of them claimed to know everything there was to know about it, from the best way to orgasm to the most perverted way to do it. Their talk made her curious, nothing else. Especially because she didn’t believe the girls knew what they were talking about. But it was something else to learn, to experience. So when this older boy started paying attention to her, her curiosity was piqued.

  He had a car. He would pull up outside the home and she would watch him letting out one of the girls. Or a couple of them, sometimes. They always smiled, looked a bit lost, stumbled as they walked. Drunk. She could tell that. Or on some drug. And they were dressed in short skirts and high heels, neither of which they could walk in. Michael, who was running the centre, always said the same thing to them as they came back in.

  Told you not to go with them, they’re bad news.

  Shut up, Michael, one of them would say, you’re just jealous.

  Not up to me what you do, just be careful. But she could tell his heart wasn’t in the words. She could tell he didn’t really care one way or the other what they got up to.

  But these girls all had money. And new clothes. And presents from their boyfriends. So they told Michael where he could stick his concern.

  And then one day, one of those girls came up to her.

  Tel fancies you, she said.

  They were sitting in the TV room. Hollyoaks was on. For some reason most of the kids liked it. She didn’t. But she pretended to so they wouldn’t think she was weird.

  Who’s Tel?

  In the car. And Dev. He said he likes you an’ all.

  She didn’t know what to say to that. So she said nothing.

  The other girl, Ellis, stepped it up. So d’you wanna come out with us? He’s comin’ round later.

  This was her chance, she thought. To satisfy her curiosity. See what it was all about.

  OK, she said.

  Ellis sat back, looked at her funny. That wasn’t the response she had been expecting. But then this kid was a weird one. Fine. Let you know when he’s here.

  The car was low on the road with a noisy engine, big wheels and tinted windows. Ellis seemed impressed by this so she pretended to be as well.

  She got in the front seat, Ellis and Dev in the back. Tel was driving. He wasn’t particularly handsome. But he seemed to find her attractive, judging by the way his eyes travelled all over her, looking down her top as well.

  What’s your name, then?

  She told him.

  Good, good. Here. Have some a’this.

  He handed her a bottle with clear liquid in it. Vodka.

  No thanks.

  He laughed. Go on, you’ll like it.

  She took it, took a sip. It burnt. She coughed. The others laughed at her.

  Got to get used to it, ain’t you?

  She took another sip, a larger one this time. Didn’t cough. Held it down.

  Good girl, said Tel. Let’s get going.

  Where? she asked.

  You’ll see.

  They drove off.

  The music was as loud as the car. Behind her, Ellis and Dev were touching each other in between swigs of vodka. Tel laughed. Fancy a bit o’that?

  She shrugged. It didn’t look that exciting.

  Dev passed round a joint. Again it made her cough. Again they laughed. Again she silenced the laughter on the second attempt.

  Here we are, then, said Tel, pulling the car up in front of a large house. It looked a bit like the children’s home but more anonymous. Cars were parked in front of it. Lights were on inside.

  Come on, then, said Tel.

  They got out. Went to the front door. It was opened by a well-dressed man. He looked Tel over, then at her and the others. Told them to come in.

  They entered.

  The house was more stylish and opulent than the home. Whoever lived here had money. There were men, all older, some very old, in the front room. There were girls about her age with them. Some boys, too. They all looked interested at the young arrivals. One came up and stood in front of her.

  This her? The new one?

  Tel nodded.

  Never been touched? Guaranteed?

  Guaranteed. Tel stood there as if waiting for something.

  We’ll sort it later, said the man. He turned to her once more, smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. Hello there, what’s your name?

  She told him.

  Very pretty. Come along, my pretty thing.
Let’s get going.

  He grabbed her arm, pulled her away.

  She turned round, frightened now, trying to twist away. Looked at Ellis for an explanation.

  Who just laughed. Sorry, she said. If I didn’t bring you it was going to be me. And I ain’t up for that again. Have fun. She waved and laughed again.

  The man dragged her away. Her heart was beating fast, too fast. Faster than it had done since all those years ago at that not safe safe house. This was one of the men. It had to be. Or someone like him.

  Please… stop…

  But he didn’t.

  You going to beg? Oh good. I like it when they do that.

  Terror. That was what she was feeling. Pure, stark terror.

  The man kept talking, telling her what he was going to do to her but all she could hear was a voice, asking her to count to a hundred. Can you do that?

  He dragged her to a room. Slammed the door shut and started to undress. Then he turned to her.

  She closed her eyes. She wasn’t curious any more. She just wanted this to stop. All of it. She tried to think of something happy. Thought only of the Wignalls. Was that it? Was that happiness? She tried again. Snow angels.

  And that just made her angry.

  But she didn’t have time to think about that because the man had forced her down in front of him and was pushing her head towards him.

  Go on… that’s it… you little slut… go on…

  And then she couldn’t breathe. This horrible, stinking hard thing in her mouth. And he was pushing her, pushing her… up and down, up and down… and she couldn’t breathe, and couldn’t think and was starting to gag…

  Snow angels.

  That’s what was in her mind once more.

  Snow angels.

  And anger.

  For all those times she had thought of what happened. All the times she imagined it coming out differently.

  Count to a hundred. Can you do that?

  And she had. But she had heard those words and counted to a hundred more times than she could remember over the years. And sometimes something different happened. Sometimes someone burst in and saved them. Sometimes it was her parents, sometimes it was her brother. Sometimes it was her. Those were the times that it hurt the most. The ones when she had fought back, jumped up and grabbed the gun, started shooting. Killing them, saving her parents, her brother. Those were the ones that hurt the most. Because she hadn’t done that. Hadn’t fought back.