Corn Dolls

by K. T. Galloway

  “Know what my guess is?” Swift said, feeling around on the wall inside the next room for the light switch. “They don’t want anyone looking in on them. They want to keep this a secret. And what better way to hide a secret, than in plain sight?”

  Annie heard the click as he found the switch, followed by Swift’s sharp intake of breath. “Holy Mary Mother of…” His voice petered out and Annie caught a glimpse through the door as he walked into the room.

  The room was small but made to feel much smaller by the fact that absolutely everything was painted womb red. The floor, the ceiling, the walls. She took a tentative step inside, pushing the door as wide as it would go with her foot. There was no way she wanted to get trapped in this place. There was one small blackened window and no other way out. At the far end of the room was an altar. At least, Annie thought it was an altar; four foot deep, it took up the length of the wall and was covered in lacquer that made the red paint look like a pool of blood. At each corner was a squat candle, half-burned. And right in the centre of the altar, glistening with the reflection of Annie’s phone torch, was a small sickle, as clean as the day it had been bought.

  ‘What the hell?” Annie said, taking a step towards it.

  Swift shot his arm out and stopped her, mid-step.

  “Don’t touch it,” he whispered, and the drop in his volume made Annie want to flee the whole building.

  “What?” she hissed back.

  “Don’t touch anything else,” he said, still quietly, as he tiptoed carefully up to the makeshift altar. “There may be forensics here. This whole place looks like it may be swimming in forensics.”

  “You mean—” Annie started, not wanting to put into words what was going through her head. “You think that’s actually blood?”

  Swift grimaced. “I don’t know. Maybe. I want to go and poke it with something. Have you got a pen on you?”

  Annie nodded but immediately regretted it. She had her favourite pen, the one she chewed without even thinking about it. She dug into her pocket and reluctantly handed the pen to Swift.

  “Can you poke with the writing end?” she asked, thinking how little she wanted to throw it away. Of course, she’d have to if it came back dripping with the blood of an unknown and probably unwilling donor.

  Swift raised an eyebrow, but to his credit he flipped the pen around and approached the altar with the lidded nib first. She heard the tap as the pen hit the surface. Nothing moved, the slick red top of the altar didn’t dimple or ripple. Swift dropped his hand and sighed.

  “Oh, thank God,” he said, handing Annie her pen back. “It’s not blood. It’s just very well polished. Jeez, I thought this was going to be the site of some sort of bloody ritual.”

  “It still looks like it might be,” Annie said. “Never mind that there’s no blood here now, it looks like the Angels are preparing for something weird. When is their ten-year anniversary party?”

  “Saturday,” Swift said, turning back to Annie, and searching her face. “Tomorrow, or today depending on what the time is right now.”

  “So, what do we do?” Annie asked.

  “We can’t tell them we broke in,” Swift said. “If there’s any evidence here of the missing girls it’ll be inadmissible in court. I think we need to stake this place out and watch what happens tomorrow.”

  “Me too,” Annie agreed. “There are too many links here to ignore. The markings on the walls, the altar and sickle…the fact it’s in the middle of a bloody great big cornfield and whoever took the girls left a doll shaped out of the stuff. Can we tell if the dolls are made from the same corn that’s in this field?”

  “We can certainly try,” Swift said.

  “What if they’re going to sacrifice those girls?” Annie blurted, keen to get the words out of her head. “Sacrificial virgins, or something.” She shuddered.

  “If they’re going to do anything like that with Orla and Jodie then at least we know they’re still alive right now and will probably be kept alive until they’re needed,” Swift said, scratching his stubble. “But that seems a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”

  “Well, maybe,” she replied, feeling a bit daft. “But just look at this place. What else do you think is going on here?”

  “I have no idea, O’Malley,” Swift said. “No idea at all.”

  Nineteen

  Maggie Finch’s house lit the way along the coastal path like a lighthouse as Annie and Swift pulled up outside the door. It was nearly midnight and Annie didn’t want to wake the heavily pregnant woman this late, but judging by the glare leaking out from behind the curtains, it seemed that she wasn’t asleep. They’d taken the coastal road home from the barn, only after Swift had jimmied the broken door back onto its large metal hinge. From a distance there was no evidence the door had been tampered with, and Swift had questioned as he pushed a slat back into place, if they’d even report the damage to the police.

  “Is there news?” Maggie asked, pulling the door open, her face gaunt and drawn in contrast to her swollen belly. “Has something happened?”

  Swift shook his head and quickly put a stop to whatever horrors were going through Maggie’s mind about their late-night visit.

  “We were in the area and wondered if we could ask you a few more questions, Miss Finch?” he said, smiling at the harassed woman.

  “Of course,” she said, opening the door and welcoming them in. “Anything I can do to help.”

  “Sorry if we woke you, Maggie,” Annie said, squeezing her arm gently as she passed.

  “Not at all,” Maggie smiled, rubbing her bump. “What with the pain of missing Orla and the Braxton Hicks of this one, I’m not sleeping all that much. Especially at night. I can’t stop thinking about Orla, all alone in the dark and calling for me.”

  Silent tears tracked down her cheeks. Annie took her by the elbow and led her through to the small living room they’d congregated in the last time they had been there. As Maggie took to a dining chair, Annie remembered the advocate who had been there before, silently making herself known with tea and biscuits and the quiet kind of support that Maggie could do with right now. The psychologist in Annie was bursting to do the same, so she gave Swift a look, pointedly directing her eyes towards the kitchen. Swift agreed. Annie could kill for a soothing cuppa herself after being in that unsettling barn, but before that could happen, she still had the pressing matter of her bladder to deal with.

  She made her way down the dark corridor to the kitchen, listening to Swift talk to Maggie about the Angels of the Waters. She filled the kettle and flicked it on before tiptoeing to the back of the house and the bathroom. Annie hated using public toilets and this was even worse. She could never help but imagine all the germs left there from the previous occupants. To her surprise, the bathroom was immaculate. Obviously the one room in the whole cottage that had been bad enough for the landlord to have to renovate. Sitting down, Annie cast her eye over the reading material—the plastic children’s books that they take in the bath and chew, and women’s magazines, but the good ones, not the weekly rubbish. Annie pictured Maggie sitting on the lid of the loo reading Home and Country as Orla splashed about in the bath, and her throat filled with sadness. Swallowing it down, Annie got up and flushed, a leaflet catching her eye on the reading pile as she turned and washed her hands.

  Shaking her hands dry—using other people’s towels was a no-go no matter how tidy the bathroom—Annie picked it up. It was another religious leaflet, this time from a real church, a depiction of the cross on the front. It spoke of coffee mornings and cake sales. At the top the advocate, Aila, had written in her own hand how much she’d love to see Maggie there. Annie shook her head; a professional shouldn’t be forcing their religious views onto their clients, no matter how well-meaning they were. Still, it was better than joining the Angels, wasn’t it?

  The staleness of the water in the teapot made Annie think it hadn’t been used since their last visit. She wondered if Maggie had had any other visitor
s during the week. She put the cups and some milk on the tray, sniffing it first to make sure it was okay, and filled a fresh pot with hot water.

  “And do you recognise this man?” Swift was asking as Annie returned to the living room with the tray. She’d found a pack of unopened biscuits on the side and her stomach had rumbled loud enough for her to add them to the tray. “His name is Grey Donovan.”

  Maggie leaned over the table and snatched the picture out of Swift’s fingers. “This is the guy?”

  Swift and Annie exchanged a look.

  “What can you tell us about him, Maggie?” Annie asked, placing the tray down between Swift and the woman and pouring everyone a cup of very strong tea.

  “No,” Maggie looked up from the picture. “What can you tell me? This is the man who Tim was living with isn’t it? The police at the hospital asked me if I knew him, they told me his name.”

  She started to shake her head. “I don’t know him. I don’t. I told them that. Do you think he has something to do with Orla’s disappearance? Was Tim in on it?”

  “No, Miss Finch,” Swift said. “We don’t believe Orla’s dad had anything to do with her disappearance. I understand you went to see him in the hospital. You would have seen for yourself that there was no way he could have orchestrated anything like that.”

  “And this man?” Maggie spat the words across the table, flapping the photo she’d grabbed from Swift.

  “We’re still following that line of enquiry,” Swift answered. “So, if there’s anything you can tell us about him, or about the organisation who owned the house Tim was staying in, or the other little girl who has been taken, then please try to help us. I know you’ve spoken to the officers already, but if there is anything you have remembered since then, anything at all, no matter how insignificant you think it might be, now’s the time to tell us.”

  Maggie looked ready to crumble. Annie gave Swift the eye and made him get out of his seat, which he did so with a quiet sulk. Annie took up his vacated seat and reached over to Maggie, gently prising the picture out of her hands. She cupped her own hands around the mother’s, amazed at how cold they felt.

  “Do you know anything about the local area, Maggie?” Annie asked.

  “Only that I wish we’d never moved here,” Maggie said, more tears silently making their way down her face. “I wish Tim had never decided this was the place we’d all be safe. I wish I’d not followed him.”

  “Maggie,” Annie said gently. “It’s not your fault, you were in love with him. You have a child with him and another on the way. It’s not your fault. You can’t blame yourself or Tim for trying to better your lives.”

  She paused for a beat, stroking the back of Maggie’s paper-thin hands.

  “What I meant by my question was, have you ever explored the local area, been to any of the Angel of the Water meeting houses, perhaps even without knowing about it? There’s a place not too far away from here that they use as a meeting room. An old barn. It’s in a field in Flynt.”

  Maggie looked confused and Annie couldn’t say she blamed her. Where was she going with this?

  “No,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “We only really went places we could walk to. I can’t drive, you see.”

  “Right,’ Annie said, and she stopped talking. Something was niggling at the back of her brain and she couldn’t quite place it.

  “This barn,” Maggie asked, drawing her hands out from under Annie’s. “Is it important?”

  “We think it might be,” Swift said, still staring out of the window into the dark night. Annie could see his face in the reflection. He looked tired. “Can you tell us if you’ve heard anything about the ten-year anniversary party of The Angels of the Water?”

  “Only the rubbish that keeps getting posted through the door,” Maggie said, waving in the general direction of the front door. “They’re very persistent. Aila threw them all away last time she was here; she’s very religious herself, proper religion though, very devout. I don’t need all that nonsense. But I don’t remember seeing anything about an anniversary party. That I might have been interested in, if there was free booze and I wasn’t like this.”

  She laughed with no humour and pointed to her stomach.

  “Oh God,” Maggie’s face crumpled. “How can I be joking at a time like this? I’m sorry. I’m really tired. Do you mind if I get some sleep now, I’m not sure how much more help I can be?”

  Annie stood up, wondering why on earth they’d decided to stop in on Orla’s mum and not just driven straight back to the station, or even to their respective beds.

  “We’ll be in touch, Maggie,” Swift said, turning back to look at her. “Thanks for your time.”

  They left the weary mother and headed back to the car.

  “Interesting,” Swift said, as Annie put the car in gear and set off home.

  “Which bit in particular?” she asked.

  “The men of the Angels have gone on about their anniversary as though it’s a massive deal, yet there’s been no evidence of that anywhere else. No advertising. None of the women have mentioned it. There’s nothing except a bunch of men salivating over the fact their little club has reached its tenth year. That’s weird.”

  Annie nodded, turning onto the dual carriageway back to the city.

  “There was something else as well, something Maggie said about the Angels. I’m not sure what it is yet, but it’ll come to me, hopefully because it feels important. Do you want dropping at yours or at the station?”

  Swift shifted in his seat. “Erm, can you drop me at mine, please? If that’s okay? I need to get some sleep and I think we need to call the troops in early tomorrow. They’re not going to like that on a weekend!”

  “Of course it’s okay,” Annie said, glancing quickly at her boss. “That’s why I asked.”

  “Right,” Swift said, sharply. “Okay then. Thanks.”

  They sat in silence for a moment before Annie broke the deadlock.

  “You’ll need to let me know where I’m going, though,” she said. “You may think I’m good at mind reading, but I’m not that good!”

  “Right, sorry.” Swift shifted nervously in his seat and Annie’s intrigue was piqued.

  He reeled off an address and Annie didn’t need to ask twice where it was. She drove on, jaw almost on the floor of the old Golf. As she came off the dual carriageway she didn’t turn towards the city, and her home and the station. She took the road leading out of the city that got wider the further out they drove. The driveways grew longer and the houses larger, until Annie could see nothing but their pitched roofs from the road.

  “It’s just up here, the next turning,” Swift said, his mouth tucked into his jumper.

  Annie had never seen him looking so embarrassed. She indicated and turned off the quiet road into a driveway lined with trees. An electric gate shut behind her, she hadn’t even noticed it open. She figured Swift must have hit the button on his fob a while ago.

  “Bloody hell, Joe,” Annie said as she rounded a corner of the driveway and caught a glimpse of his house.

  It was what she called sprawling. Victorian. Replete with the good kind of ivy and three turrets. She pulled up at the front doors and kept the engine turning over.

  “See you in the morning then?” Swift said, hopping out the car quicker than Annie had ever seen him move. “Eight sharp. Thanks for the lift.”

  He slammed the door shut and was up the steps and in the front door before Annie could pick her jaw up and reply.

  “Bye then,” she whispered, pulling the car around to head back to her distinctly not sprawling office-come-flat and her pull-out bed.

  Twenty

  Orla’s scream pierced through the quiet room like a blade. She ran, her breath pumping out in tiny bursts as she tried her hardest to hold it in. Her hands reached out to protect herself from hitting the doorway as she scrambled through it and steamed headlong down the narrow corridor. She could see the kitchen ahead. Only a few more steps an
d then she’d be there. The back door and the garden outside were waiting for her. She knew that was her destination. She needed to get outside. Then she’d be okay.

  Her little legs pumped as hard as they could but the floor in the hallway was always polished to perfection and her socks slid around underneath her. She felt her legs go and landed with a hard bump on her hip, her elbow taking a sharp knock too. Orla tried not to scream out. She didn’t want to let anyone know she’d hurt herself. She knew what that meant.

  Scrambling back to her feet, Orla started running again. Her eyes fixed on her goal, though she really wanted to look behind her, to check she still had time. The fear fizzed her belly and spurred her forwards. A little cry escaped from her mouth and she smacked her hands over her lips to try and hold it in.

  As she sped past the dining room, she caught sight of Jodie curled up on one of the chairs, but she wasn’t going to stop. Not now. Not when she was so close. When Jodie came, she had screamed and cried out for her mum all the time. Orla had felt scared by all the noise; she wanted Jodie to stop. She had shouted at her, the same way her own mum did, but the other girl just screamed louder. But at least now, Jodie was quiet.

  Footsteps thundered behind Orla and she felt her throat tighten. Not far now. Just a little further. The kitchen was in sight now, the door wide open. Past the clean work surfaces and the tall shiny seats where they had to sit to eat breakfast, Orla could see the glass doors to the garden. The footsteps got louder. The garden was calling her; the sky blue through the glass. Orla knew with all her heart that if she could run to the bottom of the garden, she would be so happy that she would dance. She hadn’t danced for ages.

  As she moved from the hallway to the kitchen, her feet slid on the marble floor. This time she did cry out as she fell down, her head smacking against the cool tiles. The footsteps seemed to be right on top of her now. Orla squealed, ignoring the pounding in her head, and spun around towards the door on her knees, scrabbling at the floor with her fingertips to propel herself along. She was nearly there. So close she could almost smell the warmth coming from the grass and the earth that she loved to dig her fingers into and get them all muddy. The door handle was in reach now. Orla grabbed it and pulled herself to standing, yanking at it to open the door.