by Rosie Walker
Only this time, the monster is outside and they’re locked in, just waiting for him to break down the door at any moment. That’s all they can do.
Her eyes fill with tears and they roll down the sides of her head and into her ears. She’s always hated crying when she lies on her back, only before this the crying was different. Before this, she cried over tiny things like boys who didn’t fancy her and losing her favourite necklace. But this crying is real and brutal and her heart feels like it’s on fire with how fucking unfair this all is.
She’s hardly started anything; she can’t be finished yet. There’s so much more to do, to live. She’s still a VIRGIN for God’s sake. She can’t die a fucking virgin. How pathetic is that?!
‘This can’t be how I die,’ she whispers to herself.
‘She’s saying something,’ says Maggie from the door, where she’s still holding herself against it alongside Thomas. ‘Zoe’s speaking, Thomas. Can you hear what she’s saying?’
‘I can’t die like this,’ she says louder.
‘I heard her that time,’ says Thomas to Maggie.
Zoe sits up slowly, rubbing her eyes to try and open them. They’re sore and swollen, sticky with residue from the duct tape, but she manages to pry her eyelids apart. Everything is blurry and her eyes only open a small sliver. Her eyeballs sting like she’s opened them under salty water.
It’s daylight now, and the two kids are pressed against the door, pushing against the old oven they dragged over there. Their faces are streaked with dust, dirt and tears, their eyes wide with fear. The girl’s dark blonde hair is everywhere, a twig sticking out of the top. The boy looks familiar, but she can’t place him.
‘She’s sitting up,’ whispers Maggie, just as there’s another ear-splitting BOOM against the door as the psycho throws himself against it. The crack in the plastic expands; they can almost see through to the outside now. Only another minute or two and he’ll be in here.
‘Give me your knife,’ Zoe says to Maggie.
Maggie looks at her for a moment, as if she’s considering refusing.
Zoe stands up slowly, her body aching with every movement. She holds out her hand.
‘It’s my brother’s—’ Maggie starts.
‘Do you want to die?’ Zoe hisses at her. ‘I don’t care if it belongs to the Queen, give it to me.’
Maggie reaches into her back pocket and pulls out the knife, handing it to Zoe. Zoe unfolds the blade and looks at it. Her eyes struggle to focus.
It’s engraved with curling cursive script, and in the half light of the caravan she can just make out the words: ‘D – Use this knife only for good. Love, Grandpa.’ She nods.
With a huge crack, the door finally splinters, sending Thomas and Maggie sprawling across the caravan floor in a tangle of arms and legs and the oven. Daylight floods the caravan, exposing them to him.
He’s there, silhouetted in the doorway. The morning light behind him obscures the details of his features. All she can see are his white teeth, bared like a wolf about to attack.
Zoe steps forward, the knife in her right hand.
There’s a loud growl and a snarl as if he really is a wolf. She flinches away from the noise, terrified and shocked that a human can sound so much like a wild animal.
But as she flinches at the snarl, the psycho also moves. He turns away from her, switching his attention to something outside the caravan.
A black creature bursts from the trees and launches itself at the man. It wasn’t the man who made that growling noise, it was a real animal, a dog.
The dog snarls and growls, its jaws locked around the man’s hand, shaking his arm from left to right like a tug of war, only this is no game to the dog. Its hackles are up and there’s bloody drool pouring from its mouth onto the grass as it rips and pulls and tears at the psycho’s flesh.
He tries to kick the dog, but the dog moves fast, it’s too lithe and pulls too hard; the man can’t get his balance.
As the dog turns, Zoe sees a familiar white stripe down the dog’s nose. It’s Alfie, growling and snarling and biting. For her. Her beloved, beautiful childhood pet who sleeps on her bed every night.
Her eyes fill with tears. ‘Alfie!’ she shouts.
As soon as the shout leaves her lips, she realises her mistake and clamps her hand over her mouth. She can’t distract him. He’s fighting for her, fighting against this man alongside Zoe and the children.
But it’s too late, and Alfie drops the man’s hand and turns to Zoe, believing he’s been naughty. His tail moves from side to side in a tentative wag.
As soon as Alfie’s attention is broken, the psycho kicks out, his foot smashing into Alfie’s jaw. The noise is horrifying: Alfie’s teeth clack together with the force of the kick, and he yelps over and over and over until it fades to a small whimper. He retreats to the bushes, his tail between his legs.
‘NO!’ Zoe screams. It’s not a shout, it’s a screech of rage and pain and frustration and sorrow for poor Alfie. Her own pain is forgotten, replaced with pure fury.
The man cradles his hand for a brief moment, then turns again to the caravan door, advancing on Zoe once more. The injury is nothing in comparison to his focus on her and the children. He glares at her, his eyes dark with hatred and anger. He’s fixated on his targets like a robot, the Terminator in real life. His face is covered in sweat, his skin pale with a streak of blood on his cheek.
As he’s about to step into the caravan, he looks up at Zoe, an inhuman grin on his face. He’s all teeth and a blank-eyed, soulless stare. Zoe stares, her eyes not leaving his. His movements are swift, but Zoe’s adrenaline is pumping hard and she’s ready for him.
He raises his foot to enter, and from her height advantage in the caravan’s doorway, Zoe raises the knife and plunges it down as hard and straight as she can.
At exactly the same moment, the man steps up into the caravan. She drives the blade into his eye socket as his whole body moves upwards, into the knife.
She feels the ‘pop’ as the knife’s point punctures his eyeball. Against all of her instincts, she keeps pushing. Her arm shakes with the force.
For a moment, the man doesn’t seem to realise what’s happening. He keeps advancing on her. He reaches out and grabs her shoulders, ready to throw her to the ground.
She braces her feet, gathering her last store of energy for a final fight. This is her last chance to save herself. She’s ready to do whatever it takes, and whatever is needed to stop this man getting to Thomas and Maggie too. She’ll fight for her own life, she’ll never give it up, and she’ll fight three times harder for all of them.
Alfie’s outside, ready to pounce; barking and snarling like a wild animal. Over the top of everything, Zoe can hear her own sharp gasps and the sobs of Thomas and Maggie, huddled together behind her in a corner.
She wrenches back the knife, pulling it out of his eye socket with a twist of her wrist. Blood drips from the blade, slapping onto her bare toes.
As soon as he realises what has happened, the man doubles over and screams, raising a bloody hand to his destroyed eye.
She stares through her blurred vision, trying to predict his next action. The knife handle is firm in her hand; she’s ready for the next strike.
Blood seeps through the man’s trembling fingers as he holds them away from his face, his one remaining eye trying to see the blood and mess of his chewed up hands.
Zoe raises the knife, point first, ready to stab again.
Without looking back at her, the man leaps from the caravan, runs past snapping Alfie and stumbles into the trees, leaving a trail of blood behind him on the bracken.
Zoe stumbles down the caravan steps and sinks to her knees in the grass, her arms around Alfie’s neck and her nose buried in his fur. She closes her eyes.
The sound of Alexander’s wails and screams fades as he stumbles further and further away.
Helen
‘We don’t even know what we’re chasing, Helen. For all we know
, that stupid dog is after a pheasant again.’ Tony is falling behind, out of puff and red in the face.
They follow Alfie’s trail through the trees, pushing through frosty bracken and fallen leaves.
She can no longer hear Alfie’s progress. She follows the thin path hoping it will lead to her dog, but she’s not certain. She’s not certain of anything any more. It could be a path made by a fox, a deer or some other woodland animal. Her jeans catch on thorns, scratching at her legs even through the fabric.
Where’s Zoe? Where’s Alfie? Just two days ago her life was perfect and she had no idea. Her biggest worries were her bathwater going cold before she finished a chapter of her novel, and the cord on her phone charger being too short to reach her bed. It all seems ridiculous now.
And poor Zoe, wherever she is. It’s been two nights now, with no coat. Has she been eating? Sleeping? What if she’s thirsty? Injured? Helen can’t bear it. She can’t breathe.
She pauses, gesturing at Tony. ‘Run faster,’ she says, and turns back to the forest. The trees are a mixture of evergreen and oaks, thick trunks showing the phenomenal age of the woodland. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
She puts her hand on a moss-covered trunk as she pushes forward, feeling the ridges of the bark rough against her palm. But Tony isn’t following her. She turns around again, opening her mouth to deliver a loud yell at him to hurry up, but he’s bending down, his hands on his knees. She can only see the top of his head, almost obscured by a fern. His shoulders heave.
‘Tony, what are you doing? Are you okay?’ She runs back to him, mentally calculating how long it would take for paramedics to get here, deep in the forest, if he’s having a heart attack or something. He’s never looked after his health or fitness; she’s dreaded this for years.
‘Helen,’ he wheezes.
Her heart beats faster with panic. Not Tony, too. ‘What? What happened?’
She puts her hand on his bent back, feeling the sweat which has soaked through his t-shirt and jumper. The warmth of his back on her hand. He’s so solid, so strong. She can’t live without him. He’s her family: him and Zoe. And Melanie, Lucy and Ben.
He straightens up, his hand outstretched, his face red and sweaty.
She empties her lungs in a huge whoosh of air. Tony holds out his palm, a pair of smashed glasses resting on his hand.
‘These are children’s glasses,’ he says quietly, his breath slowing to a light wheeze. He’s right: the light blue frame is too narrow for an adult’s face. ‘A boy’s, probably.’
‘Why would they be here, in the woods?’ She looks around, but sees nothing but trees and shrubs. Janet’s boy, Thomas, wears glasses like those. The boy who’s also missing. She clenches her fists, praying he’s not wandering these woods.
Tony shrugs, slipping the glasses into his pocket.
A breath-taking snarl pierces the morning silence. ‘Oh my God,’ whispers Helen. ‘That’s Alfie.’ Now there’s barking and growling, out of sight through the trees.
‘Come on.’ Tony strides forward and takes her hand.
They sprint towards the sound, lifting their knees high to avoid catching their feet on roots and plants. They emerge into a clearing, where a sagging caravan hunches in the shadows.
There’s no time to look around. Their daughter lies on the ground in front of the caravan surrounded by blood, coating every blade of grass and twig. Lovely Zoe, crumpled in a heap. Alfie stands guard by their side, whimpering. His tail thumps once at their approach.
‘Zoe!’ Helen shouts, and runs across the clearing, Tony right by her side. They crouch down, knees in the grass.
‘Call an ambulance, Tony.’
Zoe lifts her head at the sound of her mother’s voice, but she doesn’t smile. Her face is dirty and bruised, her hair stuck to her head with grease and sweat. Her eyes are puffed up and red, swollen almost closed. There’s a nasty cut on her neck and blood under her nose.
It hurts Helen’s heart to look at her, but at the same time she can’t take her eyes off her. ‘My baby,’ she whispers, and gathers Zoe into her arms on the forest floor. ‘My poor baby. What did he do to you? Are you hurt? Where are you bleeding?’ She buries her nose into Zoe’s hair, trying to inhale her daughter’s scent, reconnect with her. But she doesn’t smell like Zoe.
Zoe doesn’t hug her back. She turns her head first left, then right, her eyebrows pulled low with fear. ‘Where did he go?’ she asks.
Tony gets to his feet, wiping tears from his cheeks with his fingertips.
There’s a noise from inside the caravan and Tony braces, ready to fight.
But in the darkened doorway crouches a little boy, and behind him a little girl. They look almost as grubby as Zoe, less battered but just as terrified.
‘Thomas?’ asks Helen.
The boy nods, and points into the woods, where there’s a trail of blood leading out of the clearing. ‘He went that way,’ he whispers. ‘I don’t think he’ll come back. He got stabbed.’
The little girl starts to cry, big sobs wracking her whole body. Both the children jump out of the caravan and crouch next to Zoe.
The boy looks up at Helen. ‘Is she going to be alright?’
Helen holds her daughter closer, Zoe’s body limp like a doll. ‘I don’t know,’ she says, and kisses Zoe’s hair, even though it smells of damp and mould.
Thomas
Maggie’s being really annoying, strutting around like she was really brave through the whole thing and wasn’t a blubbing cry-baby moaner while Thomas had to lead them all to safety. Mum won’t stop crying and ruffling his hair, and holding Maggie’s hand. Thomas is the proper hero, but Maggie’s taking all the credit. Even though she was the one who got them into the whole mess in the first place. She’s definitely not allowed to play with the iPad tonight.
‘What happened?’ Thomas asks. He needs to know what happened to the guy. He could be still out there.
‘I had no idea where you were,’ says Mum, sniffing and wiping her eyes on a tissue. ‘I woke up this morning and … oh my God, I nearly had a heart attack.’ She squeezes Thomas’s hand and he winces because that’s the one the needle is in, giving him fluids because they said he’s dehydrated. He doesn’t feel that thirsty though because the nurses keep giving him orange squash. His other hand has three stitches in the palm, where he got cut with the knife trying to open the window. He’s never had stitches before. They’re pretty cool.
‘Never do that again, okay?’ Mum asks, looking hard at him in his eyes. Her hair is messy and she’s still in her pyjamas, with smudged mascara under her eyes.
‘We won’t, I promise,’ says Maggie, even though it was all her idea in the first place.
‘Shut up, Maggie,’ says Thomas, wriggling his hand out of his mum’s grasp and folding his arms. ‘Did the police come? Did they get the bad guy?’
Mum shakes her head, as if she doesn’t hear him. She strokes the back of his hand. ‘When I woke up and found you gone, I ran around the house phoning the police and everyone we know. Then as soon as the police found out where you were, I came right to the hospital without even getting dressed,’ Mum says, pointing at her pyjamas, trying to make it funny.
‘Mum,’ he says loudly.
She looks up, frowning, and puts a finger to her lips. ‘Shh, Thomas. There are sick people in this ward. We need to let them rest.’
He pulls his hand away again. ‘I said, did they arrest the bad guy?’
Mum flinches. She doesn’t want to talk about it.
Thomas doesn’t care. ‘We saw it all, Mum. We were there. You need to tell us.’
Mum closes her eyes, her face very still. She opens them again, and smiles at Thomas. ‘The nurse says you’re both going to have to talk to a psychologist to make sure your minds recover from the bad things you saw and heard. And that psychologist will make sure you’re happy and not scared.’
Thomas thinks that sounds nice. He can’t think about all the things that happened to him last night, it�
�s too scary and he’s too tired. He just needs to know that they’re safe, that the bad guy won’t come for them.
‘Mum, tell me.’
Mum looks over at Maggie, who’s humming to herself in the next bed. He wants to shut the curtain between their beds so he can’t see her.
Mum makes her voice quiet. ‘They’re still looking, but they said they’re confident they’ll find him – he can’t get far.’
Thomas’s heart pounds. He raises his knees to his chest, looks around the ward towards the door, working out how fast he can run to get away if he comes looking for them.
Mum reaches out, strokes his hair, makes shushing noises to calm him down. ‘There are police looking everywhere, baby. They’re even here in the hospital, asking lots of questions.’
Thomas lets himself relax a bit, sinks back into his pillows. He suddenly feels so, so tired that he can barely keep his eyes open. Mum’s hand strokes his forehead, her fingers running through his hair.
‘Who was he?’ he asks.
Mum shrugs. ‘A very very bad man.’
‘A bad man,’ says Maggie. ‘He said he was going to skin Zoe alive.’
Thomas wants to cover his ears. He never wants to think about that again, everything he saw and heard in that room.
Mum shivers and swallows, like she’s trying not to be sick. She turns to Maggie. ‘Your mum’s on a plane, Mags. She went straight to the airport to come home as soon as she heard you were missing.’
‘Am I in trouble?’ Maggie asks in a small voice. She looks down at the blue woolly blanket on the bed and fiddles with the edge, pulling at a loose thread.
‘You’re not in trouble.’
‘Am I in trouble?’ asks Thomas.
She shakes her head, her mouth a thin line but turned up at the corners, like when people are sad but pretending not to be. ‘Neither of you are in trouble. But I need to know that you’ve learned your lesson about sneaking out of the house.’ She looks at them both, a serious expression on her face. She reaches out for Thomas’s hand again, and he lets her hold it. Her eyes fill with tears. ‘Never, ever go anywhere at night without a grown-up, okay?’
