by R. H. Dixon
5
‘Holy shit.’ Callie Crossley’s eyes became wide, stark recognition stealing her ability to blink. ‘Joey Chaplin?’
The man, barely into manhood, who was standing there in poisoned-white underpants, scratched the back of his head and sighed. ‘Miles Golden actually.’
‘Same bloody difference. What the hell are you doing here? And…what the hell happened?’
‘I’m not sure I know what you’re asking.’ Miles Golden shrugged. A random strong gust of wind blew front sections of his hair across his eyes. He tucked the strands behind his ears and, in doing so, created a severe centre parting that looked not to have known shampoo in a long while. ‘Are you asking me what happened to you? Or what happened to me?’
Callie groaned and closed her eyes. She had a soul-crushing feeling that his being here and the reason he looked like he did would somehow link with the reason why she was here. It seemed to be turning into that kind of a day – and getting decidedly grimmer by the minute. Whatever the reason for her winding up in the boot of a car, though, gut instinct told Callie Crossley that Miles Golden was not her kidnapper. She didn’t know him personally, but knew of him. And, rightly or wrongly, didn’t feel threatened.
Miles Golden had achieved fame in British Sitcom Only Me. His onscreen character Joey Chaplin helped turn him into an iconic floppy-haired, baby-oiled poster-boy. At one point his blonde hair, white teeth and golden abs meant his name was as sweet as butterscotch on any teenaged girl’s tongue, but now, standing there, he made Callie think of loose hair in scummy plugholes and food floaters in dishwater. Of George Romero extras and inbred yokels. Miles Golden had deteriorated to a degree of, quite possibly, non-rectifiable awfulness. He was almost unrecognisable.
What the hell happened indeed!
His once-waxed chest was now smattered with irregular patches of hair, as if he was stuffed with wire and nylon and it was poking through where the skin had become threadbare. His naturally blonde hair was no longer styled, instead it sat just past his shoulders, straggly and greasy. His skin was pocked with spot scars and pores. It carried all the dullness of someone with a serious vitamin deficiency and was jaundiced rather than tanned. Callie doubted he’d brushed his teeth in months. His trademark white smile was now steel-grey along the gum line and missing a couple of teeth at the sides. She’d also bet he hadn’t done a single push-up in all the time he hadn’t brushed his teeth, because his neat six-pack was now a rounded, doughy paunch above the waistband of his over-used underpants. Most depressingly, perhaps because of some emotional endurance known only to him – and this proved way more significant than any of these other skin-deep beauty fails – his once bright, azure eyes were now dreary. No longer a source for any right-minded teenage-girl’s fantasy. His youthful zeal was gone. Stone dead. Beyond cajoling back to life, she thought, because he looked as though he’d lost the will to exist. Whatever had happened to Miles Golden frightened her.
‘Name’s Smiler, by the way,’ he said, in that ratchetty adolescent voice of his, not seeming to notice Callie’s automatic, yet unintentional, repugnance upon recognition of him. Either that or he was indifferent to it.
Wearied by sparring emotions – fear, exhaustion and pity mostly – Callie shuffled about on her knees and showed him her bound wrists. ‘Here, undo this will you?’
At first he looked about, as though expecting someone else might appear. Then he began to unpick the knot in the rough manacle of cord, remaining hesitant all the while, as though worrying about whether he should untie her or not.
‘Do you have any idea why I’m here?’ Callie asked, turning back to face him and rubbing her chafed wrists. She tried to stand and almost fell.
‘None at all.’ Smiler took hold of her hands, steadying her as she clambered from the back of the car. Her fitted Versace shift dress made the effort more ungraceful than it should have been and she almost fell on top of him. As soon as her feet were on grass and she was standing upright, she pulled her hands away and looked around, to take in her surroundings properly.
An oddly shaped log cabin, shabby and unloved, old but well-crafted, seemed to be the only building around. Its presence loomed like a thundercloud and she thought it could be no random accident that her kidnapper had parked the Bentley up on this particular lawn, in this particular patch of could-be-fucking-anywhere. The cabin seemed to regard her with quiet menace from the black windows of its tower room, like it knew her already. And it terrified her that it might. Above its lower section she could see the treetops of a woodland behind and to its front there was a massive lake. Its vastness and blackness made Callie feel nauseous and unreasonably afraid. She shivered. Unfamiliar mountains bordered the lake’s furthermost edges. Forever away. A mere backdrop that was unreachable. Perhaps unreal.
‘I take it you don’t recognise me?’ she said, meeting Smiler’s dull gaze again.
The decaying teen pin-up’s expression became vague and he continued to stare at her for a few moments. His eyes were like plastic buttons that had been left on a window display too long. Sun-damaged. Faded blue. No emotion. No life. Eventually he shook his head. ‘Should I?’
Callie suppressed a sigh. ‘Suppose not.’
‘Are you meant to be famous or something?’
‘I’d begun to think so.’ She bent to pick up the offensive piece of material he had removed from her mouth just moments before. It looked like a balled-up, used white cotton handkerchief by her feet. She pulled it taut. Her breath caught. A set of words had been scrawled in crude black ink; each letter had bled, growing numerous spider legs, but was still readable in its abruptness: DEAD TO ME. The message inspired a new dread, making the blood in Callie’s veins feel freezer-chilled. It was a confirmation of sorts that her kidnapper was a vitriolic psychopath and not some ransom opportunist after all.
‘Whoa, what’s that mean?’ Smiler asked, reading the note.
‘That I’ve pissed someone off.’ Not wanting to touch it anymore, Callie let the swatch of fabric fall to the floor. ‘That someone hates me.’
But who?
That was the ultimate question, the mystery that had hounded her for weeks. Because this note wasn’t anything new or even all that surprising in itself. She’d received her first death threat around three months ago and, thereafter, got a new one every other day. Always similar in context and style, but not method of delivery. On this occasion the note-scribbler had risen to some new level of terrorism. It was impossible to determine from the messages, which were never longer than five words, or the handwriting, just who her tormentor might be. She couldn’t recall having done anything so terrible as to warrant the kind of hatred that was being directed at her and, furthermore, she couldn’t understand why she’d been dumped at some cabin with some has-been teen star whom she’d never met before and appeared, now, to be some kind of junkie in need of rehab.
Rehab.
Her agent Sam Dent-Worth always said she drank too much. This could hardly be part of some intensive get-dry programme. Could it?
As though feeling excluded from her thoughts, Smiler asked, ‘Any idea who would do something like this to you?’ His pale, blotchy arms were folded over his chest and his eyes showed concern – but for Callie or himself, it was hard to tell.
‘You’d think so wouldn’t you?’ She glanced around the garden, feeling a wave of paranoia as black as the lake wash over her. She felt trapped yet exposed. Imminently threatened. Like whoever had done this, whoever had busied themselves for weeks on end sending malicious notes direct to her home via Royal Mail and leaving others wedged beneath her car’s windscreen wipers, tacked to her front door, stuffed in the keyhole of the summer house in her back garden, tucked beneath the doormat on her front porch and folded beneath her cat’s collar, was watching. Right now. Enjoying this whole charade. Probably laughing.
‘Where is this place?’ she asked, wringing her hands together and concentrating on remaining outwardly calm,
because whatever was going on she was determined not to be made a fool of any further. Determined not to give her kidnapper the satisfaction of seeing she was blind-drunk on fear.
‘Whispering Woods,’ Smiler said.
‘Where’s that?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Why not?’
Smiler seemed embarrassed by his own answer and shrugged. ‘I dunno, I just…don’t.’
Callie felt a small seed of anger budding inside of her again and was keen for it to grow into something huge. ‘Is this some sort of celebrity reality show?’ she asked, her voice raised. ‘Are people watching us? Now? Is it live? Are we on TV? Right now?’
‘Whoa, whoa, chill.’ Smiler held his hands up and shook his head. ‘No, we’re not on TV. Not that I’m aware. I don’t know where Whispering Woods is that’s all, I’m just…here.’
‘So this isn’t your place?’ Callie pointed and looked at the cabin. It was looking right back.
‘No.’
‘Then whose is it?’
‘I dunno.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Someone brought me.’
‘Who?’
‘I dunno.’
‘How don’t you know?’
‘I never saw. I don’t remember. One day I was just…here.’
Callie’s anger crashed again, giving way to a deep terror that was anchored on realisation. ‘Were you kidnapped too?’
Smiler fidgeted with his fingers, his eyes not maintaining contact with hers for much longer than a blink or two. He lacked any of the arrogance or cockiness she might previously have stereotyped him with. Again he shrugged. ‘Maybe. I mean, I guess.’
‘You guess? What kind of sense is that?’
‘None, I suppose.’
She groaned. ‘You definitely don’t know who owns this place?’ This time she wanted him to say that he did more than anything else. She wanted to discover that this awful situation was some elaborate, albeit desperately unfunny, joke because that would be a whole lot less scary than the other possibilities and scenarios that were forming and developing in her mind; scenarios involving psychopaths with penchants for butcher’s blocks and thumb screws, drill bits and pliers.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m just kept here.’
‘Kept?’ She felt faint and, in that moment, couldn’t think of a more horrible word. Champagne-bile felt like it was trying to burn a hole in her gut. ‘Like, against your will kind of kept?’ She needed clarification. To be sure.
Smiler looked puzzled. ‘Well, I don’t want to be here if that’s what you mean.’
Callie’s face went numb. Was she to become what Miles Golden had become? Her lungs felt leaden, her heart even more so. ‘But, who keeps you here? And what do they do to you?’
‘Nobody does anything to me.’ Smiler unfolded his arms and laughed; a humourless sound as flimsy as dead leaves. He gestured all about them with his hands. ‘It’s Whispering Woods,’ he said. ‘This place keeps me here.’
‘You’re not making any sense.’ Callie edged backwards. Was he a victim like her? Or was he insane? It was hard to tell. Which made her even more uneasy. She felt an unpredictable upwelling of emotion rapidly amounting to something inside her.
Smiler looked wary, as if sensing it. ‘Why don’t you come inside with me?’ he said. ‘I’ll get dressed. Then we’ll use the car and get out of here.’
‘Go inside with you? Oh no. No way. I’m not going in there!’ Callie was looking at the cabin again. Its tower windows looked empty, but full. It was staring. Mocking. Studying her. ‘If the keys are in the car, I’m leaving right now.’
‘No. Don’t. Please.’ Smiler clutched his midriff, as if in pain. ‘Please don’t leave me here. I won’t be long. I just need to grab some clothes.’
Callie massaged her temples. Too much was happening. There was too much nonsensical, not enough solid information being imparted. Her hangover headache was intensifying. She couldn’t think straight. Wasn’t sure what she should do. ‘I don’t trust you, Golden,’ she said. ‘I don’t trust any of this.’
‘Smiler,’ he corrected, appealing to her with eyes that were like fragments of sky trapped beneath old glass. ‘It’s Smiler, please. And try to trust me. If you can. I’m not so bad. Not really.’
Callie bit her lip. If she tried to leave now he might try to restrain her by wrapping his bare arms around her and clinging on. Or he might turn violent. Could she fight him off? She wasn’t sure. But what was she meant to do? Take a sneaky shot while he didn’t suspect? Lay him out on the deck before taking a flyer in the Bentley? Actually, that sounded rather appealing. But then, what if he was telling the truth? What if he was being held captive? He certainly didn’t look in a good way.
‘Why don’t you come inside?’ he urged. ‘I’ll explain a bit more when I’ve got some clothes on. It’s just, this is kind of awkward. Standing about like this. And I’m cold.’ He folded his arms across his chest and Callie saw his skin was like gooseflesh.
She sighed. How could she walk away? It would be heartless of her to leave without him, especially when he seemed so desperate. He looked pitiful. Like a mistreated dog. ‘Fuck it, Golden,’ she said, ‘I’ll come inside while you get dressed. But if this is a trick, I swear to God!’ She left the threat hanging, unsure what she meant to threaten him with anyway. An arse-kicking? A dunk in the lake? A cut and blow dry?
Smiler smiled – a smile that would have been attractive had he still been – and held up his hands. ‘I swear it’s not a trick.’
He turned and cut across the lawn towards the cabin. Callie trailed not far behind. Barefooted. Anxious. The birds in the tree started hollering again, as if making excited bets amongst themselves about what the outcome of her decision to go inside would be. ‘What’s up with them?’ she called out to Smiler. ‘What are they shouting about?’
‘Oh don’t worry, that noise is pretty standard,’ he said, waving his arm dismissively. ‘The ravens, they’re always here.’ He hopped up the steps onto the veranda and held open the cabin door, motioning for Callie to enter first. ‘And Pollyanna,’ he added. ‘Pollyanna’s always here too.’
6
Right from the start Callie Crossley didn’t completely trust Miles Golden - or Smiler, as he preferred. His boy-face was a bit too sinister, like the face of an old ventriloquist’s doll. Big blue eyes that should be appealing were anything but and his mouth, once crafted by some high-end orthodontist no doubt, was dull and discoloured. It seemed he’d been put in a box, this cabin, and forgotten about. But who was the puppet master, Callie wondered, and who was Pollyanna? He’d refused to say when she’d asked. Said she’d see for herself, soon enough.
Inside, the cabin was dull and dingy. Too much wood, not enough light. Not enough housekeeping. The place smelt damp, a festival ground for asthma and allergies. She felt threatened. Hemmed in. Like coming inside with Smiler was a huge mistake. So why had she?
Because you’re Callie ‘Too Much Empathy’ Crossley, that’s why.
But the guy needs help.
Oh he needs help alright! And let’s see how much empathy he has when he’s flaying you with a chainsaw!
The day was panning out terribly, her worst by far, and Callie expected it might get hideously worse. She’d seen low-budget horror films with similar themes: lead protagonist (usually female) makes a bad choice (sometimes based on misguided compassion, sometimes sheer stupidity), ensuring gruesome consequences for herself and often everyone else around her. Total sting in the tail tales. Different kind of role to the ones she was used to playing, of course. Comedy was Callie’s forte, recently crossing the line into action-adventure. Not that she was particularly funny in real life. Callie Crossley was simply deemed too curvy by society or the media or whoever it is that decides a sixteen dress size is too big to be much more than the film’s stooge.
Well it certainly looks like you stooged this!
Grit
ground beneath her bare feet as she followed Smiler along the entrance hallway. The spongy carpet felt like moss in a woodland thicket. Dust-bunnies scarpered, clinging to skirting boards, and Callie wondered if it was too late to turn around and go back outside. Back to the car. To make off without…
‘I won’t be a sec,’ Smiler said, as though he knew what she was thinking. ‘Then we’ll get going.’
Callie tried to force a smile, but none came. She followed him further into the den, till they were standing in a large, dingy lounge area. The walls were overbearing, clad in dark pine. They didn’t look as though they’d seen a duster or polish in years. No pictures hung on them and there was nothing to identify who the owner of the cabin might be. Thick cobwebs draped the ceiling like voile; their creators having been left to build spidery palaces and citadels unhindered for goodness knew how long. Daylight shone through a massive window that overlooked the lake, cutting a blunt wedge out of the gloom and sharing it with the room’s thick dust motes. The section of gauzy light hung in the air, unnatural and angular, while the rest of the room dwelt in mid-range to dark shadow. In front of this lakeside viewing area, highlighted by the swatch of dust-diluted sun, was a redheaded girl of around thirteen. She was sitting in a wheelchair, watching them with sly interest.
Something about the girl pulled at dormant memories, making Callie gasp out loud. She immediately felt uneasy. Unsettled. Threatened. There was something recognisable about the girl, but it was an ungraspable familiarity as with old dreams.
Pollyanna?
She looked like a porcelain doll, fragile and creepy, and her skin had a grey-white sheen to it; mushroomy-pallid as though it had never been touched by direct sunlight. Thin wisps of grey swirls rose from her left hand where she cinched a cigarette between her middle finger and forefinger. Smoke added an extra layer of museum age to the room, clinging to the air in light whorls but not doing much to detract from the stink of damp. Through the haze, the girl regarded Callie with what Callie could only interpret as instant dislike.
