by R. H. Dixon
The night had been chased away by a blasé sun that showed no other intention than to idle low in the sky. It would be a dull day, made worse by the fog which had thickened at the horizon and rolled closer. Callie was tired, but wasn’t sure it would be enough to allow her to sleep. The world was closing in around her and the memory of being chased along the access road by whatever was out there in the woods made the idea of going back outside terrifying. However, the idea of being cooped up in the cabin with its ghosts and damp was also terrifying.
She lay on the couch and could smell Thurston. A faint residue of his aftershave, Hugo Boss. Turning her head, she buried her face in the cushion and breathed him in, feeling disturbingly comforted by the normality of his sweet and sour tang despite an underlying feeling of weirdness that was prompted by something else. Something deeper. Eventually she fell asleep.
Two bodies lay by her feet in a splatter-gore of red on cream vinyl. Her heart felt swollen and so did the thing between her legs. She held a knife to a little girl’s throat. The little girl’s brown eyes were wide and she begged for her life over and over. Callie found no mercy, only excitement in this. Voices filled her head, mesmeric and insistent. She didn’t think she’d heard them before and yet she knew they had never not spoken to her. Words generated by the wind, perhaps. Spoken in some leafy tongue, translated inside her head. Something outside thrashed against the windows; branches rustling, whispering, ordering. The trees. Of course. It was always the trees. Callie applied pressure to the blade and felt metal slice into warm flesh. Her groin gushed hot and thick then and she opened the little girl’s throat like jam roly-poly while a little boy cowered in the corner. Watching. She felt no ill will towards the little boy. He reminded her of her. And she thought then how masculine her own hands looked. And how nice the jam roly-poly would taste. And how the little boy might think so too.
Then she was out in the woods. Alone. Mulchy ground beneath her feet felt like the rotting flesh of dead animals. The trees congratulated her; bowing, curtsying and waving in a condescending line-up. They told her this was the end. And she was at peace with this decision. Two large black birds looked on. Overseers of the execution. She stepped up onto a tree stump then found herself looping a length of rope over a branch and circling the other end around her neck. It was thick and scratchy, but her belly felt sickly full with little girl and she knew this had to be done. It was the only way. She closed her eyes and jumped.
The tightening noose made Callie jolt upright. Awake. Her hands went to her throat and she dry-heaved at the thought of what her belly had been filled with. She was breathing raggedly and thought for a moment she was still within the dream because she could hear voices. The same voices she’d heard in the woods. The trees’ nasty, vindictive chanting. Whispering. Filling her head. Did it with a filleting knife. Right there in front of the little boy. Can you imagine that? Why do you always have to be so bloody horrible? Left the boy here and went out into the woods. That’s just how it is, sweetheart. What happened to the boy? Stayed here. How long for? Hard to say. Where is he now? I don’t know! It’s him, isn’t it? Who? Uncle Dean. What’s that supposed to mean? You’ve been staring at him all day. Shut your stupid face. Else what? I’ll kill you. Can you imagine that? What happened to the boy? That’s just how it is, sweetheart.
Callie leapt off the couch, covering her ears with her hands, and without really thinking scarpered up the stairs. She couldn’t be alone. Not with the voices. She paused outside of Smiler’s door, her heartbeat loud in her ears, and raised her hand to knock. Then stopped herself.
Miles Golden? Really!
What the hell would she say to him? What could he do? So she went to the next door along and opened it without knocking, before she had time to change her mind.
23
In the red and white room Thurston was lying on top of the slippery sheets like some erotic nightmare. Shirtless and bruised, with a bloodied wound bound with black twine.
Did it with a filleting knife. That’s just how it is, sweetheart.
He opened his eyes and looked at her as if he had expected she might come.
Callie felt a twinge of guilt for seeking solace here. ‘Sorry,’ she told him.
‘For what?’ When he shifted the satin beneath him made no noise at all, his feverish skin gliding over its smooth coldness.
Callie stayed in the doorway, aware that she was shaking visibly. You’ve been staring at him all day. She wrung her hands together. Shut your stupid face. And squeezed her eyes shut. Else what? Her head was filled with satin redness. I’ll kill you.
‘Hey, what’s up?’ Thurston propped himself up onto his elbows, his face showing concern.
‘I’m scared.’
‘What of?’
Now she felt foolish. She could hardly tell him about the voices. The trees. What they’d said. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I had a nightmare.’
‘Come here.’ He patted the bed next to him. ‘Come and lie down.’ Bizarrely, the invitation sounded like a threat. But she did, she went to the bed and climbed onto the horrid satin and lay on her back. ‘Sleep with me,’ he said, but the way he said it was without sexual proposition.
The curtains were pulled and everything that should be red in the room was dark grey. The only red Callie saw was in her own head. And there were no voices anymore, just the sound of Thurston breathing. Right next to her. She concentrated on the ceiling. Slow seconds and eventually minutes passed where she was aware of nothing but him. Even the tower room above them ceased to exist.
‘So tell me about this nightmare,’ he said at last.
‘It was dark.’ She turned her head to look at him. His face was close to hers. Closer than she’d thought. ‘It’s this place. It reaches in. Can’t you feel it?’
‘I feel something.’ He looked up at the ceiling, as though to find what it was that she found so captivating there, his breaths calm and deep. ‘So you really did come here because you’re scared.’
‘Why else?’
‘Because you’re lonely.’
His arm touched hers and the contact was electric.
‘I’m a pro at being alone,’ she said, forcing a hiccup of fake laughter that made her cringe. She wanted to lead him away from the things she thought should remain unsaid, because she wanted him. Badly. Always had. But the only reason Torbin Thurston would ever indulge her in that respect, she thought, would be to indulge himself.
‘Me too,’ he said.
Before she had time to process what he meant, he told her, ‘This room is fucking awful.’
Callie laughed then; a genuine, effortless sound. And when Thurston pulled her closer, so she had no choice but to lie with her head on his shoulder, it didn’t feel awkward. Not even when he started to stroke her hairline with his thumb. She closed her eyes. The room around them buzzed with white silence and the noiseless red of the sheets throbbed beneath her.
‘What if this is it?’ she said after a while, when she thought her nose might bleed from the pressure in her head, when she thought the bed might try to absorb her and all that she was.
‘If this is what?’
‘All we have for the rest of forever.’
‘How could it be? The world would miss us.’
‘Doubtful. Look at Smiler.’
Thurston stilled his thumb and seemed to give her last point some serious thought. ‘Would it be such a bad thing?’
‘Staying here forever? Yes.’
‘Even with me?’
‘Wow,’ she said, dryly. ‘Serious?’
‘No.’ He huddled her even closer so that her mouth touched his chest, her lips on dried blood, and he laughed. ‘I’m flattered that you think I’m such an egotistical arsehole though.’
‘No,’ she said, unmoving. ‘I don’t think that.’
‘Course you do. And that’s okay. I was thinking only earlier that I need to change.’
‘Oh?’
‘Somewhere along the way I forgot to be me.’
‘Sounds too deep.’ Callie breathed in. Hugo Boss. And allowed herself to imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like if he belonged to her. She licked her bottom lip; a subconscious effort that tasted like rust.
‘I’ve had a wake-up call that’s all. I’m not happy.’
‘Who is? This place has a knack for sucking the shit out of all optimism, so that’s hardly a ground-breaking revelation.’ She sighed. ‘But here’s some news you really won’t thank me for: if we’re here forever, we’ll never be happy again. Ever.’
‘Swings and roundabouts, sweetheart.’ His breath was hot on the side of her face. ‘My life outside the cabin is pretty fucking miserable too. I need to shake it up. Change it.’
‘Shut up!’ Callie sat up and turned to look at him. ‘What the fuck makes Torbin Thurston so unhappy?’
‘I don’t do enough good in the world. And I need to see more of it and have some fun.’
‘So go to Vegas with Freya. Or Machu Picchu or Chichen Itza for some ancient culture. Or take her to the Arctic Circle to see the Northern Lights, then spend a few nights together in an ice hotel wrapped in reindeer skins and drinking vodka from ice glasses.’
‘Sounds great.’ He hesitated for a moment. Callie thought he was giving her suggestions some consideration, but then his mouth twisted to the side and he said, ‘But I don’t love her, Cal.’
‘What?’
‘Never have.’
‘I thought you were nuts about her.’
‘Things were great in the early days, but she’s just not the one for me. The whole relationship is just…wrong. She keeps hinting that we should get married, but I just don’t feel the same way about her as she says she feels about me.’
‘Aren’t you just going through a funny patch or something? Bachelor’s nerves? Temporary cold feet?’
‘Absolutely not, I’m not opposed to getting married and settling down. In fact, things would be a hell of a lot easier if I did love her, but the truth of the matter is that I really, desperately don’t.’
Callie lay down again and stared at the ceiling, unblinking. In shock. ‘Well. This is awkward.’
‘Sorry.’ He touched her arm, urging her to look at him. ‘I know she’s your friend. But it’s true.’
‘And why are you telling me all of this?’
‘I thought you were my friend too.’
‘Well, yes. Okay. So as a friend I’m going to give you some advice.’
‘Okay.’
‘Don’t make any rash decisions.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Good.’
‘I already decided a while ago.’
They lay quiet then and may as well have been in separate rooms. Thurston’s shock admission had created a chasm that not even the red wanted to fill. Callie turned on her side and faced away from him. She lay still, concentrating on her breathing until eventually she heard him snoring gently. It was only then that she allowed herself to sleep.
She was back in her own house, surrounded by her own things. An enormous swell of happiness, wedged somewhere in her chest, seemed to create a glowing edge around everything. She was lying on her own couch, wearing her own clothes, eating her own food, drinking her own wine. And when she finished the last mouthful of wine in her glass, Thurston came in from the kitchen with a brand new bottle of Rioja to top it up. He was wearing a pair of lounge pants, which meant he must be staying over, and as he bent to fill her glass he kissed her on the lips. Smooth. Hungry. Everything she’d wanted. The sound of the doorbell rang through the house, a rude shrillness that spoilt the moment. Callie started to ask if Thurston wouldn’t mind answering the door, but saw he wasn’t there anymore. So she went through to the hallway herself. She found that instead of skimmed biscotti walls, wood veneer surrounded her on all sides. A claustrophobic box of stale stink. A coffin she might live in. The cabin. She was back in the cabin. And the voices. She could hear the whispering of the trees. Why do you always have to be so bloody horrible? You’ve been staring at him all day. Who? Uncle Dean. It’s him, isn’t it? I don’t know! Can you imagine that? Where is he now? Hard to say. What’s that supposed to mean? I’ll kill you. But why? That’s just how it is, sweetheart.
She threw open the door and found Pollyanna standing out on the veranda. Her hair was plaited down her back and she wore a denim pinafore with red flowers embroidered on the breast pocket. She looked healthy. More alive than usual. And she was standing, her legs fully supporting her. ‘Hey, Caroline,’ she said, grinning that sly grin of hers. ‘How’s tricks?’
Not for the first time Callie thought she knew the girl from some other time, some other place. But couldn’t think when or where.
‘We’re not so different, you and I,’ Pollyanna said, when Callie failed to reply. ‘I mean, sometimes I think I can’t be who I am. But I must be, mustn’t I? Ha, you should see your face! What a conundrum! I love puzzles.’
On some ephemeral level Callie knew she was dreaming, but was convinced that there was some clue to be gained from Pollyanna’s cryptic babble. ‘What are you talking about? Who are you?’
‘You really don’t know, do you?’ Pollyanna feigned sad eyes and her small mouth clenched into a pout. ‘Would you like me to tell you?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well, alright then, let’s see. I’m…’ Pollyanna’s eyes grew wide, fearful, and she shook her head in disbelief when her lips clamped shut as though someone else was controlling them. She began to claw at her mouth with desperate fingers and Callie watched as thick black twine punctured through the skin at both sides of her mouth, from the inside out. The two threads of twine then proceeded to snake up and down like tiny black adders, piercing Pollyanna’s lip line, top and bottom, and working with a scary synchronicity till her mouth was completely sewn shut. Pollyanna made desperate panting noises and picked at the stitches with her fingers till blood seeped down her chin. Then she was screaming; a horrible muffled sound that came mostly from her nose. Callie pitched forward. She had to help, had to undo the stitches so she could find out what it was Pollyanna had been about to tell her. She began to dig and tear and pull at the tight, wiry sutures with her nails till her hands were covered with Pollyanna’s blood. Till the bottom half of Pollyanna’s face was nothing but an open wound filled with teeth.
Callie awoke hot and sweaty. Her fingers felt wet and sticky. Instantly she was aware that she was touching something small that had hard nodules, like ridges of bone. When she looked at her hand she saw a length of black twine curled around it and her fingers weren’t visible at all. They were inside something. Inside Thurston! Recoiling in shock, she pulled her hand away and saw that his chest was a slick black glistening wound in which she had been delving.
Oh God!
She looked up at his face and saw that he was watching her, his eyes bewildered blue. ‘Cal, what are you doing?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, struggling to find words. Meaningful ones. ‘I was dreaming. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know. You never said. But…what is it? There’s something inside you. Inside your chest.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Thurston had turned white, in some developing state of shock. ‘What’s inside of me, Cal? What?’
‘I don’t know.’ She covered her mouth with her bloodied hands and stifled a sob. ‘There’s something there. Someone has sewn something inside you. Right there. In your chest.’
Thurston bolted upright. At first he touched his raw flesh with gentle fingers, but then he rammed three inside, knuckle-deep. There was an unpleasant, wet sucking sound and his face screwed up as his fingers searched the gory, hot cavity of his own chest. He hissed through his teeth and blinked away tears of pained horror. Callie tried to stay his hands but he slapped hers away and kept probing his innards till he found a long, thin object which scraped against one of his ribs as he pulled it out. He held it in the air and made a wr
etched sound of revulsion. Callie reeled backwards.
What the hell?
An instant sourness in her mouth made her gag, but she managed to swallow it back down with a whimper.
Inside Thurston, someone had sewn an old fashioned iron key.
24
Thurston sat forward with the key clamped in his bloodied hand. He swung his legs round and put his feet on the floor. Callie reached out to stop him from standing, but froze when she saw his back. Two birds were perched together on an ornamental branch in a frozen state of blue-black ink. Their beaks were large, slightly curved, and a spark in their eyes seemed to imply intelligence and wit. Other branches snaked upwards behind the birds, in an intricate filigree of space-filling decoration. In its entirety the artwork covered most of Thurston’s back.
Callie traced her finger along the line of the left bird’s wing, making Thurston’s skin break out in gooseflesh. ‘Why ravens?’ she asked, feeling strangely subdued by this uncanny coincidence.
‘I like them.’
‘But why?’
Thurston’s head turned and she saw that he was chewing on some newfound agitation. He opened his clenched fist to show her its contents, and said, ‘I just pulled a frigging key out of my chest, Cal. What does it matter what tattoos I have?’
‘Because I think it’s relevant.’ She contemplated the ink birds again, not sure why she’d felt inclined to touch them. They were the ravens from her dream. The ones that had watched as she’d pulled the loop of rope over her head. As the trees had mocked her. Just after she’d left the little boy in the cabin. Did it with a filleting knife. Right there in front of the little boy. Can you imagine that? Left the boy here and went out into the woods. What happened to the boy? Stayed here. How long for? Hard to say. Where is he now? I don’t know! It’s him, isn’t it? Him.
‘How is it relevant?’ Thurston pushed himself off the bed and stood. He was unsteady on his feet but turned to face her. She could no longer see the nightmarish tattoo on his back, but was faced with the wet, openness of his chest instead. He stood with his shoulders severely stooped, as though his pain threshold wouldn’t allow him to stand up straight.
