by Amy Lloyd
‘What about … there were others?’ Sam thought of the photographs. Of the girls and their hair and their lips.
‘One by one,’ Lindsay said, ‘they just disappeared.’ She turned to Sam suddenly. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with the others, nothing.’ Sam could hear the fear in her voice again. ‘Howard told me some things, over the years. Told me him and Dennis … but I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t. And Dennis always looked out for me, always. Besides, what could I do? What could I say that wouldn’t land me in prison? So I said nothing. It was our secret. We were tied by blood. Dennis protected me. All those years he kept me out of it.’
Lindsay rubbed her eyes again and then it was over, her face as before, a shield.
So, Sam thought, there were things Lindsay didn’t want to know. When Lindsay talked about the photographs she didn’t seem to realise the extent of his collection. For Lindsay it had been about revenge. Sam knew it was something else. Something like desire. And Lindsay didn’t want to understand this. It was too late for her.
Dennis came back breathless, eyeing them suspiciously as they sat on the porch.
‘I got it,’ he said, holding up the phone. They walked Sam back into the house, one in front, one behind. This time she unlocked her own phone, knowing it was useless to resist. Sam watched as Lindsay typed.
‘It’s Samantha, I’m at Dennis’s house, Howard is here. We need help. Come quick.’
Forty
They sat in silence, the light outside starting to dim. They watched the phone, waiting for a reply, until the screen turned black. They flinched at the sight of themselves in it.
Then it rang.
‘Shit, shit,’ Lindsay said, getting up and reaching for the shotgun.
‘You’re going to have to answer it,’ Dennis said. ‘Quickly. If it’s Harries, just tell him again to get here. Say it’s an emergency.’
Sam was given the phone, already swiped to answer. She could hear the bark of Harries’s voice all rough and whiskey-soaked. She could tell him to alert his fellow officers – if Lindsay weren’t looking at her down the barrel of a shotgun.
‘Officer Harries? Um, it’s Sam … Danson.’
‘I know it’s Sam. What can you tell me about Howard?’ His voice cracked at the edges. ‘Where is he? Where’s my boy?’
‘He’s here,’ Sam said, looking at Dennis, who nodded.
‘Is he OK? Goddamnit! What did Dennis do to my boy?’ Harries shouted.
‘Nobody’s done anything to Howard,’ Sam said.
‘But he’s been gone for three days and he’s not answering his cell. I know my boy.’
‘Officer Harries! He’s outside and he’s yelling something about bodies. It’s like he’s crazy, or something.’ She stopped, tried to control her breathing as it quickened. ‘Maybe I should call the police—’
‘No,’ Harries said. ‘I’m on my way.’ The phone went dead.
‘You did good,’ Dennis said.
Lindsay watched them, not liking what she was seeing.
‘Linds, you need to move your truck. Harries will know you’re here. Go park at the side of the house, so he doesn’t get suspicious,’ Dennis said.
Lindsay hesitated. ‘Fuck,’ she said, hanging the gun over her shoulder. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Sam didn’t tell him what Lindsay had said on the porch. She didn’t need to: he had already figured it out.
‘She’ll tell you anything to get you to let your guard down,’ Dennis said.
‘She thinks you need her,’ Sam said, finding some strength from deep inside. ‘But I think you need me more. If you help me get out of this, I can get the photographs back.’
Sam looked at the crease in Dennis’s brow, the way his eyes stayed fixed on hers as they peered over his glasses. He didn’t look like himself, she thought. His coldness had been replaced with something that she recognised, instantly, as more human.
When Lindsay returned, she hid around the right side of the house, obscured by part of the back porch. Sam was to stay in the living room, while Dennis waited in the hall to make sure she didn’t back out at the last minute, ensuring she brought Harries inside and through the house. Her head swam with everything she knew, and everything she didn’t.
When the car pulled up outside, Dennis slid into the kitchen, his gun in his hand, finger next to the trigger. Harries ran to the house, his car door open, engine running. Sam didn’t wait for him to knock, but opened the door as he approached, finding him holding his gun, steadying his grip with his other hand. She swallowed. It would only take one small mistake on her part and her life would be over. Suddenly she very much wanted to live. She would need to stay steady just a while longer. Then what? She shook the question away.
‘Where is he?’ Harries asked her, pushing her aside as he passed.
‘I hit him,’ Sam said. ‘I’m sorry, I was scared.’
‘Where is he?’ he asked again, louder.
‘He’s out back,’ Sam said.
‘Go. You first,’ Harries said, pointing.
Like an executioner she led him along the designated path, through to the back, to the storm shelter. Harries looked around him, but stayed at the back door, checking behind him.
‘Where is he,’ he repeated, cagey.
‘Don’t do anything stupid now,’ Dennis said as he approached, his hands above his head. Harries immediately raised the gun.
‘Where is he?’ Harries shouted, his voice booming in the quiet of the evening.
‘We had to contain him,’ Dennis said. ‘He’s in the shelter.’
‘Open it,’ Harries said to Sam.
Arms shaking, Sam did as she was told. Harries stayed in the doorway. In that position, Sam knew, Lindsay would not be able to make the shot. Stay there, she willed him, don’t move.
‘I’m not going to lie to you, Harries,’ Dennis said. ‘He got a little roughed up. You know? Took a knock to the head.’
‘What have you done to him?’ Harries asked, taking a step forward, then appeared to change his mind and retreated into the doorway.
‘Nothing, nothing. He’s fine. It’s just that he might need a little help.’
Harries scanned the area again.
‘Turn around,’ he said to Dennis.
‘Huh?’
‘Turn around! Keep your hands up.’
Dennis turned. His gun was sticking out of the back of his jeans.
‘You,’ Harries said to Sam. ‘Get the gun. Now!’
Obediently she took the gun from him.
‘Hand it over,’ Harries said, taking it from her as she approached and fitting it into the empty holster at his side. ‘Stand against the wall,’ he said to Dennis. ‘Stand facing the wall.’
Dennis laughed and rested his forehead against the house. Harries held Sam’s arm as he approached the storm shelter, glancing back at Dennis now and then.
‘You first,’ he said, gesturing to the trapdoor.
‘Me?’
‘Go now,’ he said.
Sam looked towards the side of the house where she knew Lindsay was waiting, poised. Then she looked into Harries’s eyes. They were red, jittery. A man whose secrets kept him awake all night, who loved his son, who had no one else. There was hope there and that was what hurt the most. Sam took a step down into the shelter. She saw Lindsay move into position, her gun pointed at Harries’s back.
When the shot came it made Sam falter. Harries’s blood hit her cheeks as he keeled over. Frantically, she wiped at her face, her hands coming away with smears of red. He was lying on his front, face turned to the side, blades of grass moving with his breath.
The shot had ripped through his chest, a great hole through which blood bubbled from a burst lung. Still he breathed, noisily, painfully. Sam heard Lindsay whooping in the background, and wished she would stop, and that he would die.
Then he was still and blood pooled sticky beneath him. Sam looked at him, the reality of it hitting her like cold water. He was dea
d.
Dennis crouched next to Harries’s body and retrieved both guns.
Lindsay was pacing in the background, full of adrenaline, the sight of the blood only exciting her further.
Dennis looked at Lindsay quickly, seemed to make up his mind about something, and surreptitiously handed Sam one of the guns.
‘You need to shoot Lindsay,’ he said. ‘You can do this.’ He stepped backwards.
Sam held the gun. It was heavier than she’d expected. Could she actually shoot it? But there was little time to think as Lindsay turned to face her, taking aim.
Sam raised her own gun, which shook terribly in her grip. She steadied it with her free hand, as she’d seen Harries do.
‘I knew it,’ Lindsay said as she realised what Dennis had done. ‘I knew you two would fuck me over.’
She began to cry. Sam slipped a fingertip over the trigger, uncertain what to do next. She didn’t know whether if she pulled the trigger she’d be met with a click, or if the gun would kick in her hands, or if the bullet would cut air or hit flesh. She and Lindsay looked at each other, each afraid to make the first move, waiting for Dennis to tell them what to do.
Finally, he spoke.
‘Lindsay …’
The sound of a car horn was coming closer, sounding repeatedly, long, short, long bursts. The three looked at each other. Sam wondered if it was Morse code, whether a police van was signalling to Harries. But when the car drew up outside the front of the house, she recognised the buzzing beat of music, of something triumphantly happy.
Dennis gestured to them to wait and went to the side of the house to peer into the garden. When he returned he crouched low to avoid the windows. ‘It’s Carrie,’ he whispered. ‘Carrie’s out front.’
‘The film girl?’ Lindsay’s gun was still aimed at Sam’s chest.
Sam heard the door knocking, the chirpy ignorance of Carrie’s voice.
‘I’m here to rescue you, girl!’ she called. ‘I’m here to take you back to civilisation!’
‘What do we do with him?’ Lindsay gestured towards Harries.
‘Hello? Am I being ghosted or something? Hellooo?’
Sam longed to run to her but she knew Lindsay would shoot if she did.
‘We need to let her in.’
Dennis licked a thumb and wiped Sam’s face, looking over her clothes for signs of blood. ‘Coming!’ he shouted.
He went around the house to meet Carrie out front, while Sam and Lindsay stayed where they were, listening to them talk. Sam tried not to think about what might have already happened if Carrie hadn’t shown up. Sam heard Dennis telling Carrie that she wasn’t here, and Carrie telling him she would wait. Her arms started to ache as she held them in front of her, but Lindsay looked as if she could stand there all day, her gun now aimed directly at Sam’s neck.
‘Whose car is that?’ Carrie was asking.
‘Just Lindsay’s,’ Dennis said.
‘Lindsay? Dude … you have to stop this.’ Carrie lowered her voice. ‘… upsetting Sam … commitment … marriage …’
Sam’s eyes filled with tears. Carrie was so close. All she wanted was to run to her. The gun felt unbearably heavy in her hand. Suddenly she felt so weak. If she could get out now it wasn’t too late. Without lowering her gun, Lindsay started to walk towards the house, until she stood still next to the back door. She stared at Sam but cocked her head as she tried to listen to what was happening out front.
‘Nothing is going on. It’s fine, don’t worry,’ Dennis was saying.
‘Let me in. I’ll wait.’
Sam closed her eyes and begged Carrie to stay, her lips moving with the prayer. She knew Lindsay wouldn’t shoot while Carrie was outside.
‘Why not?’ Carrie was saying. ‘Come on, man, I trusted you, and now this?’
‘There’s nothing between me and Lindsay.’ Dennis was louder now. ‘This is complicated, Carrie, just—’
But Carrie was inside, walking through the house towards them, with Dennis behind her, calling her back. Lindsay raised the gun.
‘Stop,’ she said. The barrel was pointed at Sam. Carrie froze.
‘Sam?’ Carrie turned. Dennis tried to take her arm and pull her away but she snatched it from him. ‘What the fuck is going on here?’
‘This has gotten out of hand,’ Dennis said.
Carrie’s eyes were wide and shining with fear. Carrie, who’d always seemed so tough and unshakable. Sam’s hope began to fade into despair.
‘So what happens now, Dennis?’ Lindsay said. ‘Where do I stand in all this?’
Sam recognised the look in Lindsay’s eyes: the tearing of her heart, the anger and the sadness. Now Lindsay was a woman with nothing left to lose. Sam saw that Dennis realised it, too.
‘Linds …’ he said, reaching to her slowly.
Carrie stepped backwards as Lindsay took aim at them, her gun steady now, and said, ‘Don’t move.’
Dennis put his arm in front of Carrie, guiding her behind him. He backed away slowly as he shielded Carrie from Lindsay.
‘Don’t fucking move!’ Lindsay screamed.
‘Lindsay, please, this doesn’t have to go any further,’ Dennis said.
Lindsay’s breath came out in puffs as she tried to hold back her tears.
‘Lindsay, I get it,’ Sam said. ‘I know how you feel and I’m so, so sorry.’
‘You don’t get it,’ Lindsay said. ‘I sacrificed everything for him!’
‘Linds—’ Dennis said again.
‘No! I’ve had it! You’ve never treated me right!’ Lindsay looked at Dennis with a pure and furious hatred. ‘I know what you really are. I know.’
‘What’s going on?’ Carrie said quietly.
Lindsay looked at Carrie over his shoulder. ‘You want to know, film girl? Spoiler alert, Dennis—’
The bang was so loud that for a second Sam thought that she had been hit. Carrie’s scream sounded distant and faint. She closed her eyes while the sound rang in her ears and when she opened them she saw that the bullet had hit Lindsay through the mouth. Parts of her face slid down the side of the house and stuck to the window, shining red in the fading light. On the ground was a tooth, resting in a puddle of brain and blood. Lindsay’s skull was leaking; her one still intact eye fluttered and roved in its socket.
Dennis walked towards Lindsay’s body and collapsed. He dropped Harries’s gun into the viscera and stared vacantly towards her corpse. The blood that leaked from her open skull was absorbed by the soft earth, like rain after a storm.
Carrie turned and vomited. Sam held a hand out to help Dennis up. He stood slowly, as if all his strength had drained from him, and she didn’t feel afraid. She hugged him, holding her head against his chest, inhaled the smell of gun smoke and the tang of blood on his shirt.
‘What the fuck just happened?’ Carrie said again, shaking.
For some time it was as if everything had stopped around them. The echo of the gunshot faded, engulfing them in silence. Even the wind seemed to have stopped while Sam, Dennis and Carrie looked around themselves, unsure of what to do next. Soon the cicadas started to whine and the leaves of the palms rustled in a warm breeze.
They had to carry on, Sam thought. They had to decide what was going to happen next.
Epilogue
Three months later
Sam took her seat at one side of the table, trying not to look at the others by focusing on the vending machine in the far corner. The inmates came in uncuffed and hugged their partners and children. Dennis turned heads, as usual, and received a kiss from Sam without complaint.
‘You’re back,’ he said. ‘How was England?’
‘Cold! I think I’ve acclimatised, finally.’ She smoothed a thumb over his wrist. She’d only been away a couple of weeks. Just long enough to open a safety deposit box at the bank and arrange for her house to be cleared out into storage and sold.
When she’d opened the front door to her home, the letters and flyers had tumbled out of the d
oorway like a pile of dead leaves. The air was stale, everything frozen in time. She had rummaged through the post, starting to panic that the pictures had never made it back home. But then she saw the envelope, her own handwriting barely legible.
She had to steel herself before she opened it. Then, slowly and deliberately, she spread all the Polaroids out and looked at them, really looked, for the first time. Now she had the space, the privacy to think.
The colour was faded but she could still envision the vivid red of broken flesh and the blue of their lips. They were posed, their hair purposely fanned around their heads, their arms resting at their sides, as if they were sunbathing, as if they were peaceful. She stared and tried to make sense of any of it. What she saw wasn’t the anger of a man who wanted to hurt them, but the sickness of one who wanted to keep them. Then she thought of that day in the woods, when Dennis had bent and lowered the kitten into a grave, had delicately and lovingly patted the earth, of the decorations he’d hung and the nail polish inscriptions.
It wasn’t her fault he didn’t want her, she realised. It wasn’t her body or her teeth. It was the warmth of the blood pulsing in her veins, the rise and fall of her chest, the way she moved against him when he kissed her. She’d put the photographs back, sickened.
‘Did you take care of the …’ Dennis asked her.
‘They’re safe,’ she said, thinking of the Polaroids lying in the deposit box in England.
‘Right.’
She kissed his hand. They couldn’t talk properly here, so she couldn’t tell him that she knew, that she understood what the photographs meant.
She’d called the police shortly before she flew home. A pay phone she’d searched miles for, affecting an accent as best she could to disguise her identity.
‘There are bodies in the Harries’s back yard,’ she’d said. ‘Dennis Danson killed them. All of them. Lindsay Durst and Howard Harries are the accomplices.’ Then she’d hung up, run back to her car and driven to the airport. She’d watched the story unfold from the UK as the bones were raked to the surface.
