by L J McIntyre
It doesn’t matter if the Nesgrovians, as Gerald called them, know where I am now. It doesn’t tell them where I’ve been or what I’m planning on doing. I walk around the side of the hunting store and directly onto the main road.
The same white rags tied to the lampposts are also now tied to fences and drain pipes, there’s even one dangling off a radio aerial on a parked car’s roof.
At the motel, through the glass door of the reception, Maggie’s sitting rigidly at the desk, her cold stare a stark difference from the tender tears coming from those same eyes a few hours ago. I hope she isn’t expecting to be paid for last night’s stay given I spent the evening huddled on a cold factory floor through no fault of my own.
Climbing the stairs, it feels like weeks since I was last here, not less than a day. The closer I get to the room, the less appealing it seems: all dark and enclosed. Before I turn the door handle, I look through the window, spy Annie sitting on the end of the bed, foot tapping nervously as she stares straight ahead at the wall.
Even though a part of me thinks she’s a Nesgrovian, I still feel an overwhelming desire to be near her. She looks so fragile now as she sits with her shoulders pulled in, her hands on her knees. I want to hug her, tell her we’ll be fine; we’ll get through this as long we’re together.
I try the door handle but it’s locked. I knock lightly and whisper, “Annie, it’s me, Jack.”
The door swings open, Annie grabs me by the jacket and drags me into the room. Once inside, and the door closed behind us, she launches herself at me, clamps her hands around my waist, nuzzles her face into my chest. We stand entangled in one another, and I let myself enjoy the embrace for as long as I can. I can’t remember the last time I hugged someone.
She lifts her head, raises her eyes to mine, and I realise she’s been crying, dried mascara lines have cascaded onto her cheeks.
“Thank god you’re back. I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you,” she says in a quiet tone before putting her head back into my chest.
“Everything’s fine,” I say as I stroke her hair.
I can feel her body shaking against mine. She’s frightened.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
We untangle ourselves, and she brushes her hair from her face. “I’m fine, now. It’s just that…” She sees my blood soaked hand, takes it in hers. “What happened?” she gasps, wide-eyed, and her lip trembles as our eyes meet again.
“I just caught it on a—”
“We need to get this cleaned up.” She looks around the room, goes and searches in drawers, cupboards. “There must be a fucking first aid kit in here.”
“Annie, relax, it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. Look at your hand. This is my fault. I’m so sorry, Jack.”
“Why is it your fault?”
“We should have stuck together. I could have watched out for you. I should have watched out for you.”
“Listen, stop.” I take her by the shoulders. “It’s just a shallow cut, not very deep. I’ll take a quick shower and clean it up. Then we can bandage it after.”
“Okay.” She takes a breath, wipes her eyes. “Okay.”
I walk into the bathroom, take the crowbar and place it on the floor, and turn the shower on. And then I notice it: my bathroom bag, the one that went missing when I first arrived in Nesgrove, is sitting by the sink.
Chapter Forty Four
I unzip the bag and the first thing I see, the first thing stacked on top of my other toiletries, is a white box that contains my powdery sanity. The very sight of my anxiety pills is enough to feel a wave of placebo-relaxation in my muscles.
I take the box out and place it on the counter. A quick search of the bag reveals only one missing item: my razor.
I take a seat on the edge of the bath as the flowing shower behind me begins to heat up and thicken the air with steam. I look at the box of pills. Apart from Ethan, they’ve been my only true friends for the last three years. I don’t know how I survived the last three days without them.
But I did survive, unharmed, and more importantly, no one else was harmed by the red-faced monster inside me, and I’m guessing that is why I feel resistance to the pills right now, why I’m looking at them instead of swallowing one.
It goes to show, I suppose; getting yourself trapped in a fucked up town, and running for your life really keeps things in perspective. That’s why it’s taken a backseat the last few days, the withdrawal. The other backseat is occupied by my crumbling career, but if I escape this town, I suspect I’m headed for a full-blown breakdown.
I hold the box of pills in my hand. Would it be better if I take one? Would I make better decisions? Stop seeing ghosts? Would it placate the fear I feel of the Rebirthing? Maybe if I take a few, they might numb me, help me find the courage to face the thing in the cabin.
I stand up and pack the pills into the bottom of my bathroom bag, out of sight. I want to see how this plays out, see how my sanity holds up. And the pills tend to make my thinking slower, foggier. I need a clear mind for what awaits me tonight.
I lean against the bathroom counter, glance down at the crusty blood on my hand, then look up at the mirror in front of me.
What the hell?
Writing on the mirror, which wasn’t there earlier, has been revealed by a thin layer of steam. With their finger, someone has written: The cabin is our only salvation. And yours, too.
I wipe it away with my hand. There’s no denying that they’re desperate, that they really believe some sort of demon is in the cabin, but there is no version of me in any alternate universe that will walk into that cabin. I’d prefer to face the devils I know and burn their fucking houses down.
I undress and climb into the shower. The hot water welcomes me like an electric blanket on a winter’s day, and I stand completely still, let the water land on the back of my neck and shoulders, cascade down my body, wrap me in a protective coating.
Crusty blood has liquified again and is swirling around the pooling water at my feet. I wash away the dirt from yesterday, ready to start afresh tonight, to begin the final battle smelling lavender-fresh and in clean clothes.
I get out the shower and feel lighter, my spirits lifted from the hot water. Or perhaps the decision to pack away the pills has left me with a sense of empowerment. Whatever it is, once I dry off, I wrap the towel around my waist and leave the bathroom with a bounce of determination in my stride.
Annie takes my hand gently, inspects the cut across my palm. “Right,” she says, “I found a little travel first aid kit I forgot I’d put in my backpack.”
She steers me to the bed and sits me down as if I’m an elderly man on death’s door. She carefully wipes the cut with a disinfectant cloth. It stings like crazy but I don’t show her that. She wraps a bandage around my hand and uses a couple of pins to keep it in place.
I watch her as she tends to me, and everything about her soft expression, her posture, the way she responded when she first saw the cut, the way her thumb is now tenderly stroking my wrist, it all makes me believe she cares for me. No one can act that well. How, then, can she be a Nesgrovian?
She kisses the back of my hand, looks up at me and smiles. “Should be okay now.”
I clench my fist and find I have full movement with only mild discomfort.
“Thank you,” I say.
I notice a lot of clothes, girl’s clothes, are on the floor as if a bomb had gone off in a department store. Annie’s backpack sits at the centre of the bombsite.
“Sorry,” she says and starts packing her things away. “Got a bit panicked, I suppose.”
I open my laptop, which is sitting on the desk, and power it on. I take a seat, re-adjust my towel so it doesn’t fall off when I stand up again.
“I forgot to mention.” I turn to Annie who is standing in the middle of the room with a pile of underwear in her hands. “Ethan emailed me. They’re going to publish the piece I wrote. It’s going on the website.�
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Her sloping smile turns into a broad toothy grin. “That’s amazing. You should write something on Facebook about it.”
“Listen, I wouldn’t get too hopeful about it. I bumped into Gerald—”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Annie jumps in. “Someone was in the room while we were away.”
“I know. They returned my bathroom bag.”
She walks over to the plastic bag on the floor and holds it up. “And left us more food and water.”
“They’re fattening us up for the sacrifice if we don’t go to the cabin. I think that’s what the Rebirthing is. A kind of ritual where I’m sacrificed in the pub. It celebrates a new era where the town won’t be tormented by the curse for a while.”
Chapter Forty Five
I turn to Annie who is packing the rest of her clothes in her bag.
“Gerald, I saw him earlier. He said that if I did as the town said, went to the cabin in the woods, they’d restore my online reputation by issuing an apology from the town. They’d call it a big mishap.”
“Have you ever considered going to the cabin?”
“Would you come with me if I did?”
“Where else would I go?” She shrugs.
“But it could be dangerous.”
“How? As you said earlier, the town could have hurt us by now if they wanted to.”
“What if there is something in there, in the cabin?”
“Are you starting to believe in the demon and curse?”
“Honestly, I don’t know what I believe. I saw something in Tragedy House after you left. I don’t want to talk about it but I was terrified.”
“Is that why you’re wearing the necklace Tamati gave you?”
I nod. “I must be losing my mind. I’ve been getting more and more paranoid.”
“Paranoid about what?”
“About my mental state, everything.”
While I’m talking, I open my backpack and pick out some fresh clothes. “The other thing I don’t get is, who came in spring? Who gave them this gift of Rebirth?”
“Tamati said they dressed and spoke strangely.”
“Maybe they were a travelling cult.”
“Maybe.” Annie points at me. “Something I should know?”
Stuck to a pair of jeans I’d picked up is a pink bra.
“It’s not mine,” I say.
“I know that, but whose is it?”
A memory flashes to mind. I look at Annie. “It belongs to Sally Adams. Remember: the guy in the forest said they’d planted something in my backpack to frame me for her murder.” I throw the bra to the ground. “It’ll have my DNA on it.” My voice breaks slightly like a panicked teenager.
“Why would they put it in there?”
“Maybe the police are planning on searching me. If the find this, it’ll look like I took something from her, maybe a trophy like serial killers do on T.V. shows”
“Okay, relax, we just need to get rid of it or destroy it.”
“Put it in the bin. Set fire to it.”
“A fire might set the sprinklers off.”
We both look up at the cigarette stained ceiling.
“Well, maybe I was being optimistic thinking this place had sprinklers, “ she says. “But a fire would smoke us out the room.”
I take a few breaths, slow my thoughts down. “Yeah, you’re right.” I kick the bra under the table. “Let’s deal with it later. I have an idea of where I can get rid of it.”
I gather the rest of my clothes and go to the bathroom, get dressed.
When I come back out, Annie asks, “So your friend is publishing the article.”
“Yeah, he contacted the British embassy, too. They said they’re offering assistance. Maybe I should call them, make them know how much trouble we’re in, for what it’s worth.”
“Do you think it would help?” she asks.
“I just don’t know. I mean, what can they do? Accuse the New Zealand police of corruption? No way they’ll do that. The only alternative and I don’t know if this is even an option, is that they could send someone down here to get us.”
“Would there be enough time?”
“Who knows. You know what? Screw it. Ethan said he’d given them my number. That was hours ago and still no call. Clearly I’m not a priority.” I pick up my phone and show it to Annie, “But one that is a priority is right here on my phone.”
“What is it?”
I sit down on the bed. “You ever heard of the podcast called ‘The Darkness Without’?
“I’m not much of a podcast listener.”
“Each week they discuss a different gruesome murder and circumstances around it. One of the episodes is called ‘The Backpacker Butcher of Nesgrove’.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It’s about the murders in the eighties, the backpackers killed by the mayor.”
“Shit. Well, what are you waiting for?” She grabs the plastic bag of food and drink, sits on the bed, hands me a sandwich from the bag, and says, “Play it, come on.”
I pull up the episode but before I press play, I say, “Listen, to answer your question from before, I haven’t considered going to the cabin. It’s ridiculous to consider it. I say we wait till dark, sneak out of this room and make a run for it to the factory.”
“Do you think we can do it without being seen?”
“I’ve started to believe that someone is looking out for us.”
I lie back on the bed and press play. Familiar eerie music wails out of my phone speaker and fades out after a few seconds. A seductively silky voice announces, “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to another episode of the Darkness Without. I’m Maria Jimenez and as always, I’ll be your guide through this harrowing journey which today takes us to deepest, darkest New Zealand. And with me is local expert Libby Lithglow to help shed some light on what made the mayor of a small town murder two young backpackers thirty five years ago.”
I pause the podcast. “Annie, did you hear that?”
“What?”
“Libby Lithglow. Lithglow is Gerald’s surname. And I’m pretty sure that news article we read said his wife was called ‘Libby.’”
Chapter Forty Six
“This gets stranger by the minute,” I say to Annie.
“Yeah, didn’t Gerald kill his wife?”
“I don’t think it’s as clear cut as that. I think he saw it as a mercy if he actually did it. She had Alzheimer’s.”
“Okay, so when was this podcast recorded?”
“Good question.” I pull up the details of the episode. “About five years ago.”
“Probably just before she got Alzheimer’s.”
“I suppose so.”
I start the podcast again, put a pillow against my back. Annie does the same, and we sit side-by-side, our legs resting against each other.
Libby: Thank you for having me, Maria.
Maria: Thank you for joining us. Libby, you’re a professor of history at The University of Auckland. Is that right?
Libby: Yes, that’s correct. I’ve been teaching and researching at the university for twenty years. It’s where I met my husband, and it’s through him that my interest in these murders first peaked. He’s a Nesgrovian himself, you see.
Maria: A handy source of information for a town that has very little information online, I’ve come to learn.
Libby: Absolutely. He’s helped me to put the pieces of the puzzle together and to understand the town, because, you know, this isn’t really a story about a murderer. I mean, that’s exactly what it is, of course, but to understand why those poor girls were killed, we have to understand the town, not a single man.
Maria: Could you tell us what you mean by that.
Libby: Well, um…why don’t I start with the geographical location of Nesgrove because that plays an extremely important role in all of this. You see, the town is, by most accounts, isolated. It’s situated on New Zealand’s South Island, south west of Queenstown. As the crow flies
, it’s about sixty miles, or a hundred kilometres. But it may as well be twice that distance because building a road anywhere near as straight as a crow’s flightpath is fantasy in those parts. The region is too mountainous, with too many bodies of water to navigate over.
In other words, to get from Nesgrove to Queenstown it takes between two and three hours, depending on conditions. And the nearest small town is an hour away. None of that would be particularly important if the town had any industry there, but it doesn’t. It started as a coal town, but once the coal dried up, so did the work.
Most residents are poor and are living off state benefits, and the town has more or less been cut off from Queenstown. This year they stopped running a local bus route that passed through Nesgrove.
So what does all this have to do with the murders of Lucy Stelton and Saga Andersson? Well, imagine it’s the eighties. The town is still producing coal but the company, Your Coal, has been scaling back operations in the area for decades and the threat of closure hangs over everyone’s head.
The government has built a new highway that misses the town by some distance. Previously the road straight through Nesgrove was the quickest way to Queenstown from the south. With the new highway, any extra income for the town from passing motorists has now dried up.
Money is tight. Risk of mass unemployment is high. Alcohol and drug abuse are increasing. And all of this pressure is sitting heavily on the shoulders of the town mayor, Nathan Lithglow.
Maria: Wait a minute. Lithglow? So, your husband was related to the mayor?
Libby: Exactly. The mayor, Nathan, was his uncle. My husband, Gerald, remembers seeing his uncle around the time of the murders. He remembers that the mayor was generally non-communicative and had a vacant look on his face. The town was gossiping, of course, but they all thought it was Nathan’s wife who was causing whatever anguish he was going through. She’d worked in the factory but after losing her job, she’d turned to drink.
I should point out here, it sounds like I’m painting a sympathetic picture of the mayor.
