The Taking of Annie Thorne

by C. J. Tudor

  ‘Get a cookbook.’

  ‘Are you shitting me?’

  ‘No shitting. Don’t go back.’

  ‘Christ.’ There’s the click of a lighter and the sound of inhaling. ‘What did you do? Pawn her jewellery? Run off with her life savings?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘You know what my dear old mammy would say?’

  ‘I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘The quickest way to bury a man is to give him a spade.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘When the feck are you going to stop digging?’

  ‘When I find the treasure?’

  ‘The only thing you are going to find, my friend, is an early grave.’

  ‘I love our little chats. They’re so uplifting.’

  ‘If you want uplifting, watch Oprah.’

  ‘I have a plan –’

  ‘You have a death wish.’

  ‘I just need a bit of time.’

  He sighs. ‘Have you ever thought you need professional help?’

  ‘When I’ve sorted this out, I’ll think about it.’

  ‘You do that.’

  He ends the call. I do think about it. For about ten seconds. I owe Brendan that. We’ve known each other for around three years, shared a flat for a year and a half. He was there for me when no one else was. But Brendan is a recovering alcoholic. That means he is into things like confession, forgiveness and redemption. While I am more into keeping secrets, bearing grudges and holding on to resentment.

  Sometimes, I wonder how the hell we even became friends. I guess, like a lot of relationships, it was a mixture of circumstance and alcohol (on my part, at least).

  We used to see each other regularly in a pub close to where I lived. Casual hellos morphed into conversation one night. We began to sit together and chat over a drink – orange juice for Brendan, Guinness or whisky for me.

  Brendan’s company was easy, undemanding. About the only thing in my life that was. The foundations of my comfortable middle-class existence were fast crumbling beneath my feet. My job was hanging by a thread and I was struggling to make the rent on my apartment. When I was six months in arrears, my landlord came round with his two burly brothers, kicked me out and changed the locks.

  My choices of accommodation were suddenly limited. Should I choose the bedsit with the suspicious stains on the walls, or the basement flat with mould and what sounded like a tap-dancing ensemble living upstairs? Not to mention, I was restricted to looking in the sort of neighbourhoods that Batman might think twice about sauntering around on a dark night.

  That was when Brendan suggested I move in with him.

  ‘Feck. I’ve got a spare room that’s just wasting gas and electricity.’

  ‘That’s a kind offer, but I can’t afford much in the way of rent.’

  ‘Forget the rent.’

  I stared at him. ‘No. I can’t.’

  He gave me a look. ‘As my dear old mammy would say: “You can’t fight the wolves at your door when you’re wrestling a lion in your living room.” ’

  I considered. I thought about my other options. Forget lions; I might well wake up to find rats nibbling my eyeballs.

  ‘Okay. And thanks.’

  ‘Thank me by sorting yourself out.’

  ‘My losing streak can’t last for ever.’

  For a moment his face clouded. ‘It better not. From what I’ve heard you owe money to people who don’t take instalments – they take kneecaps.’

  ‘I’m sorting it. And I’ll pay you back. I promise.’

  ‘Too feckin’ right you will.’ He grinned. ‘I enjoy a nice back rub before bed. Don’t hold back on the massage oil.’

  I reach for my beer, realize it’s empty and crumple the can in my hand. I stand to get another then decide a visit to the bathroom might be in order. I walk across the living room and flick on the hallway light. It grudgingly ebbs into life. I place my foot on the first stair. It creaks, predictably. As I climb the narrow staircase I try not to think about Julia Morton dragging her son’s body up here, step by creaking, laborious step. An eleven-year-old boy is heavy. And dead weight is heavier. I remember.

  The landing is cold. There’s no radiator up here. But that’s not it. This isn’t normal cold. Not the cold I experienced when I first walked into the cottage. This cold is different. Creeping cold. A phrase I haven’t thought about since I was a kid. The type of cold that wraps itself around your bones and settles, like a lump of ice, in your intestines.

  I can hear something too. Faint but persistent. An odd rustling, clicking sound, like air in the pipes. I stand and listen. It’s coming from the bathroom. I push open the door and pull on the tattered old light cord. The light flickers on with an irritating low hum, like a dying mosquito.

  The cold is worse in here. The noise is louder too. Not air in the pipes. No. That clicking, skittering sound is something else. Something more familiar. Something more … alive. And it’s coming from the toilet.

  The seat and lid are down. Not because I am in touch with my feminine side but because I have a slight phobia of open holes. Drains, overflows. Any hole in the ground. Last night, before bed, I went around and placed all the plugs in the plugholes. Now, I reach forward and tentatively lift the toilet lid.

  ‘Shit!’

  I leap back, so fast I almost lose my footing and crash to the floor. Somehow, I manage to grab hold of the sink and keep my balance. I don’t have such great control over my full bladder. A spurt of warm urine trickles down my leg.

  I barely notice. The inside of the toilet bowl is moving. Teeming with a mass of small, shiny black bodies. Clickety-click-clicking as they scurry around, like a moving sea of excrement.

  ‘Christ.’

  A shiver of revulsion ripples through me. Along with the faint echo of a memory:

  It’s the shadows. The shadows are moving.

  I lean on the sink, breathing heavily. Beetles. Fucking beetles.

  After a moment I step forward and raise the lid again. The swarming increases, like they sense I’m here. A couple make a break for it and start to scramble up towards the rim. I hastily slam the lid back down, trapping them between the two bits of plastic. They crack with a satisfying crunch.

  How the hell did they get in there? The bowl must be dry so they’ve come up the pipes, but still? I reach for the bleach, take a deep breath, flip the lid once more and squirt the whole bottle down the toilet, drenching the scuttling insects.

  The chittering and skittering increases. Some scramble up the side of the bowl. I grab the loo brush and force them back down. Then I flush the toilet. Again and again until the cistern groans and there’s nothing left in the bottom but a small scum of water and a few floating black corpses. Just for good measure I grab the loo roll and stuff it down the waste pipe to plug it up.

  I sit down on the edge of the bath, or rather my legs give and the edge of the bath rises to greet me with a hard bump. Beetles. Fuck, fuck, fuck. My heart is hammering. I’m sweating, despite the cold. I need a drink, and a cigarette. But more than that, I need a fix. For the first time since I arrived here. For the first time in a long while. I need something to calm my nerves and steady my shaking hands.

  I fumble in my pocket for my phone. BT aren’t coming to install broadband until next week, but I have 3G. Just. Online is second, even third best. But like an alcoholic reaching for the meths when every other bottle has been drained, needs must.

  I bring up a web page. ‘Vegas Gold,’ it declares in appropriately glittery gold writing. The irony of playing ‘Vegas Gold’ while sitting on the edge of a mould-encrusted bath in jeans wet with urine is not lost on me. My thumb hovers over the link.

  And that’s when I hear the crash from downstairs.

  ‘What the hell?’

  I hobble as fast as I can back down the narrow staircase and into the living room. A blast of cold evening air smacks me around the face. The curtains tussle and grapple in the wind. A jagged hol
e gapes in the living-room window and shards of glass litter the floorboards. Tyres squeal, an engine revs and the high-pitched whine of a moped fades into the distance.

  In the middle of the room I spot the source of the damage. A brick with a piece of paper wrapped around it, secured with a rubber band. How original.

  I walk forward, kicking the slivers of glass out of my way, and pick up the brick. I unpeel the paper. It’s thin and lined, torn from an exercise book. As welcome messages go, it leaves something to be desired: FUCK OFF CRIPLE.

  7

  You know you’re getting older when the police are getting younger. I’m not sure what it says about you when the police are getting smaller.

  I stare down – way down – at PC Cheryl Taylor. At least, I think that’s what she said her name was. Her tone is brusque, her demeanour cool. I get the impression she would rather not be here. Perhaps I’m keeping her from a major heist, or the evening chip-butty run.

  ‘So, you say someone threw the brick through your window at approximately 8.07 this evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Approximately one hour ago, so whoever did it is long gone by now. Still, at least it gave me the chance to change my jeans.

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘I saw a large red house brick in the middle of my newly air-conditioned living room.’

  She gives me a look. It’s one I’m familiar with. I seem to get it a lot from women.

  ‘I meant anything else?’

  ‘No, but I heard a moped accelerating away.’

  She makes some more notes then she bends down and picks up the house brick.

  ‘Do you need to bag that or something, check for fingerprints?’

  ‘This is Arnhill, not CSI,’ she says, putting it down again.

  ‘Oh, right. Of course. Sorry, for a moment there I thought you were interested in catching whoever did this.’

  She looks like she’s going to retort then bites back whatever comment she was about to make and simply says, ‘The note?’

  I hand it to her. She studies it. ‘Not so hot on spelling.’

  ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I don’t think that’s a mistake. I think it’s deliberate. To throw me off track.’

  One thin eyebrow rises. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m an English teacher,’ I say patiently. ‘So I see bad spelling a lot. This isn’t one of those words that pupils get wrong, and if they do then they get the whole thing wrong. They don’t just miss out a “p”.’

  She considers this. ‘Okay. So can you think of anyone who would do something like this? Any enemies, people with a grudge.’

  I almost laugh out loud. You have no idea, I think. Then I consider. I’m pretty sure Hurst or one of his mates is responsible. But I’ve no witnesses, no evidence and, bearing in mind the little chat I had with Harry this morning (Christ, was it only this morning?), I don’t want to put my job in jeopardy. Not yet, anyway.

  ‘Mr Thorne?’

  ‘To be honest, I only moved in recently. I’ve not had time to piss too many people off yet.’

  ‘But it seems you’re working on it.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Right, well, we’ll look into this, but it’s probably just kids. We’ve had some trouble with kids from your school before.’

  ‘Really? What sort of trouble?’

  ‘The usual. Vandalism. Trespass. Disorderly behaviour.’

  ‘Ah, takes me back.’

  ‘If you want, an officer can come to the school, give them a bit of a talk on social responsibility, that type of thing.’

  ‘Will that do any good?’

  ‘Last time my sergeant did it he came back to find someone had let all his tyres down.’

  ‘Maybe not then.’

  ‘Okay. Well, here’s your crime number, for insurance purposes. Any more trouble, call us right away.’

  ‘I will.’

  She pauses at the door, seems to debate something. ‘Look. I don’t want to make your night even worse –’

  I think about the skittering, scuttling beetles.

  ‘It’d be hard.’

  ‘But did anyone tell you about this place?’

  ‘You mean, what happened here?’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘It came up.’

  ‘And it doesn’t bother you?’

  ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’

  She glances around and can’t quite disguise the shudder of distaste that scurries across her face. Something clicks.

  ‘You found them, didn’t you?’

  She hesitates before answering: ‘My sergeant and I were first on the scene, yes.’

  ‘That must have been difficult?’

  ‘It’s part of the job. You deal with it.’

  ‘But you still wouldn’t want to live here?’

  A small shrug. ‘You can never really clean away blood. Doesn’t matter how much bleach you use, how hard you scrub. It’s always there, even if you can’t see it.’

  ‘Comforting. Thanks for that.’

  ‘You asked.’

  ‘Can I ask you something else?’

  ‘I suppose,’ she says cautiously.

  ‘Could there be any other explanation, for what happened here?’

  ‘No sign of a break-in, no evidence of a third party involved. Believe me, we looked.’

  ‘What about Ben’s father?’

  ‘At a client dinner that night.’

  ‘So you think that Julia Morton just cracked, killed her son and herself?’

  ‘I think you’re asking a lot of questions for someone not bothered by it.’

  ‘Just curious.’

  ‘Well, don’t be. It won’t do you any favours here.’ She tucks her notebook into her pocket. ‘And I was only letting you know about the cottage in case the letting agent hadn’t informed you of all the facts.’

  ‘Thanks … but I don’t think the cottage is a problem.’

  ‘No.’ She gives me another look; one I can’t quite read. ‘I think you’re probably right.’

  The glazier arrives fifteen minutes later. He whacks up a board over the broken window, informs me, ‘Thar’ll b’fifty quid,’ and that a new window will take ‘abarru week’.

  I tell him that’s fine. I can live without the view of the road.

  He also gives me an odd look. Not my audience.

  After he’s gone I sink a couple more bourbons, smoke a cigarette leaning out of the back door then decide I’ve had enough, more than enough, for one day and head back upstairs to bed.

  The cold has gone. It’s just the normal chill of the cottage. I approach the bathroom gingerly, but the toilet is still empty. I remove the loo roll and relieve myself, wash and brush my teeth, pull off the light switch and shut the door.

  Then I have second thoughts. I walk back downstairs and pick up the house brick. I carry it back into the bathroom and place it on top of the toilet lid.

  Just in case.

  I don’t dream.

  I have nightmares.

  Normally, the alcohol helps with that.

  Not tonight.

  I’m walking up the stairs in my childhood house, except – in the way that dreams are – it isn’t my childhood house, not quite. The stairs are much narrower and steeper and they wind around in a spiral. I can hear a noise below me in the darkness: a skittering, chittering noise. Shadows swarm around the bottom. Above me, I can hear another noise. A terrible high-pitched keening sound, like an animal in pain, interspersed with cries: ‘Abbie-Eyes. Abbie-Eyes. Kiss the boys and make them cry.’

  I don’t want to climb the staircase but I have no choice. Every time I glance back I see a few more of the stairs have disappeared into darkness. The shadows are creeping, just like the cold, and they’re gaining on me.

  I keep climbing, the stairs winding endlessly up ahead of me and then, suddenly, I’m on the landing. I look back. The stairs aren’t there any more. The shadows have crept up and swallowed them. Now they mill and scuttle re
stlessly, inches from my feet.

  There are three doors, all closed. I push open the first door. My dad is inside. He sits on the bed. Well, ‘sits’ isn’t quite the word. He lolls, like a puppet with its strings cut. His head lies on his shoulder, as though it’s having a rest from the business of being on top of things. Glistening tendons and stringy red strips of muscle barely hold it to his body. When the car hit the tree a jagged sliver of windscreen pretty much decapitated him.

  He opens his mouth and a strange wheezing noise hisses out. I realize it’s my name: ‘Joe-eeeeee.’ He tries to stand. I pull the door shut again, heart thumping, legs trembling. I move on to the next door. This one will be worse, I know. But just like a character in a bad horror movie, I know I’m going to open it.

  I push at the door then step back. The room is filled with flies. Bluebottles rise in a dark, buzzing cloud. Somewhere among them I can see two figures. Julia and Ben. At least, I think it must be Julia and Ben. It’s hard to tell as Julia is missing most of her head and Ben has no face. Just a red-and-white mass of blood, bone and gristle.

  They stand, shadowy figures amidst the flies … and then I realize they’re made of flies themselves. As I stare at them, they dissolve and pour towards me. I throw myself through the door and slam it shut. I can hear the flies batting themselves against the wood in a furious swarm.

  Wake up, I think. Wake up, wake up, wake up. But my subconscious is not about to let me off so easily. I turn towards the last door. My hand reaches out and twists the handle. It swings slowly open. This room is empty. Except for a bed and Abbie-Eyes. She lies in the centre, eyelids closed. I walk forward and pick her up. Her eyes snap open. Pink plastic lips twist into a smile: She’s behind you.

  I turn. Annie stands in the doorway. She’s wearing her pyjamas. Pale pink, decorated with small white sheep. The clothes she was wearing the night of the crash. Except that’s wrong. That wasn’t what my sister was wearing when she died.

  ‘Go away,’ I say.

  She shuffles towards me and stretches out her arms.

  ‘Go away.’

  Then she opens her mouth and a swarm of beetles pours out of it. I try to run but my bad leg gets tangled and I crash to the floor. Behind me I can hear the chittering, skittering of hard shells and busy little legs. I can feel them crawling up my ankles, burrowing into my skin. I try to swat and brush them off. They scuttle up my arms and neck, into my mouth and down my throat. I can’t breathe. I’m choking on stinking, black bodies …