I Dare You (ARC)

by Sam Carrington

Chapter Fifty-Eight

  2019

  Anna

  Tuesday 16th July

  When Anna left Sandie’s house, her mind had been filled with

  questions about Tina and Pat. She’d walked back down her

  mother’s path, but instead of going in the front door, she’d

  slipped down the side and into the garden shed, her fingers

  curled tightly around the doll’s leg. She hadn’t wanted to show

  Muriel. And she’d wanted to be alone when she uncovered the

  words on the paper. The arm and note from the other day were

  also safely stowed away in the old wooden storage unit at the

  back of the shed – her dad’s – the one where he used to keep

  all the odd bits of junk: spare plugs, nails, plant stakes, garden scissors and small tools and God knew what else. Most of it still remained in the drawers, which hadn’t surprised her given the

  rest of the house, but the cupboard part had enough space to

  fit the additional items.

  But what had her mother done with the doll’s head? Anna

  had forgotten to check last Saturday when she’d come back

  from the shop as she’d been too relieved to find it gone from

  the front door. But now, given the latest parts, she wanted

  them together in a safe place while she figured out what to do

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  next. Whether to inform the police or, at the very least, Pat.

  Although now he might not be of any real assistance. He was

  with Tina; he was too close. He was involved, and therefore

  not objective – but still, he could have a better memory of the

  events of July 1989 from an official perspective. Anna had

  called Lizzie, partly in desperation – because she felt she wanted someone to show, someone her age and who might be able to

  help her put the pieces together – and partly to watch her

  reaction. See if there was a glimmer of guilt – a sign that would give her away as the culprit. The Knock, Knock game that had

  been relentlessly played on her father now being played out

  by his daughter – there was a certain irony to that. Anna had

  assumed the game was being played on Muriel, but in fact it

  might be aimed at Anna herself. She’d been one of the key

  players of that game back then – her mother didn’t have

  anything to do with that.

  Maybe this was Lizzie’s way of getting Anna here, back in

  Mapledon, to exact revenge against her. Muriel could merely be

  the conduit; the target was really her. She’d have to be careful

  around Lizzie. Trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford. But first, she needed the head. Which meant asking her mother where

  she’d put it. Anna hadn’t looked inside the head’s hollow, and

  to her knowledge neither had Muriel – there was probably a

  note stuffed inside that too, which they’d missed. It could hold

  vital information.

  ‘Mum, when you took the head off the door, where did you

  put it?’ Anna asked as soon as she walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh. Where’ve you been? You were gone ages; I was

  worried.’

  ‘Next door, having coffee with Sandie, like you told me to

  do. No need to have been worried.’

  ‘Well. You two certainly seemed to have a lot to talk about

  then!’ She seemed put out. Jealous even.

  ‘It’s been twenty years, Mum. We had a lot to catch up on.

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  And you never told me Pat was with Tina now,’ Anna said, suddenly side-tracked.

  ‘Didn’t think of it. Not particularly relevant is it?’

  ‘I guess not. But would’ve been nice to know. Strange though,

  isn’t it? How long after Mark’s passing did that happen?’

  Muriel’s gaze faltered. She slipped away, her mind elsewhere.

  Irritation growing, Anna went back to her original question.

  ‘Didn’t you put the doll’s head in the shed?’

  ‘No. I threw it right in the bin. Disturbing-looking thing,

  didn’t want to keep it!’

  ‘Shit. We haven’t had bin day since, have we?’ Anna felt the

  panic rising in her voice.

  ‘No, not until tomorrow.’

  Anna rushed out of the door, ran to the black wheelie bin

  and flung the lid open. It banged against the side. Relief flooded her. Underneath a bin-liner and some wax cartons, she spotted

  dirty-blonde hair. Reaching in, she grabbed a handful and

  dragged the head out. She hoped if there was a note, it was still tucked inside. She didn’t relish the thought of having to

  empty the entire contents of the bin to find a scrap of paper.

  She tried to angle the head so the light was right and she could

  see inside. Yes, there was something in there. Another white

  piece of paper, just like those found within the limbs. Anna

  pushed two fingers inside and was able to grasp hold of it and

  withdraw it.

  She quickly returned to the shed and deposited the head

  inside the cupboard. The pieces of paper were lined up on the

  top, in order of receipt, weighted down with jam jars that now

  held screws and nails. Three notes. Three threats, if you wanted

  to take it that way. Which Anna did now, as she read them in

  order:

  SOMEONE KNOWS THE TRUTH

  SOMEONE HAS BLOOD ON THEIR HANDS

  SOMEONE HAS TO PAY

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  She wondered what Lizzie would make of them when she got here. She still hadn’t called to say she was on her way. Had she

  chickened out? Perhaps she’d realised Anna was on to her.

  No matter. At least she had evidence. It was about time to

  pay Pat a visit. She’d give Lizzie another hour to turn up, then

  go across to Tina’s.

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  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  2019

  Lizzie

  As soon as Lizzie had parked up next to Muriel’s house, Anna

  appeared in the doorway.

  ‘I didn’t think you were coming,’ she said, her voice lowered

  so Lizzie could barely hear her. ‘You said you’d call when you

  were on your way.’ Anna closed the front door cautiously and

  stepped outside.

  ‘Sorry, I was distracted, didn’t realise the time,’ Lizzie said.

  Which was true. Her walk with Billy had taken longer than she’d

  anticipated. ‘What’s so important?’ she asked. Lizzie felt a pang of unease as she looked at Anna’s pale face – worry had etched

  its lines across her forehead.

  ‘Follow me,’ she instructed as she marched down the side of

  the house. Lizzie gave a furtive glance around, then followed.

  She wondered where Muriel was. It seemed Anna didn’t want

  her involved. This sneaking around, trying to catch her before

  Muriel saw her set alarm bells ringing.

  When Lizzie caught up, Anna was disappearing into a garden

  shed. She assumed Anna wanted her to go inside. Something

  caused her to hold back, the uneasy feeling she’d had a moment

  ago doubling in intensity. But, bearing in mind she’d just spent

  two hour
s with a convicted murderer, she weighed up the risk

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  this petite, boring teacher-type woman posed and decided she’d be safe. For now, at least.

  It took Lizzie a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the

  sudden darkness. There was a dim light inside the shed,

  emanating from a single electric pendant light hanging from

  the ceiling, but it took a while for it to be bright enough to

  make out her surroundings.

  ‘These are what’s been hammered to Mum’s front door,’ she

  declared, pointing to the items laid out.

  Lizzie’s gaze followed, and for a split second she thought she

  was imagining it – seeing what wasn’t really there. But then her

  body reacted: her palms becoming hot, her armpits clammy.

  Tears sprang to her eyes, tears she tried but failed to swallow

  down, the lump in her throat preventing it.

  She stared at the doll’s head, unable to tear her eyes from it.

  Her breath stuttered and caught in her lungs, trapped. Her

  trachea tightened. She was going to choke.

  It looked just like Polly.

  The last doll her mum had given her. Could it be her? She thought she’d taken the doll with her when she’d been taken

  into care. But now, staring down at it, she felt sure it was Polly.

  Not just the head, but the leg and arm also resembled her beloved doll. The only doll she’d never ripped apart. But now, it appeared someone else had.

  She was aware of sounds – slowed-down speech, like a record

  playing at the wrong speed, coming from her right. An arm

  on hers: the touch light, unreal. It was as though she were

  experiencing an out-of-body episode. There she was, hovering

  above herself and Anna, each of them looking down at the

  surface of the wooden cupboard – at the head, arm and leg

  lying harmlessly, still. Inanimate. No need to be afraid, she

  told herself.

  Only there was a reason to be afraid.

  Someone was messing with her, playing around with her

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  emotions, tossing her life into turmoil. Why was someone hammering parts of Polly to Muriel’s door?

  Lizzie had the sensation she was moving. Air swept around

  her body, her face. Anna was talking. She could hear more clearly now – not in slow motion, not as though she had cotton wool

  in her ears.

  ‘Lizzie! God, are you okay? I think you fainted.’

  Lizzie gasped air, trying to force as much of it in and out of

  her lungs as she could manage without hyperventilating. She

  was reassured when her breathing became easier, less painful,

  steady. She wasn’t going to die.

  ‘It . . . it was a panic . . . attack,’ she managed to say.

  ‘Shit, it was scary. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have taken you

  in there. I didn’t think it would have that effect.’

  ‘No. It’s fine.’ Lizzie sank fully to the ground, sitting cross-

  legged, her hands on the grass. ‘It was claustrophobic in there,

  and so hot – just got to me. It was so sudden I didn’t have time

  to get out.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re okay now. I’ll get you a drink,’ Anna said,

  and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Recovered now, Lizzie stood and, checking all was clear, went

  back inside the shed. She grabbed the head. Polly’s eyes stared

  at her accusingly. Poking her fingers inside, Lizzie retrieved what she’d seen tucked within it. Obviously Anna had missed it, taken

  out the paper and thought that was it. But lining the head was

  a small piece of material. Lizzie quickly shoved it into the top

  of her jeans and returned to the garden.

  Not only was someone messing with her, they were also

  leaving clues only Lizzie could know about. And the only

  conclusion she could reach was that her own flesh and blood,

  Billy Cawley, was behind it all. Who else would know about Polly, let alone keep her for all these years? And Lizzie had

  allowed him to talk to her, had given him a chance to explain,

  clear his name.

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  Lying. Fucking. Bastard.

  He must be laughing hard right now, thinking he’d won her

  over. Believing she believed him. What a gullible fool she was.

  Again.

  He wouldn’t get away with it this time.

  She had a friend now.

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  Chapter Sixty

  1989

  The Plough, Mapledon

  Friday 16th June – 33 days before

  Reverend Christopher Farnley was sitting at the bar nursing a

  warm pint of bitter while listening to the group of men discussing everything from their wives and children to work and golf . . .

  and Billy Cawley. It seemed everyone always got back to the

  topic of Billy, however the conversation initially started. He

  sighed as he took a sip of the insipid liquid, wishing he’d asked for a whisky instead. If he could bear sitting there listening

  further, he might ask for that next.

  Chris tended to keep himself to himself outside of church.

  There were few men he wished to converse with; not many of

  them had anything interesting to talk about in his opinion. He

  missed the city life: the diversity and stimulating discussions,

  although it’d been over ten years now since he’d moved back

  to Mapledon to head the church. He sometimes also craved the

  anonymity a large town had offered him. His father had been

  instrumental in the posting – having lived in Mapledon and

  serving as the local vicar for most of his adult life. Now Chris

  was literally walking in his footsteps after years of trying to

  escape them to walk in a different direction. His path, it

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  appeared, was preordained. He’d probably die here too, as his father had.

  He made the best of it – his life in Mapledon hadn’t been a

  bad one. Boring, but not unbearable – he’d become accustomed

  to the small-mindedness, the power-hungry, the gossipmongers,

  the top dogs, the underdogs. And Billy Cawley was most certainly

  the latter. He’d never really stood a chance. The only reason

  Chris had been accepted was because he’d lived there once, his

  roots firmly established – he came from a long line of Farnleys,

  so was classed as an insider despite his time away from the

  village.

  Chris had tried to intervene by speaking about inclusion and

  community spirit in his sermons – impressing on his congre-

  gation the importance of being kind and supportive, of being

  non-judgemental like the Lord Jesus – but nothing changed.

  He’d then gone for the more direct route, visiting Billy at his

  home and trying to make him and his family feel welcomed.

  But his attempts had been met with a disapproving grunt and

  the door slammed in his face. And that had been before Billy’s

  wife, Rosie, had passed – before Billy b
ecame a drunk and virtual recluse.

  Rosie had been to church, though, on numerous occasions

  following her diagnosis. Not at services – she would sneak in

  when the congregation had dispersed, crouching down behind

  a pew, making herself as small as possible. For peace, and an

  element of comfort he presumed; she never spoke with him

  about her illness, about her worries. She seemed a closed book.

  She had, however, asked Chris not to mention to anyone that

  she’d been visiting the church – especially Billy. How he was

  meant to ever mention it when Billy refused to speak with him

  anyway, he didn’t know, but he’d assured her he wouldn’t tell

  him or anyone else. He’d often wondered why Rosie appeared

  afraid of Billy, and against his wishes, he’d found himself ques-

  tioning the things people said about him. Were they true?

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  But God didn’t judge, and nor should he, he kept reminding himself.

  Everyone had a cross to bear. Some had several.

  ‘What do you think, Rev?’ The voice jumped into his thoughts,

  and Chris turned sharply. Eric was standing beside him, eyebrows

  raised, appearing to be waiting for a response.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Eric. Miles away. Say again?’ He picked his pint

  up and took another sip.

  ‘We were just discussing what to do with Billy. What do you

  reckon?’

  Chris felt his insides contract. Getting dragged into such talk

  would not be a good idea. He allowed the silence to stretch,

  pretending he was considering the question. He made a mental

  note to avoid The Plough in future – he’d be better off buying

  alcohol from the shop and drinking alone in the comfort of the

  rectory. He had a sudden feeling of affinity with Billy Cawley.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, do with him?’ Although Chris could make an educated guess. Eric was a meddler, the same as

  his wife, Muriel – he hadn’t reached her level as yet, but together with the other husbands, the group of men were always keen

  to make their mark. Ensure their presence was felt and to drive

  home the fact their wives might well hold the Mapledon

  Meetings, but it was they who were really in charge. Some of

  them were also on the local board of councillors, which only

  added to their self-inflated sense of power. As much as Chris

  would like to assert his own authority as a man of the cloth, he