A figure appeared in the light, stopping just outside the cell door.
Lindsay’s spine pressed up against the cold, damp wall. She sat, blinking away red flecks.
“Hello, little one,” a woman's voice said.
She was surprised by its kindness. Lindsay blinked some more and the figure came into focus.
“Did you sleep well?” the woman asked. “I brought you some food. You must be hungry.”
The very mention of the word made Lindsay’s stomach grumble loudly. She leaned forward a little, brushing her lank hair from her eyes. Now that her vision had adjusted to the light, she could see the woman clearly.
She was old. Older than her mother, with a shock of short, red hair and lines on her face. She was short and stocky-looking, like the wind couldn’t knock her over. Except for her haunted, shadowy eyes, she reminded Lindsay a little bit of Santa's wife, Mrs Claus.
“My name is Cynthia,” the woman said. “I’m very pleased to meet you. There’s no need to be afraid. There’s only love for you here, and food to fill your belly.”
There was that word again, making Lindsay’s stomach groan in protest. She leaned forward an inch, staring at the tray in the woman’s hands. She couldn't quite see what it held, but she could smell oats. She hoped it wasn't porridge. She hated the stuff, even though her mum was always trying to make her eat it when it was cold. Her mother...
It was like a knife in the stomach. In the throat.
The woman called Cynthia stooped down. “I'm not allowed to open the door. Not yet. But I'm going to put this through the bars.”
Setting the tray on the floor outside, she picked up a bowl and squeezed it through one of the door’s metal squares. Lindsay leaned forward. There was no steam coming from the bowl, but the gunk inside definitely looked like porridge.
“I'm afraid it’s cold,” Cynthia said, still kneeling. “We don't have any heat. But I have plenty of sugar to make it sweet.” She leaned closer, until her face peered through one of the squares, soft and friendly. “What's your name?”
Lindsay was silent, staring at the woman’s face, then at the bowl. Cold porridge. She couldn't bear the thought of it. But right now, her stomach would gladly guzzle anything in its path.
“Don't be afraid, child. I'll make sure you're well looked after here. You won't be in this...room...forever. Why don’t you tell me your name?”
Sitting on the edge of the bed now, Lindsay remained silent. The woman didn't seem like the others, who had broken into her home and slaughtered her family like animals. She seemed nice and kind, like the teachers at her school. Like her grandma. She cleared her throat, tried to speak, but instead a croak came out.
“You must be thirsty,” Cynthia said, feeding a plastic cup through the door. “Have some water.”
Lindsay licked her lips. She was more than thirsty. Her insides were a desert.
“Go on. Take it. I would never hurt you. I would never hurt any child.”
Slowly, Lindsay inched forward, her eyes fixed on the cup. She put one foot on the ground, then the other. She crouched like a cat. On all fours, she crawled across the floor and reached for the cup.
“That's a good girl,” Cynthia said, watching her gulp it down. “Drink up.”
The water gushed down the back of Lindsay’s throat. She felt her lungs singing. Her organs pulsing back to life. It had a funny taste but she drank it all. Setting the cup down on the floor, she eyed the bowl of cold, watery oats. It looked gross and disgusting, but she felt an urge to devour every last scrap.
A thought struck her: what if it was poisoned?
What if these people were playing tricks on her, trying to make her believe that they were kind?
Because they weren’t kind. They had murdered her family right in front of her.
What if they were just playing with her right now, letting her think she was safe and sound, when in fact she was the next to die?
“Come on, now. I know it's not the best food in the world, but you need to eat, girl. And if you want to get out of this room, you’re going to need all the strength you have.”
Lindsay reached towards the bowl, then drew back. It was a trick. Cynthia was just being nice to get her to eat poison. She had another thought: what if the water she’d just swallowed had been poisoned, too? Lindsay suddenly felt the urge to throw up.
On the other side of the gate, Cynthia smiled. She held a finger to her lips, then glanced over her left shoulder, then her right, checking the corridor.
“I'll tell you what,” she whispered. “I have something special. A treat for you.”
Slipping her hand into an unseen pocket, she pulled something out. Lindsay watched the woman feed her hand through the door and unfurl her fingers.
She was holding a chocolate bar.
Lindsay's mouth watered. Her stomach roared like a lion. The wrapper was still sealed, which meant it couldn’t be poisoned.
“Here,” Cynthia said, waving the chocolate at her.
Before she could stop herself, Lindsay shot out a hand to take it. Cynthia pulled the chocolate back, just out of reach.
“You can have this,” she said. “But you have to promise me that you won't tell anyone I was here. It'll be our little secret, just yours and mine. Do you promise?”
Lindsay nodded. She didn't care about poison anymore. All she cared about was the hunger that was eating her from the inside out.
“Good girl,” Cynthia cooed. “One more thing – what's your name?”
Lindsay cleared her throat. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t peel her eyes from the bright colours of the chocolate bar.
“Lindsay,” she said, then gasped, surprised by her own voice, which was dry and cracked and sounded like an old woman’s.
Cynthia nodded and smiled. “Well, Lindsay, it's very nice to meet you.”
She leaned forward, holding out the chocolate bar once more. Lindsay snatched it from her, tore off the wrapper, and devoured half the bar in one large bite. Sugary, chocolatey goodness filled her mouth. Her taste buds crackled like lightning. She chewed and chewed, swallowing down every last delicious morsel, and just for a moment, she forgot the dank cell she was locked inside and the piss-stained clothes she was wearing.
Cynthia watched her, grinning and laughing. “Good girl. I can see you have lots of strength. Do you feel better now?”
Lindsay wiped her mouth with the back of a hand. She eyed the porridge, then looked at Cynthia, grateful for this kind woman, who had emerged from the darkness like an angel. Slowly, Lindsay nodded. But then she remembered her family and how kind her mother could be, when she wasn’t in one of her moods, which had been more often than not lately. She remembered her father, who she guessed she loved but didn’t see enough of him to know for sure either way. She remembered Todd, who could make her laugh or sometimes let her play video games with him, when he wasn't being a stupid, teenage dick.
Lindsay looked up at Cynthia's smiling face and burst into tears.
“I want to go home!” she sobbed.
Cynthia’s smile faded and her eyes grew round and dewy. “Oh, there, there! Don't cry, child. I know it all seems scary and strange, but this is your home now.”
Still crying, Lindsay looked around the darkened, cramped cell, at the plastic bucket in the corner. Her sobs grew louder.
“Oh, no, not this nasty old room!” Cynthia said, reaching a hand through the bars to pull strands of hair from Lindsay's face. “There’s a whole other place for you to explore. One that doesn’t have bars on the door. And it's filled with children. Children just like you. It’s called the Dawn. All the children there want to be your friend, and you can play with them all day long, like they’re your own family. Wouldn’t you like that, Lindsay? Wouldn’t you like to get out of this room? Wouldn’t you like to play with the others?”
Lindsay stifled her sobs. She wiped her nose and eyes.
“I can make that happen,” Cynthia said. “We just need to sh
ow everyone that you’re good.”
Lindsay stared at the woman. A roomful of children would be fun to play with, she thought. Especially if it meant she could get out of this dank cell. Slowly, she nodded.
Cynthia shut her eyes and smiled like she was in a dream. “Then all you have to do is stop your tears and eat your porridge, then I can tell the others how good you've been. When they can see that you’re calm and that you're not going to kick up a fuss, they’ll be only too pleased to have you join us. Does that sound fair?”
Lindsay stared at the porridge that was cold and congealing.
“Yes,” she said. Slowly, she picked the bowl up. She pushed down the nausea bubbling in her throat and lifted the spoon to her mouth.
Cynthia watched her, clasping her hands together as if in prayer.
“Good girl,” she said. “Another lamb brought into the fold. The Dawn will be plentiful and full of light.”
Lindsay swallowed the gruel, screwing up her face as she tried to force it down. Cynthia watched her, smiling and cooing, as if Lindsay was a baby.
She was halfway through the bowl when something strange happened. Lindsay looked up and saw Cynthia move away from her. Not just Cynthia, but the door and the walls. They all stretched out like bubble gum until they were a hundred miles from her. She blinked once. Twice. The room began to spin. Her limbs grew heavy.
“That’s right, sweet girl,” Cynthia said, but now she was only a voice flapping around Lindsay’s head. “The New Dawn is beautiful like Heaven. And all the children will join hands and celebrate in their salvation, marching together over the horizon. Oh, if only dear Jacob was here to greet you! Poor, dear, Jacob! But we will walk to the Dawn together and his spirit will guide us. Oh yes, it will!”
Lindsay wasn’t listening anymore. Tiny rainbow lights were sparkling in the darkness. Then they were exploding like fireworks. She gasped in wonder.
“A New Dawn!” Cynthia’s voice was a heavenly chorus. Angels serenading her.
Lindsay lay back on the dark, damp ground of her cell and began to giggle. Then she was laughing and crying and screaming all at once.
9
THE TOWN HALL WAS AN old building, almost as old as Porth an Jowl itself. It sat next to the police station, which had been closed for three years now, its boarded up windows a constant reminder that, thanks to budget cuts, the people of Devil’s Cove had been abandoned by law and order. For what it was worth, the town hall had once been a hive of activity. Now it was mostly used for jumble sales and flea markets, and once a year, an arts and craft space for the Devil’s Day preparations.
Presently, the main hall was humming with noise. Nat was on her knees at the centre of the room, a large dome of papier-mâché in front of her, a paintbrush in her hand that she flicked and swished with expertise.
All around her, groups of adolescent children worked on banners and chatted excitedly, while shooting occasional, curious glances in Nat’s direction. As she worked, a face began to form: a bright red face with a wicked grin and reptilian yellow eyes, topped by two curved horns. The Devil in all his satanic glory.
Nat’s creation would lead Devil’s Day parade, so she was taking her time with the design, making it as detailed and as striking as possible. Some of the children were already casting frightened glances at the face, which made her smile.
The rest of her morning had gone as expected. There was only so much fun to be had changing holidaymakers’ filthy sheets and cleaning their shit off toilet bowls. But she supposed she had met that girl, Rachel, who was infinitely cooler than anyone she’d met in ages. It was just a shame that Nat had made a complete fool of herself. But at least she’d been distracted from all those dark thoughts.
Sitting up for a moment, she stretched her spine and surveyed the children's work. It was okay, she supposed. Some of them even showed a little talent. She hadn't wanted to be in charge of the brats, though – that was Rose’s doing. Apparently, she thought supervising the children would be good for Nat; melt some of that steely exterior she used as a shield.
A young boy with a shock of red hair looked up and saw Nat stretching. He smiled sweetly at her. She glared back. The boy returned to painting, his complexion a shade paler.
At the far end of the room, a group of older residents sat around a table, notebooks and pens in front of them. Rose was stationed at the end of the table, very much in charge of the meeting. Nat watched her closely. Her usual, jovial smiles were gone. Her soft, friendly gaze, now hiding something dark and disquieting.
It was the murders. Ever since she’d told Nat about them, she hadn’t been herself. Nat wondered if Rose was worried that the Dawn Children had come back, or if Rose was worried that Nat was about to do something reckless. Like go after them, for example, or mess up her final exams.
The truth was that, so far, Nat hadn’t done much at all. When she’d first heard about the murders, she’d been all fired up, ready to go tearing through the countryside, in search of the Dawn Children’s hiding place. Then she’d reminded herself that she was an eighteen-year-old art student, whose only resources were the internet and a cutting sense of humour. And how was she going to scour the countryside when she couldn’t even drive? For now, she’d decided to lay low, watch the news sites for any developments on the missing Church girl, and keep Rose happy by helping out with the festival.
She got painting again, using a thin brush to add shadows beneath the Devil’s eyes. But now she was distracted, unable to stop thinking about the Dawn Children.
There had been too much trouble in Porth an Jowl this last year. If more was on the way, she needed to know about it.
An image flashed in her mind. Aaron Black's smug face. She shook it away, dipping the brush into the paint, then applying it to the papier-mâché, sharpening the devil's horns. Soon, she was lost in painting once more and the Devil’s face was becoming frighteningly realistic.
“That's a bit scary looking, isn't it?”
Nat twisted around to see Rose leaning over her. She peered down at her work and shrugged a shoulder.
“It's the Devil,” she said. “Did you want me to paint Santa Claus?”
“Still,” Rose said, thrusting a hand on her hip. “It’s supposed to be a fun day. That’s going to give the kiddies bad dreams.”
“Then my work here is done.” Nat nodded towards the table. “How’s the knitting circle?”
“Fine.”
“Because you look scared to death over there. Are you worried?”
“About what?”
“The murders.”
A little girl poked her head up and glanced in their direction, eyes growing round and frightened.
“Keep your damn voice down,” Rose hissed. “And no, I’m not worried. I’ve got a lot on my plate getting this festival organised, that’s all, and it’s hard enough without you going on about all that unpleasant stuff.”
“I mentioned it once. Take a pill or something.”
Rose’s gaze hardened as she glared at Nat’s creation. “You better get back to your painting. And tone it down, for goodness sake. The last thing we need is for the town to be accused of satanism.”
“Then maybe don’t have a festival called Devil’s Day?” Nat narrowed her eyes as she watched Rose stalk back to the table, then she muttered under her breath as she scrutinised her handiwork.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”
Nat glanced up. Caught her breath. It was the girl from the caravan park. Rachel. Nat cleared her throat, brushed down her jeans and got to her feet.
“Um...Hey.”
“Cool Devil,” Rachel said, staring down at the papier-mâché head. “You’re really talented. Maybe I should get you to design a tattoo for me.”
Nat stared at her blankly.
“Is this a bad time? Because I was just in the area and you said to –”
“No, it's fine. I thought you were going to St Ives?”
“Yeah, we did that already.” Rach
el rolled her eyes. “So are you taking me for a tour or what?”
Nat glanced over her shoulder. Rose was watching her, then staring at Rachel, confusion narrowing her eyes.
“Sure,” she said, glaring across the room. “It’s boring as shit in here anyway.”
LEAVING THE TOWN HALL, Nat and Rachel headed down Harbour Road, then took a left, emerging on the sea front. The day was warm, the breeze light and salty. The promenade was already full of people, tourists strolling up and down the pink concrete slabs, eating ice cream and taking pictures. Nat tensed. She hated crowds on the best of days. As they walked along Cove Road, then crossed over to the promenade, she rolled a cigarette and offered it to Rachel.
“No thanks. Those things will kill you.”
Shrugging, Nat sparked the cigarette and brought it to her lips.
“Are you okay?” Rachel asked, glancing at her as they strolled. “You seem distracted.”
Nat nodded then looked away. Down on the beach, The Shack had opened its doors to patrons, while holidaymakers had already set up deck chairs and laid out towels, despite the temperature still erring on the side of spring.
They walked on in silence for a while, weaving between the tourists.
“So you loved St Ives?” Nat said, smirking.
“Yeah, very charming. I mean, I get that Cornwall’s pretty and all, but seriously what do people our age do for fun?”
“Get wasted. Then leave.”
“Sorry, I'm a dick. This is your home and I'm insulting it. Again.”
“Be my guest.” Nat sucked on her cigarette. “How about you? Where do you come from?”
“London.”
“Really? I was thinking about moving there.”
“You should. You and me, we could hang out.” Squinting in the bright sunlight, Rachel turned to stare at the sea. “Well, I guess it may be boring around here, but that is some view.”
Nat followed her gaze, staring at the wide, green ocean. Her eyes moved up to the left cliff, where the Mermaid Hotel had once stood, then over to the right cliff, to Desperation Point and the old lighthouse that stood watching over the town. Unpleasant thoughts of Aaron Black crept out from the shadows. Forcing them back, she returned her attention to the left cliff and the archway of rock protruding into the sea.
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