The Devil's Gate

by Malcolm Richards

  Memories of that day in the wood faded from Carrie's mind. “Hope? Rose, he’s locked up in a mental institution awaiting trial for murder. His solicitor’s confident that with enough evidence he can get the charge reduced to manslaughter due to diminished responsibility. But that doesn't mean Cal will be set free. It doesn't mean he should be, either. At best, he’ll be locked away in the hospital. At worst, prison. And either way, he’ll have to live for the rest of his life knowing that he killed a man. That he nearly killed his grandmother. How does he come back from that? Even if he does, it was me who handed him to the police. His own mother. He’ll look at me every day and know that. Just like I do every time I look in the mirror.”

  “You did the right thing,” Rose said gently. “You were protecting your family. Protecting him. He's still your son, Carrie. He needs you.”

  “And Melissa's my daughter. She saw him plunge that knife into her grandmother’s chest. A knife that was meant for her. Even if Cal was released, how can I let him back into her life? Into her home?”

  Rose stared at the table and heaved her shoulders. She doesn’t know, Carrie thought. But who could blame her when there was no right answer?

  “Start by letting the police take care of that terrible business in Falmouth,” Rose said quietly. “Start by considering going to see your son. And right now, start by going back out there and helping me salvage some of these god-awful costumes. Honestly, they look like they were put together by a blind man with a blunt needle.”

  She looked up, flashed a smile at Carrie, who laughed in spite of herself.

  “I can't promise I'll do any better,” she said.

  Rose shook her head. “Don't matter. Whatever it takes to keep you sane.”

  11

  NAT AND RACHEL STEPPED out of the train station into bright sunshine and onto a leafy residential street. Passing under an old arched bridge, they made their way into town. Falmouth was five times the size of Porth an Jowl, boasting a creative arts university, large docks and marina, and even a castle. Like Porth an Jowl, the streets of the town were narrow and winding, but there were plenty more shops and boutiques and places of interest to keep the tourists busy and their wallets open. Nat had a vague recollection of coming here as a child, during a brief spell in which her parents had attempted to ditch the drugs and try out stability. Needless to say it hadn’t lasted long. But she vaguely remembered visiting Pendennis Castle. In comparison to the great castles of the United Kingdom, Pendennis was modestly-sized, with only a few grand flourishes that overlooked the English channel, but a young Nat had been in awe of its stone walls and turrets. She had imagined herself as a knight, standing guard in the castle’s keep, furtive eyes watching the ocean for signs of enemy ships.

  “So this place looks dull as hell,” Rachel said, puffing out her cheeks. Lost in thought, Nat had quite forgotten about her for a minute. “I thought you were taking me somewhere exciting.”

  “I am,” Nat said.

  They walked on, passing through familiar looking streets, where tourists sauntered by or milled in and out of shop doorways. Above their heads, the sky was vivid blue with only a smattering of clouds, an occasional airplane passing by to destinations unknown. As they walked, Rachel made sarcastic comments and huffed and puffed. She was beginning to irritate Nat. Rachel didn't know how lucky she really was – to have at least one parent who gave a shit about her enough to take her on holiday. And Cornwall wasn’t all that bad, she thought, surprising herself. Not on days like this.

  “Tell me about London,” she said, as the street merged onto a crossroad. A narrow alley sloped downward on their left, where they saw a glimpse of the harbour.

  Rachel screwed up her face. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s a lot more exciting than here and there’s always something to do and the shops are amazing, of course.”

  “What about the galleries? Have you been to the National? Or the Tate Modern?”

  “No, boring! Oops, sorry – that’s more your thing than mine. But from what I hear, there are tons of galleries. You’d probably have an orgasm.”

  Nat turned away, her cheeks flushing.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter where you live if you’re stuck living with parents who think they can control you.” Rachel slowed down a little, her gaze wandering over the crowds. “You're lucky having someone like Rose. Someone who cares about you. Even if she isn’t your real mum.”

  Nat supposed that she was, even if the scars covering her body were a daily reminder that Rose hadn’t always been in her life. Even if Rose thought she knew everything about Nat that there was to know. Which she didn’t. Pulling out her phone, she opened the map application and checked the directions. They were still another five minutes away. She looked up, suddenly noticing the dour faces of the other pedestrians. There was a mood in the Falmouth air today, and it had nothing to do with holidays. It was heavy and smothering, filling Nat’s lungs with tar as she led Rachel away from the town centre and towards Pendennis Point.

  The Church family’s holiday home was located on Castle Drive. It was the last house on the end of a meandering strip of detached white buildings with large bay windows and palm trees in the garden. The road itself skirted the edge of the coastline and overlooked a rocky beach and the wide, blue ocean.

  Nat had read as much as she could find about the murders of Donna and Paul Church and their son, Todd, but so far, details had been scant. Donna and Todd had been found stabbed to death in the dining room, while Paul Church had been mutilated and laid out on the front lawn. Ten-year-old Lindsay Church was still missing. Television news reports speculated a connection between the Church family murders and the murder of John Beaumont. The former councillor’s five-year-old son, Luke, had also been abducted, his whereabouts still unknown despite an extensive police search. In the video footage captured by Aaron Black, Beaumont had begged for his son’s life. If the Dawn Children had the boy, they now also had Lindsay.

  “What the hell?” Rachel said, staring at the crime scene with round eyes. “This is what you brought me to see?”

  “You said you wanted to see something interesting,” Nat murmured. Her gaze flitted from the barrier of police tape still surrounding the property, to the uniformed officers standing outside, to the large white tent covering the front lawn. It had been over twenty-four hours since the bodies had been found, but the CSI team were still at work, their van parked ominously at the side of the road. A handful of residents were gathered on the pavement, whispering and pointing.

  Why had the Dawn Children resurfaced now? These latest murders would only result in a heightened police presence and an escalated investigation. There had to be a reason for them to strike out so viciously.

  Nat edged closer, until she stood near the whispering residents, earning herself a few wary looks. With the police standing guard in front of the barriers, this was the closest she was going to get. Frustrated, she moved to the side, trying to get a clearer view. What were you expecting? she asked herself. To be invited in for a guided tour?

  “What happened?” Rachel said, her voice a whisper. Nat glanced at her, noting that a little colour had drained from her face.

  “A family was murdered. One of the kids is missing. You didn't hear about it on the news?”

  She looked at Nat, fine lines creasing her forehead. “I don't listen to the news, it's too depressing.”

  “Anyway, they think it could be connected to another murder and abduction from last year.”

  A detective was emerging from the house. She stopped to speak to one of the uniformed officers then glanced disapprovingly at the gathering crowd.

  “What murder?” Rachel asked.

  “You know all about Grady Spencer, right?”

  Rachel shrugged a shoulder, shot a nervous glance at the police detective, who was still standing in the garden, surveying the crowd. Perhaps she wasn't as tough as she'd made out to be, Nat thought.

  “I know what everyone else does. He murdered a bu
nch of kids. Kidnapped that boy – Carrie Whatshername’s son – and tried to turn him into a killer.” She turned back to Nat. “But I guess you know more, living next door to the murder house, right?”

  Nat froze. Her mouth dropped open. “How do you know that?”

  “You told me, didn’t you?”

  “No. I deliberately didn't tell you anything.”

  Rachel’s gaze dropped to the ground. She was blushing. “Okay, fine. I spoke to one of the cleaners at the caravan park and asked about you. He told me you lived next door to Grady Spencer. That you were friends with the family of one of the kids he took. Noel or something.”

  “Noah,” Nat corrected through clenched teeth. “Why were you asking questions about me?”

  “Because I was curious. You’re the most interesting person I've met in ages.”

  Rachel shot her another glance, a shy smile on her lips.

  Anger bubbled in Nat’s stomach. Perhaps Rachel really was just another thrill seeker, only getting close to Nat just to find out all the grisly details of Grady Spencer's horrific legacy. Or perhaps not. She studied the young woman, noticing the glow of her cheeks, her downcast eyes, the way they flicked nervously up towards the crime scene.

  She turned back to Nat. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. It's just that I never get to meet anyone cool.”

  “Not even in London?” Nat's shoulders softened. Suddenly, she wanted to tell Rachel everything. Sometimes it was easier to tell the truth to someone you barely knew. But now she regretted bringing Rachel to the crime scene. She was clearly uncomfortable being here – how would she react when she heard the whole story of Nat's involvement? Or that she was responsible for Aaron Black's death?

  “It's true. I lived next door to Grady Spencer, but I had no idea about all the fucked up shit that was happening under his roof,” Nat said, watching Rachel carefully. “He took Cal when he was just a kid and he broke him. Took away his humanity and tried to turn him into a killer. Noah was supposed to be Cal’s first victim. But Noah’s brother, Jago, he cut that bastard Grady Spencer’s throat right open. The prick died. Cal escaped. But Noah was saved.” She paused, studying Rachel's expression for signs of horror, for a clue that she was about to turn and run. But Rachel nodded for her to continue. “We thought it was over. Until Aaron Black came. He wanted to write a book about it all. Even hired me to be his assistant. He discovered the Dawn Children – some sort of cult involving missing children. He found out where they were living, but he got too cocky. He filmed them. He filmed Cal stabbing a man to death.” Nat’s voice stuck in her throat. She turned away, tears scratching her eyes. “But the Dawn Children caught Aaron. Chased him through Briar Wood, and then...”

  And then they killed him. And it’s my fault.

  “I found his phone, up at Desperation Point. I saw what he’d filmed and I took it to the police. They went up to Burnt House Farm, but it was too late. The Dawn Children were gone. Aaron's body – what was left of it – washed up a few miles down the coast two weeks later.”

  A heavy, cloying weight pressed down on Nat’s chest. She wiped her eyes and turned her attention to the big white house and the palm trees in front, fronds swaying in the breeze. The detective had left the scene, climbed inside her car, and was now pulling away from the kerb. A member of the Crime Scene Investigation team emerged from the tent, white disposable suit and face mask blinding in the sun.

  “Jesus Christ, that sounds fucking intense,” Rachel said at last, her voice a cracked whisper. “But I still don’t understand what that’s got to do with what’s happening here.”

  “I think the Dawn Children killed these people and took their daughter. Just like they killed that councillor and took his son. It’s what they do. I thought if I came here today, I might be able to learn something new.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve been looking for them,” Nat said. “I’ve been trying for months. I even went up to Burnt House Farm, but it's like they vanished into thin air. Until now.”

  She’d hoped to see a smile on Rachel’s face. Or at least surprise. But the young woman’s expression was deadly serious.

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed or something?”

  Nat glared at her. “People are dead. A boy and a girl are missing. Cal’s in an institution and his mum’s life is in ruins. The Dawn Children may be kids, but they’re dangerous. Whoever is leading them needs to be stopped. If the police can't do that, then I will.”

  “But you clean caravans for a living – what makes you think you can find them when the police can't?”

  Nat flinched like she’d been slapped. This was not supposed to be happening. Rachel was supposed to be commending her on her bravery and ingenuity, not making her feel stupid, like a kid running around playing make believe.

  “The police have limited time and resources,” she said, avoiding Rachel’s gaze. “I have all the time in the world. I won't stop. Not until I’ve found them. Not until I make them pay.”

  Rachel turned away, shaking her head. “Jesus. And here I was thinking you were smart.”

  They were both quiet for a moment, Nat seething and embarrassed as she watched the crime scene. Then she said, “Come on. Bringing you here was a big mistake.”

  Nat turned on her heels and started marching back the way they’d come, arms swinging, boots thumping on the tarmac.

  “I’m sorry,” Rachel said, catching her up. “I’m just a little freaked out.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Maybe we can hang out again tomorrow or something. Some place normal.”

  “Whatever.”

  They walked on in silence, all the way back to the station, Nat replaying the conversation they’d just had, over and over in her head. Had she said too much? Was Rachel overreacting or was she right? After all, Nat had only known the girl for two minutes and she’d already dragged her to a murder site and told her all about her hunt for a demented cult of killer children. Oh God, Nat thought. What am I doing?

  At least Rachel was only here for a few more days. At least she could go back to London with a story to tell her cool friends. The story of how she met an eighteen-year-old caravan cleaner with an overactive imagination, whose only aspiration was to rot in the grave that was Porth an Jowl. At least there was that.

  12

  IT WAS JUST AFTER SEVEN, the evening still bright outside, the air sticky and warm. Carrie had put Melissa to bed and now she paced the living room, her phone pressed to her ear and her eyes flicking towards the empty drinks cabinet. Her heart raced. Her chest was tight and uncomfortable. Unreasonably jolly music played in her ear as she waited for her call to be put through.

  A second later, the music was cut off and replaced by a woman's confident yet soothing voice. “Doctor Jensen speaking.”

  “Hello Doctor, it's Carrie Killigrew. Cal’s mother...”

  “Oh, Carrie,” the doctor said, the softness of her voice like a sedative. “I was thinking to myself just this morning that we haven’t spoken in a while. Everything okay?”

  “Oh, you know. The same, I guess.” She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “How is he?”

  There was a pause before Dr Jensen spoke. Carrie continued to pace the room, the walls closing in on her as she moved.

  “From one mother to another, I have to be honest with you, Carrie. I'm concerned. Cal is withdrawing more and more. He’s refusing to eat.”

  Carrie froze on the spot, an invisible weight pressing down on her. “What do you mean? Nothing at all?”

  “We got him to drink some water, but that’s all. I’m worried he’s shutting down. Yesterday, I could barely get him to look at me. Today, he wouldn’t even turn around.” Another pause. The silence crushed the air from Carrie's lungs. “Look, I’ll be candid – I know things are hard for you right now, but Cal hasn't seen anyone from his family in weeks. Part of me has to wonder if that’s why he fell apart and was transferred here.

  “I think that
if you visited him, that if he could see you, it might help him to come back from wherever it is he’s disappearing to. I’m afraid that without any reason to stay tethered to the here and now, well... We’re losing him, Carrie. Once he’s gone, we may never get him back. I’m not saying this to frighten you, believe me. I’m saying it because I’ve seen it happen before.”

  Carrie was silent as she moved over to the mantelpiece and stared at the framed family photographs sitting on top. Cal as a baby, all soft and pink and wrapped up in a blanket. Cal as a toddler, sitting astride a plastic tractor in the backyard, a carefree smile lighting up his face. Nine-year-old Cal with Carrie, holding each other’s hand and eating ice cream; the last photograph taken of them together.

  In the short space of time that Cal had returned home last year, Carrie hadn’t taken a single picture. Not one.

  Dr Jensen whispered in her ear. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, I know you're going through a lot,” the doctor continued. “I know that coming to terms with your son being on trial for murder is an almost impossible task, never mind everything that came before – losing him, then finding him, only to lose him again – I know what I’m asking may seem a lot, but I really believe that seeing you, hearing your voice, might help to bring Cal back. It might be the only thing that does.”

  Carrie thought about seeing her son in that sterile place. Thought about seeing her mother slumped against the bedroom wall, the hilt of a butcher’s knife protruding from her chest. Thought about sitting on the cliff top with Cal, watching the sky bruise purple and burn tangerine.

  “I –” she began. “It's just that...”

  What did she tell the doctor? That she couldn't bear to see her son locked up like an animal because she’d given him up to the police? Or that she couldn't bear to look into his eyes and see the killer he had become?