The Devil's Gate

by Malcolm Richards

  All she knew was that Cynthia hadn’t been around yesterday; the only person to show Lindsay any kindness since she’d been taken. And now she was here, walking towards St Michael’s Mount with Alison and Kit.

  They weren’t the only ones to have left the compound, either. Everyone had; splitting up into groups, some departing on foot, while others clambered inside a big white van. Lindsay, Kit, and Alison were the last to leave. And now here they were, marching across the causeway, Lindsay wedged between her captors as they passed tourists dressed in bright colours, some heading back to the beach, while others journeyed on towards the Mount.

  The day was already hot and clammy, the sun bright in a cloudless sky, the ocean green and inviting.

  The wig was making Lindsay’s scalp itch. She reached up and slipped a finger beneath it. Alison slapped her hand away, gripped her arm tightly, sending rivulets of pain up to her shoulder.

  They walked on, Lindsay's legs heavy beneath her. As they passed the other people, some of the adults glanced at her, a few raising their eyebrows. She wondered if they’d recognised her. If her face had been shown on the television like those other missing children she sometimes saw on the news.

  She thought about screaming. About making a run for it.

  But she knew what was in Kit's pocket.

  She knew that if she screamed, he would take it out and cut her open.

  So, Lindsay walked, until her legs trembled and her scalp burned. The causeway was coming to an end, opening onto a stony beach and a cement walkway. They followed it along, mingling with the sightseers, more and more of them shooting curious glances at Lindsay.

  The walkway narrowed into an alley, then they were entering the village. It was small, a cluster of old stone cottages. Lindsay looked around, remembering that people lived in those houses and wondering if they ever got fed up with holidaymakers crawling over their home.

  She wondered what would happen if she ran to one of the cottages now and asked to use their phone. She could call the police, tell them yes, she really was Lindsay Church, the little girl that had gone missing while holidaying with her family. Then she noticed Kit was staring at her. Turning away, she fixed her gaze on the sloping hill in the near distance and the castle protruding from the top like a crown.

  The crowd was thicker here. People were ambling like snails, snapping photographs of the landscape and each other. Lindsay risked a glance up at Alison, then back at Kit, saw their clenched jaws and alert expressions. She had thought Alison was kind. She’d called herself Lindsay's sister. But Alison was just as bad as the others.

  They walked on, cutting through the crowds, moving past the houses, passing hedgerows and lawns, the narrowing walkway making it difficult to stay together. Alison tightened her grip on Lindsay’s arm as Kit scooted in front, his hand still clutching the blade inside his pocket.

  They pushed through a gate and stopped at the centre of a crossroad. The path led to a gift shop on their right and a small lawn up ahead, where a few people sat enjoying the sunshine. On their left, the path continued on to the castle.

  A group of women on the lawn looked up and stared at the trio. One of them whispered something, then they were all staring at Lindsay.

  Why had she been brought here?

  In a brief moment of hope, Lindsay wondered if it was to set her free. She couldn’t think of any other reason. But if it was true, why take her all the way to the Mount? Why not leave her at the beach, or on the outskirts of town?

  No. They were here for something else. Something bad.

  “Come on,” Kit said. The three of them headed left, Lindsay’s arm throbbing in Alison’s grip. They walked along the path, through another gate with a notice saying something about tickets. And then they were grinding to a halt.

  Two middle-aged women were up ahead, dressed in casual uniform and standing next to a booth. Lindsay watched them smile as they checked the tickets of a middle-aged couple and waved them through.

  She could hear Alison's breath quickening beside her, felt her fingernails digging into her flesh. She saw Kit slip the knife from his pocket and press it against his thigh. They moved forward as one, until they reached the two women.

  The one on the left, a woman with kind eyes and greying hair flashed a smile at Lindsay. The smiled quickly faded as she turned to Kit.

  “Do you have your tickets?” she asked. Lindsay felt the other woman staring at her, saw her eyes widen with recognition.

  “This is my ticket,” Kit said. He held up the knife, keeping it close to his chest. “Now move.”

  Both women stared at each other, then at the knife, faces pale as winter.

  “I said fucking move!”

  The women did as they were told, shooting panicked glances at each other, then at Lindsay.

  Knife still in front of him, Kit moved forward.

  Alison followed with Lindsay in tow.

  As they hurried along the path, Lindsay glanced over her shoulder and saw one of the women staring in horror and the other running for help. The path twisted and she almost tripped over her feet.

  “Come on!” Alison snapped, wrenching her arm.

  Lindsay turned back, saw palm trees at her sides and a set of big stone steps up ahead. Tourists were moving out of their way, some making disgruntled comments, others whispering in concern. Someone must have seen Kit's knife because a shriek rang out on Lindsay’s right.

  Every cell in her body told her to run. If she could free herself from Alison’s grasp, then she could disappear in the crowd, or hide in one of the houses with the door locked. With all these people around, surely Kit and Alison couldn't hurt her.

  They had reached the steps; large, ancient slabs with iron railings on both sides that rose sharply up the hill. Leafy trees and tall bushes closed in on them as they began to climb.

  Lindsay tilted her head, staring upwards. Her legs ached. Her lungs were on fire. There was no way she was going to make it up those steps, all the way to the top.

  If she ran now, there was a chance that Kit and Alison would catch her. But perhaps the ticket lady who had gone for help had managed to call the police. If Lindsay waited, Kit and Alison would get arrested and then she would be safe.

  Or perhaps one of the tourists would be brave enough to stop Kit and Alison in their tracks and set Lindsay free.

  “Get going!” Kit growled.

  He shoved her, his palm flat against her back. Lindsay pitched forward, stumbled and grabbed the railing. Onlookers muttered disapprovingly, but no one intervened.

  Alison grabbed Lindsay's arm again. She smiled. “Come on, you can do it.”

  The three got going again, taking the large steps one at a time, climbing higher and higher. Soon, the steps turned into a smooth path that spiralled, around and around, until the trees fell away and were replaced by open, rocky ground.

  The castle loomed over them like a giant.

  Lindsay still had no idea why she’d been brought here. Only that it was for nothing good. Her leg muscles screaming, she climbed even higher, praying that the police would get here before it was too late.

  27

  THE PARADE HAD REACHED the town centre, where throngs of people lined the pavements, all jostling for space behind the barriers. Excited tourists snapped pictures of the lumbering, giant devil. Children oohed and ahhed. A few of the youngest started crying and buried their faces into their parents’ shoulders. Excited cheers and gasps travelled through the crowds as the parade continued along the street, the red devil stalking through the town, its ominous shadow creeping across the buildings. The band played on. The children swung their banners in time to the music and a horde of red-faced demons danced hypnotically at the rear.

  Nat's tears had almost dried. The ache in her chest was slowly dissipating. Rose had been right: to see her artwork proudly on display had left her bursting with pride. She'd already heard several people commenting on the designs, admiring the colours and the patterns, and pointing out t
heir favourites. It was the first time she’d dared to have her work displayed in public and now she wondered why she hadn’t done it before.

  She felt different. Less empty, somehow. Even the crowds that would have normally had her running to the safety of her room seemed less claustrophobic. It was funny, Nat thought, as she and Rose picked their way between the bodies, how even the slightest change of heart could transform the entire world.

  “I'm off,” Rose called out above the din, then waved at a neighbour standing across the street. “It’ll take another twenty minutes for the parade to get to the beach, and those drinks aren’t going to pour themselves.”

  Nat nodded, moved to go with her.

  Rose shook her head, a smile etched on her lips. “Why don't you go and find that friend of yours?”

  “But the drinks...”

  “I'll be fine for five minutes. Just make sure you bring her straight to the town hall. It’s all hands on deck.”

  Nat’s face was heating up again. “No, it's fine. I’m coming with you.”

  “Go. Before I change my mind.” Rose waved her away again. “Just do me a favour and don't fall in love. These holiday romances always end in tears.”

  “Oh, shut up!” Nat cried, her face now almost purple. “We’re friends, that’s all.”

  “And I’m the Queen of England.”

  Flashing Nat one last smile, Rose disappeared into the crowd. Fuming, Nat watched her leave, then headed in the opposite direction, pushing her way through the bodies, back towards Cove Road. The crowd parted and she saw Carrie and Dylan standing on the other side of the parade, smiling at the passing children. Neither smile reached their eyes, Nat noted.

  A minute later, she was making her way up Cove Road, the steep gradient punishing her calves as the town dropped away behind her and the din of the parade grew muffled and distant. Halfway up, she broke into a sweat. The day was growing hotter by the second, as if Devil’s Day had opened up the gates of Hell instead of sealing them shut. Nat paused to catch her breath and stared down at the town. It was nice to see Porth an Jowl so alive, she thought. The streets filled with vibrancy and excitement instead of hopelessness and despair. She wondered if the mood would last beyond today.

  On the move again, she passed Carrie’s street, then her own. Finally, she reached the top.

  The sound of an approaching vehicle made her turn around. A police van was climbing the hill, its engine growling as it strained against the gradient.

  Nat watched it drive past, saw a cluster of uniformed officers filling the back of the van. Now on flat ground, the vehicle sped up, shooting past the holiday park, then the school, its siren piercing the calm with a high-pitched wail.

  Nat watched the van disappear into the distance, wondering what was so urgent that the police officers keeping the festival safe had been called away.

  A knot of anxiety twisted her stomach. It reached up, sinking tendrils into her chest. She tried to shake it off, then crossed the road, heading for the caravan park.

  28

  THE PROCESSION WAS moving slowly along the street, the crowds following along on both sides, feet shuffling, bodies bumping into each other, a deafening chorus of voices fighting with the music of the marching band. The tune had changed to another Cornish ditty, one that moved along at a brisk pace, punctuated by cymbal claps. At the back of the parade, the troupe of dancing devils skipped and swooped, red ribbons trailing their twisting bodies. Carrie watched the dancers, a creeping unease moving through her. Ever since she'd glimpsed the woman in the crowd, she’d been unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong.

  You’re imagining things, she thought. Guilt and paranoia were playing tricks on her mind.

  She replayed the events of Thursday night. It was strange to think Cal’s father had ever been here. Like a ghost he’d materialised from nowhere then faded into the ether. Except he’d left behind the cheque.

  Her thoughts turned to Cal. She imagined him locked in his room at the hospital, his body limp and his mind numbed by sedatives and anti-psychotics. She wondered what he would make of the Devil’s Day festival. Would the crowds delight or terrify him? Would all the colours and noises make him laugh or quiver?

  A wave of shame came crashing down on Carrie. Her son was disappearing – from the world, from himself – and here she was, watching a parade like he didn’t even exist.

  A chorus of gasps rang out from the crowd. Carrie glanced up, pulse racing, eyes alert. The gasps quickly turned to claps and cheers as two performers on giant stilts waded through the crowd. Carrie watched them, her neck craned as she took in their scaly costumes, cloven hooves, and demonic, painted faces that snarled and snapped at the onlookers. She turned back to the parade, watching Melissa idly swing her banner and chat to her schoolmate, boredom clearly setting in. Then Carrie was searching the crowd again.

  What was she looking for? Danger? Trouble? Something that wasn't there? She wasn’t sure.

  A hand grasped her arm. She spun around.

  “It's just me,” Dylan said with a sting in his eyes as Carrie shrugged him off. “You’re jumpy today.”

  There it was again: the pinch of guilt in her chest. The worry on his face. Carrie nodded, mustering a weak smile. On her right, the troupe of devil dancers rushed together then pulled apart, red ribbons swirling over their heads. Among the crowds, more devil masks were appearing, vicious, yellow eyes seeming to point in Carrie's direction.

  Jack Dawkins emerged from the throng, waving at Joy and Gary. He had the glint in his eye of someone about to deliver front page news.

  Dylan moved to the left, blocking Carrie’s view. “Has something happened? You've barely said a word since we got here. You’re not exactly giving Melissa your undivided attention, either.”

  “Yes, I am. And I’m fine.”

  “Okay... Well, you didn’t answer my question – about meeting up to talk tonight.”

  “Tonight’s not good.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just leave it, will you? Jesus, don’t you think I have enough going on right now? And don’t give me that wounded puppy look – you were the one who wanted to call it a day. You don’t get to act all hurt, like it was all my idea!”

  She turned her back on him, hot and irritable, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. She was an adult, a consenting one at that. Which meant she could do what she damn well pleased. Thursday night had been nothing more than momentary relief from all the trouble weighing her down. A distraction. Nothing more. She hadn’t intended to hurt anyone or cause more trouble, but now it was out of her hands, spreading from person to person like wildfire. And the trouble with fire was that once it caught hold, it burned everything to the ground.

  Carrie glanced over her shoulder. Dylan had moved away and was now standing alone, watching Melissa with determination.

  She felt eyes, watching her again. Looking up, she saw Joy, Gary, and Jack Dawkins staring in her direction, their expressions stony and grave. She turned away, thought she saw the young woman again, melting into the crowd. A memory triggered in her mind. She was standing in her hallway late at night, a young man and woman peeling from the shadows, rushing at her with knives.

  “Mummy! Mummy, you’re not watching me!”

  Melissa was trying to get her attention, waving the banner manically above her head, much to the annoyance of her young partner. Her throat running dry, Carrie waved back.

  The woman in the crowd was gone. If she was ever there in the first place.

  Ghosts, Carrie thought. You're chasing ghosts.

  Anxiety pressed down on her chest. The throngs surged and heaved around her as they followed the parade. The marching band’s tune came to an end and they immediately started another. It was dark and mysterious, horns blowing a spiky melody that made Carrie’s skin crawl. A cold sweat broke out at the back of her neck. A wall of faces and bodies closed in on all sides.

  This was not how the parade was supposed to go. She was
supposed to stand and smile and wave at her daughter like a dutiful mother, quietly following along, down to the beach, where she would join everyone in a toast to ward off the devil and close his gate for another year. Then she was meant to open up Cove Crafts for the rest of the afternoon, to take advantage of the festival-goers’ good moods and open wallets.

  Right now, Carrie wanted nothing more than to push her way through the swelling sea of bodies, leaving Dylan behind and Melissa in his care. She wanted to run and run and not look back, until she was far from this town and its pointing fingers. Until she’d outrun the devil himself.

  But Carrie was fenced in with no hope of escape, the feeling that something bad was about to happen growing worse by the minute.

  29

  THEY'D MADE IT TO THE top. Not the top of the Mount, but the top of the castle. Lindsay stood on the roof with Alison and Kit close by, the wig she’d been made to wear now discarded on the ground. Her skin was slick with sweat, her lungs burned, and every inch of her ached with pain. But the view made up for it all.

  She could see for miles. The ocean was like coloured glass, rippling with shades of green and blue. Yachts drifted across the bay, sails fluttering in the breeze. The beach glittered in the distance, stretching out for miles, while at the edges of the coastline, tiny towns clustered together, sunbeams bouncing off tiny windows. Lindsay was in awe, her fear momentarily forgotten.

  Until she turned to see Kit standing at the very edge of the rooftop, leaning over the tooth-shaped battlements.