The knife was still in his hand, the blade sharp and serrated. Alison stood at the centre of the roof, tears streaking her face. But she wasn't sad. She was laughing to herself. That, more than anything else, filled Lindsay with terror.
“Why...Why are we here?” she asked, her voice still dry and cracked.
Alison pressed her hands together, as if in prayer, and smiled through her tears. “Because it’s finally here. The New Dawn!”
She stretched out her arms, her palms pointing skyward, making a cross. “Oh, it’s a happy, joyous day! The day we free ourselves from the shackles of this world and step into the light!”
Lindsay trembled. She had no idea what Alison was talking about. All she knew was that she wanted to go home.
But what was home without a family?
She wondered where that left her. Wondered who she would live with now if she ever got free. Beneath her terror came a tidal wave of grief. She pictured her mother, her father, Todd. If only they were here now. If only they could see what she could see. Maybe they were in heaven, right at this moment, looking down at her. But Lindsay didn’t know if heaven even existed. Her dad said no. Her mum said yes. Lindsay had always thought it was a weird idea. Why go somewhere else when you could stay here with your toys and your friends and the people who loved you?
Was that what Alison meant? That they were leaving to go to a new place?
Lindsay gazed at her, a small, terrified part in her brain beginning to understand.
“Someone's coming,” Kit said, shoulders tensing. He was still leaning over the battlements, staring downward.
Lindsay’s heart leapt into her throat. She moved closer, until she was dangerously close to him. Standing on tiptoes, she peered over the wall and was hit by a wave of dizziness. Far below, she saw the rocky ground and the tops of trees, and even further down, the tiny roofs of the village.
The police were coming. She could see their black and white uniforms as they swarmed up the path like ants, clearing tourists out of the way and sending them back down the hill.
Hope made Lindsay’s stomach flip and turn. She was going to be rescued.
Kit turned to her, the knife blade glinting in his hand. “Get away from the wall! All the way back!”
Lindsay did as she was told, scuttling away from the edge, until she stood at the centre. Behind her was the heavy wooden door they’d used to access the roof. Alison stood in between, her smile gone, her eyes sparking with excitement.
She glanced at Kit. “Are you ready?”
The boy smiled.
The silence was pierced by an ear-splitting screech of feedback, followed by a woman's voice, thin and distorted, as she spoke through a megaphone.
“This is Detective Sergeant Hughes. Lindsay Church are you up there?”
Lindsay’s pulse raced.
Yes! she thought. I am!
But she dared not say it out loud because Kit had a finger to his lips and the knife pointed towards her throat. The police detective said something else, but Lindsay wasn't listening. Her eyes were fixed on the blade, then slowly shifting over her shoulder to stare at the door.
She could escape. Dash past Alison and run down the steps, straight into the arms of the police. She weighed up her chances. Her legs were in pain, the muscles still reeling from the long walk up. She was a child, easily overpowered. And she didn’t have the knife.
“I need to know if Lindsay Church is alive and well,” Detective Sergeant Hughes called out, the crackle and pop of the megaphone startling birds from trees. “Lindsay, answer if you can hear me.”
Lindsay bolted forward, arms outstretched, running straight at the door.
Alison lunged, grabbing her by the arm.
Lindsay swung her foot and kicked Alison hard in the shin. The young woman shrieked. Her face twisted with fury. She lashed out, slapping Lindsay hard in the face, knocking her to the ground.
Pain shot up Lindsay’s spine. Alison bent down and grabbed handfuls of her hair. Lindsay’s scalp burned. She screamed as Alison dragged her across the rooftop towards Kit.
In one swift movement, Kit sprang up onto the battlements, switched the knife from his left hand to his right, then reached down and grabbed Lindsay’s arm. Before Lindsay could gasp for breath, she was hoisted into the air and set down on the wall.
Alison came next, scrambling onto the battlements. Then all three were teetering on the edge.
Lindsay couldn't breathe. Her heart thrashed wildly. There was nothing between her and the open air. No safety net to catch her if she fell. Only the hard ground far, far below. She would be killed on impact. Her bones and brains raining down over the Mount.
Kit and Alison held Lindsay’s hands in cast iron grips. They stood, a string of paper dolls swaying in the wind. One breath and they would all blow over. One slip and they would all be dead.
Terrified, Lindsay stared down at the cluster of police officers. They were tiny, like plastic figurines.
Alison drew in a deep breath and screamed at the top of her lungs, “We are the Children of the New Dawn! Now is our time! Our time to cross into the light!”
Below, the officers were moving around, forming panicked patterns and shapes.
“We are the Children of the new Dawn! We free ourselves from the shackles of the adult world!”
Trembling uncontrollably, Lindsay glanced up at Alison, then at Kit. Ecstatic smiles and joyful tears plastered their faces. In that moment, Lindsay knew why she’d been brought here, all the way to the top of St Michael’s Mount.
She’d been brought here to die.
30
THE FIRST THING NAT noticed as she entered the caravan park was the quiet. It was eerie, like someone had turned down the volume of the world. There were no radios playing, no chattering voices of holidaying guests, no drone of vacuum cleaners as staff tidied caravan interiors. Nothing. Only the distant murmur of the marching band floating up from the town far below, the melody coming and going as the ocean breeze dipped and soared.
Nat slowed and looked around, the sky a magnificent blue above her head, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up despite the heat.
Something was wrong.
She stepped cautiously into the park, reaching the centre lawn, the grass beneath her boots dry and crisp. The surrounding caravans were pristine and brilliant white, the sun dazzling against their exteriors. A deckchair lay on its side, as if someone had jumped up in a hurry. A bright red sandal lay beside it. At the edge of a lawn, just outside caravan number six, a pile of dirty towels lay half in, half out of an abandoned laundry basket. Nat stared at the towels, then at the upturned chair, her scalp itching in the midday sun.
She was being paranoid. The Devil’s Day festival was in full swing. The park’s guests would be down below, watching the parade. But where were the cleaners? Dennis Penpol had refused to give them all the day off. The only reason Nat had ducked out of her shift today was because Rose had convinced Dennis that she was needed for the parade. Penpol hadn’t like it but giving Nat the day off had been infinitely safer than facing the wrath of Rose Trewartha.
Nat glanced over her shoulder. Where was Dennis? He’d let everyone know how ridiculous he thought Devil’s Day was, even though it was the reason the caravan park was currently fully booked.
More importantly, where was Rachel?
Nat didn’t know which caravan she was staying in. She couldn't recall Rachel saying and she hadn't asked. Her gaze still lingering on the lone red sandal, Nat exited the lawn and headed towards Dennis Penpol’s office.
The door was ajar. She knocked, waited a second, then pushed it open. It was cool inside. An electric fan on the desk whirred noisily, making papers in a filing tray flutter up and down. Dennis wasn't here. No one was.
Nat scanned the room, noting the pile of aprons spilling out of the locker and the mess of files on the floor next to the desk. The fan had probably blown them over. So why did the sight of them make Nat’s stomach churn with
unease?
Crossing the room, she stooped to pick up the files, dumped them on the desk, and placed a paperweight on top. Behind her on the wall, the loathsome centrefold calendar flapped in the fan’s breeze, teasing flashes of naked flesh.
Sitting in Penpol’s chair, Nat switched on the computer and scanned through the week’s guest list and allotted caravan numbers. There were fifteen permanent caravans in total, with space at the back for a limited number of guests to park their own. Nat tried to remember Rachel's surname, but wasn’t sure if she’d even given it. In fact, now that she thought about it, she didn't know much about Rachel at all. She didn't even have a phone number for the girl.
A strange sensation crawled over the back of her head. She stared at the screen, her chest growing inexplicably tight.
The only thing she knew about Rachel was that she was on holiday with her parents. Nat scanned the guest list again, looking for caravans containing three guests. There were two in total: caravan number eight, booked under the name Whitby, and caravan number fourteen, booked under the name White.
Getting up, Nat crossed the room and headed for the door. A row of keys hung on the wall. She grabbed a bunch on her way out.
Just in case, she thought. But just in case of what?
As she stepped outside, the heat of the day hit her in waves. It was even quieter now, the music from the festival fading to a whisper. Nat strode past the central lawn and headed to Row C. Stopping outside of caravan number eight, she rapped her knuckles on the door and waited. Seconds passed. She knocked again, then moved to one of the windows and stood on the tips of her toes, trying to peer inside. The caravan was empty, the interior cast in long shadows.
Nat moved on towards Row E, the stillness of the holiday park coiling around her. Anxiety was growing like a tumour inside her chest. She couldn't explain it. She had no reason to be worried. And yet, it was as if her body knew some terrible secret and was hiding it from her brain.
Turning on to Row E, she walked three paces, then slid to a halt. There was something on the grass ahead. Long, dark streaks that glistened in the sun. And there was a smell, sharp and coppery, burning Nat’s nostrils. She stared at the wet stains on the grass, inching closer. She hurried past them, veins turning to ice as she reached caravan fourteen.
There was blood on the door. A partial handprint smeared on the edge.
“Rachel?” She hammered her fist on the door. She stared at the stains on the ground. “Rachel! It’s Nat. Are you in there?”
She leaned to the left, trying to see through the window. The blinds were down. Remembering the keys, she pulled them from her pocket and took a second to find the correct one for caravan fourteen. She slipped the key into the hole. Heard the sharp snap of the lock releasing.
Nat froze.
She had no idea what lay on the other side of the door. It could be something terrible. Something dangerous. Something so horrific that its image would be burned into her brain, forever scarring it.
Or Rachel could be lying on the other side, with only seconds remaining to save her life. Seconds that Nat was wasting.
Sucking in a trembling breath she opened the door and stepped inside. Her breath caught in her throat. Broken plates and shards of glass were strewn across the kitchenette. At the far end of the caravan, a mattress had been upended and clothes tossed to the floor.
It wasn’t until Nat had taken it all in that she saw the blood. It spattered the kitchen counter and pooled on the linoleum, thick red swashes leading up to the door.
Drag marks.
Nat stumbled back, a hand clamped over her mouth. She tripped over the threshold and fell onto the grass outside. She lay there for a second, her stomach cramping, her lungs gasping for air. She turned her head to the left, saw thick streaks of blood glistening on flattened green blades.
Scrambling to her feet, she stood rigid, heart thrashing in her chest, throat drying and constricting. She followed the drag marks with her eyes, seeing them curve and twist, then disappear around the side of the caravan.
“Rachel...” she gasped, then staggered forwards, following the bloody trail.
She rounded the corner of the caravan. The smell hit her, bitter and acrid, making her gag and her eyes water. The drag marks were turning again, vanishing behind the rear of the caravan.
Despite the heat of the day, Nat shivered uncontrollably. Her mind shrieked at her to turn and run, but it was if her legs had a mind of their own.
Nat stepped behind the caravan.
She was unprepared for what lay there. Her brain tried to make sense of it, but got scrambled, making the world spin and her vision flash yellow then red.
She stumbled backwards, keys slipping from her hands, spine colliding with the adjacent caravan.
The bodies were piled on top of each other, like a game of human pickup sticks. Arms and legs stuck out at unnatural angles from blood-soaked torsos. Dead eyes were open and staring.
She didn't know how many people there were, but among the corpses she saw flashes of floral print cleaning aprons and recognised the faces of an elderly couple who'd tipped her generously on her last shift. Now they lay on top of each other, drenched in their own blood, with more bodies pressing down on them.
On top of the pile, splayed on his back, throat slit wide open and smiling at the sky, was Dennis Penpol.
Nat retreated, sliding along the caravan, feet tripping over themselves, hands splayed out against the warm metal. She turned and vomited. Then she staggered between the rows of caravans, choked wails and cries spluttering from her throat, vision blinded by acid tears.
They were dead. All of them.
Stabbed and slashed and cut and hacked. All stacked on top of each other in a pyre ready for burning. She didn’t know if Rachel was among them. But Nat’s colleagues were.
As she cleared the caravans, she realised that if Rose hadn’t managed to get her the day off, she would have been on that pile, too.
Nat ran harder, racing past the car park, which was filled with the guest’s vehicles, tyres slashed and ripped open. She reached the entrance gate of the holiday park, flung herself through it, and fell to her knees.
She vomited again, hot bile splashing on the dusty ground. Then she was staggering to her feet and running onto the road.
What did she do? Where did she go?
The police had left just minutes ago, called elsewhere. But there had to be others down there watching over the festival.
Digging into her pocket, Nat pulled out her phone, dropped it, picked it up again, then dialled 999. She waited for the line to connect. When it didn’t, she glanced at the screen. The signal bar was empty.
Which was ridiculous. Because she was standing fifteen metres away from the only mobile mast in town.
Spinning on her heels, Nat stared down the road at Cove Primary School. Her eyes widened. The mobile mast, which was attached to the school roof, had been twisted and mangled beyond repair. She stared at it, open-mouthed, barely comprehending what she was seeing. Then she turned back to the cove.
Something terrible was happening.
She didn't know when it had started. But she knew that it wouldn’t end until everyone was dead.
A face flashed in her mind. A name rang in her ears, over and over.
Rose.
She was down there, with no idea what was happening. Nat needed to find her. She needed to get Rose to safety.
Legs unsteady beneath her, she started forward, hurrying over the crest of the hill. Then Nat was running towards Porth an Jowl. Running towards Rose.
31
AS ROSE MADE HER WAY through the throngs, she couldn’t help feeling a swell of pride for Nat. Oh, she may have been moody, bad tempered, sometimes even spiteful, but under her spiky exterior was a scared child still trying to make sense of the terrible things that her parents had done to her. Rose had tried her best over the years to smooth it all over – not to cover it up, though, because you couldn’t heal wounds if
you didn’t know what had caused them – and somewhere along the way, she’d fallen in love in the way a good parent falls in love with her child. Nat wasn’t her own, she knew that. But some days, she forgot. She’d loved all the children she’d fostered over the years, but Nat was the one she could happily call her daughter. If only the girl could see that. If only she could take a moment from beating herself up to notice all the love surrounding her like a blanket.
The crowd was getting heavier, making it hard for Rose to squeeze through. People had turned out in droves this year and she wondered if it was because of all the bad things that had happened. Grady Spencer. All his poor little victims. Cal. People were always curious about morbid things – the grislier the better – and Porth an Jowl had had more than its fair share to gawk at. Despite their reason for coming, Rose was glad for the crowds. More people meant more money for the town. And a good day made for a good memory to help smooth over all the bad.
As Rose reached the end of the high street and turned on to Harbour Road, the crowd thinned and the marching band’s music grew a fraction softer. The town hall was just ahead. As she reached the steps, a voice rang out behind her.
“Rose? Yoo-hoo! Is that you?”
A familiar face was hurrying in her direction. Rose heaved her shoulders. “Hello, Dottie. How are you, then? Enjoying the festival so far?”
Dottie moved surprisingly fast for a woman of her age. Rose wondered if all that gossip she liked to spread acted like rocket fuel.
“Oh yes, yes, it's lovely, very nice,” Dottie said breathlessly. “But have you heard about Carrie?”
Rose tried not to roll her eyes. “No, but something tells me I’m about to be enlightened.”
“Well,” Dottie said, ignoring the remark. “I was coming back from town yesterday morning after collecting the paper, and who do you think I saw leaving her house?”
Rose puffed out her cheeks and shook her head.
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes – but I saw, of all people, Kye Anderson – Cal’s father! It was very early in the morning, mind you. Not visiting hours, so I would imagine he probably stayed the night.” She arched her eyebrows and smiled conspiratorially. “What do you make of that? I mean, I know Carrie and poor Dylan were having problems but clearly, it’s worse than everyone thinks. Clearly, Carrie has no intention of trying to make amends!”
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