Local Whispers

by C K Williams

  He is still pulling. Still pulling it tighter. Even as I struggle to my feet, I do not know what it is that I can do to save them.

  And then I do.

  A desperate bid, but it might just work.

  I have to tell the truth.

  “Patrick! Megan!”

  Everyone except Patrick turns around to face me. Above me, the wood of the yew creaks. Crackles. As if it was laughing at me. Sean is the first to react. He trains his weapon on me with relish. So does William O’Rawe. Only Megan Walsh’s expression is impassive. There are no tears in her eyes. There is nothing. I wonder if she is really here with us. Tessa Adams’s expression is unmoving, too. Only Florence O’Rawe draws in a panicked breath.

  I swallow down the bile. A weak link. Good. Because none of the others seem to have any compunctions about shooting me. The truth is whispering to me. I can hear it. Can hear it say: you can rely on me.

  If only I knew what the truth was. If only I knew for sure. I take two staggering steps towards them. Then I come to a halt, both hands raised, because I think my knees will give out if I do not stop. “Patrick, you have the wrong man.”

  Patrick does not even tilt his head in my direction.

  “Been waiting for you to show up,” Sean says, looking me up and down with all the despicable fear and the fearful disgust that this young man bears for bodies turning old and frail und unreliable, reminding him of what awaits in his own future. I almost smile. It is coming for you, too, Sean, I would like to tell him. Frailty and death is waiting for all of us.

  “You’re angry with the wrong man, Patrick,” I continue, my voice as weak as my body. “You’re looking for someone to blame, but you aren’t looking in the right place.”

  And Patrick—

  Patrick is shifting.

  I know that this is critical. I cannot be the one who tells him that his daughter slept with a close friend; he will simply deny it if he hears it from me. So instead, I say: “You have been lied to, Patrick.”

  “My daughter did not lie to me,” Patrick says, hand still lying on the thick noose around Daniel’s throat. “She told me about their conversations. And he admitted it in front of his entire congregation. He admitted it again, to my wife, on the phone today.”

  I shake my head. “I was not referring to Father Daniel. He did not lie to you.”

  “Then who?” Patrick is turning towards me, away from Daniel. Everyone is. I have their attention. God, thank you. I swallow. Blurry. Bile. Keep swallowing. Keep speaking.

  “It isn’t my secret to tell,” I say, pretending to be calm. Extremely calm, even while my heart is racing and my vision is blurring and I can feel my knees growing weaker and weaker as if I am about to snap in half. While I can hear the yew cackling at me, can feel its arms and branches and twigs reaching for me with thick sharp fingers, ready to pull me up by the throat and strangle me alive, ready to cut my skin and watch me bleed out on the ground.

  Because I have no idea. I have no idea whether it was William O’Rawe or Sean O’Doherty or another friend of Patrick’s altogether, and I will only have one shot at this.

  I cannot be sure.

  I have no way of being sure.

  So I take a leap: “I think you should come clean, William.”

  Everyone turns to William O’Rawe.

  He shakes his head. Incredulous. “Pat, what’s he on about?”

  I swallow. I may be wrong, but I think—

  I think his voice is shaking.

  “Florence, you didn’t know, am I right?” I ask. Even in the dark, I can see her staring at me with wide brown eyes.

  “Or did you?” I ask gently. Gently now. I take another step. The truth is propping me up. Raising my back. My body. “It’s all right. It helps, saying it out loud. It feels better, not having to hide anything anymore.”

  “Why are we letting him speak?” William hisses. Florence’s face is flying this way and that as she tries to look both at him and me at the same time.

  “What is she not supposed to say a word about, Will?” Megan asks.

  And God, she sounds so tired.

  So tired as she lifts her rifle and aims it at the man standing next to her.

  She is aiming it at William O’Rawe.

  Tessa moves towards Megan, but William shakes his head wildly, motioning for her to stay put. Kate is sitting up. Daniel is still on all fours, attempting to catch his breath. All that can be heard for a moment is the violent trembling of Daniel’s body in the snow and the silence of a question that goes unanswered.

  “Come on,” Megan says. The yew tree is bending over her. “Out with it.”

  “Megan, point that rifle somewhere else,” Tessa Adams growls.

  “There’s nothing to come out with,” William says.

  “You know that that isn’t true, William,” I say, inching closer. Florence has lowered her rifle. William’s aim is wavering. Patrick has turned away from Daniel and Kate. It is only Sean now who still has his weapon trained on the two of them. My voice grows firmer. “There are witnesses, William. In the plural. They are prepared to come forward and tell the police what you and Alice Walsh were involved in.”

  “There was nothing that Alice and I were involved in!” he says even as Tessa hisses at me: “Shut up!”

  But William is shifting. Shifting. Nervously eyeing the barrel pointed right at him.

  Megan turns to me. Her eyes still look as dark and violent as they did in the bright light of her kitchen. “You were kind enough, Mr Loose, in my kitchen, even if you didn’t listen. Now do me another kindness and tell me.”

  “It’s going to hurt,” I tell her softly, and I mean it.

  She does not move a muscle.

  I take a deep breath. Then I say it. I tell the truth. I don’t embellish it, I don’t add to it, I don’t subtract, I do not wine it, dine it, take it to bed. I just tell it: “Alice was sleeping with a friend of her father’s. This man was the father of her child. She intended to tell that man about the abortion, if after the fact.”

  The silence is complete.

  And I can feel the truth smile gently at the back of my mind.

  Patrick lowers his rifle. “No,” he whispers, while Megan Walsh straightens.

  “Was it you?” she asks William. Her voice is as cold as can be.

  William opens his mouth. He glances at Florence. He glances at his sister.

  “No,” she says, fiercely.

  And that is when we hear it.

  The distant sound of a siren.

  Finally, William looks back at Patrick and Megan.

  He shakes his head.

  Tessa lets out a relieved breath. Megan closes her eyes, begins to lower her weapon. William smiles a watery smile at Patrick Walsh. The corner of Patrick’s mouth twitches upwards, at least.

  And perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it was Sean O’Doherty. Perhaps it was neither of them. Perhaps it was a friend of Patrick’s that I don’t know.

  It doesn’t matter as long as I get Kate and Daniel out of here.

  I take a step towards them as William approaches Patrick, slapping a hand onto his shoulder.

  “Then where did you go?”

  It is Florence. Florence who has suddenly spoken up. Who has realised that finally, when she trains a rifle on her husband, he will have to answer her. “Where was it that you always went off to, these past few months? How did you know that someone had hit Kate O’Leary in the graveyard, Will?”

  He shakes his head. “It has nothing to do—”

  “Just tell me,” she says, desperation tinging her voice. “Just tell me where you went. Tell us where you went. Tell us where you went if it wasn’t to Alice.” Her voice is rising and rising. “Tell me the truth! Just, finally, tell me the truth!”

  He is still looking at her. And then his expression twists, and tears are in his eyes, and they are running down his cheeks. “You know I’ve always wanted a child, Flory. You know.”

  Now Florence is crying, too. She sa
ys nothing.

  William turns to Megan and Patrick. “You know I always did. Pat, you know. She wanted it. She told me she wanted it.”

  Everyone knows that he is not talking about Florence.

  He is talking about Alice.

  The relief is so great, and it hits me so unexpectedly, that my knees finally buckle. I sink to the ground. I thought he would deny it. I was certain he would. I did not think I would win. That the truth would win out.

  Just like that.

  My vision is no longer tilting. Just gently swaying. Swaying towards the ground. Towards blessed oblivion. The siren is growing louder.

  “Did you kill her?” Megan Walsh asks. So tired. She sounds as tired as I am feeling. Drained.

  I force myself to look up at William once more. Watch him look at Patrick. “She aborted my child,” he says, voice a mess, face a mess, tears and snot and blood. “You wouldn’t have let that happen, Pat. Back when it was Megan, you didn’t allow that to happen, and I failed.”

  He doesn’t deny it.

  I try to struggle back to my feet. One last time. Someone has to help Kate and Daniel back onto their feet. Someone has to explain it all to the police once they arrive. It must be them, this siren I’m hearing.

  “I couldn’t prevent it, Pat,” William continues. “Not like you could, back then. I’m sorry. So sorry, Pat.”

  The sirens are here now. They’re here. And I am on my feet.

  That is why I see it.

  How Megan Walsh lifts her rifle.

  I do not even have time to shout.

  She shoots William where he stands.

  02:59:50

  I am on my feet and hurtling my body towards her. Megan raises her rifle and aims it at me. William’s body is still on its way to the ground.

  02:59:51

  William’s body hits the ground. I freeze, raise my arms. Megan is staring at me.

  02:59:54

  “Please,” I say. Bile. Fear. The yew, grabbing me. Its sharp sharp branches cutting my throat. “Stop here. It won’t bring her back.”

  “Nothing can bring her back,” she says.

  02:59:59

  From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a movement. Another rifle, rising.

  Taking aim.

  The shot resounds through the graveyard.

  03:00:00

  Megan Walsh is dead.

  It was a perfect shot. It was Tessa Adams, and she fired a perfect shot.

  “For fuck’s sake!” Sean is shouting. He is moving quickly, a true professional, disarming Tessa. Tessa is trying to get to William. She is shouting his name. Shouting for her twin. He is dead. Megan’s body is still moving. Still convulsing. I don’t know where to look. My vision is growing black. Blood is running warm and wet down the back of my head. Running and running. My vision.

  Kate.

  Daniel.

  I stagger towards them. Maybe I’m crawling. Maybe that’s why my hands are cold as ice. Why my clothes are drenched. Why I’m trembling all over, my teeth chattering.

  But Sean is disarming Tessa. Sean has thrown his weapon away, and he is holding her down, and then he is holding down Patrick, too. And there is the siren. The siren. It’s so close now. So very close. Then there are steps, many many many steps coming up the hill. I can hear them. I can hear the shouts and the careful orders and the sound of firearms cocking. And then black figures come running past me. Black ghosts in the graveyard. They are swarming across the white snow, surrounding the old yew tree. The old yew tree, bent and gnarled, soaking up the blood, Megan’s and William’s and mine, running red and thick into the snow, feeding the tree in the night under the silver light of the stars, feeding the roots, feeding and feeding the ancient roots.

  As I crawl towards Kate, I can feel the roots under my hands and knees. I can feel them trembling with pleasure as they drink up our blood. Can feel them grow thick. Can feel them pulse.

  My vision is growing darker and darker. I’m so close to Kate. I reach for her ankle. Her bare bloodstained ankle.

  Someone presses me to the ground from above. Someone is shouting. One of the ghosts has come.

  I cross my arms behind my head. I try to kneel, but the moment I do, I finally

  * * *

  finally

  * * *

  lose consciousness.

  04:21

  When I come to again, everything is white. The ceiling, the lights, the walls, the sheets. And the snow, falling gently from the sky outside the window in the pale grey light of dawn. Even the smell of disinfectant somehow feels white.

  I glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

  Half past four is about as dreadful a time to be in a hospital as midnight.

  I sit up. I feel fine. Possibly because I have been shot up to the brim with painkillers, but if I don’t ask too many questions, I’m sure that no one else will, so far be it from me to complain. Besides, there’s only one question I care about.

  Where are Kate and Daniel?

  “Good morning. No, don’t start, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I start and look to my left. Detective Inspector Adam Kwiatkowski is sitting in a chair by the wall. The last time I saw him, at Ardmore Station, he took note of our complaint about the threatening letters. He looked perfectly destroyed even then, but that is nothing compared to his appearance right now. He’s holding the largest cup of takeaway coffee I have ever seen. It seems to be empty, and he to be fervently mourning that fact.

  Most of all, he looks horribly, horribly tired.

  “Detective,” I say. “Thanks for coming to our aid so quickly.”

  He stares at me as if I had gone mad. “Before any more people could be shot dead, you mean?”

  I swallow. He puts down the massive cup, placing it onto the floor. I have just now realised that it’s one of those reusable ones. Made of bamboo, I think. Floral pattern. It looks like it might have been a gift from his children.

  “Detective,” I manage to ask, my voice shaky even in my own ears, “where are Kate and Father Daniel?”

  “They’re here. Their condition is stable. I’m sorry, I should have told you that. You’re the strongest of the three of you, though, so the doctors said I could ask you a few questions. That all right with you?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  But no questions are forthcoming. He just looks at me. Then he sits up. “Let me start though by saying something. Let me say that I’m sorry we didn’t properly protect you and Ms O’Leary.”

  I do him the favour of returning his frankness. “You didn’t exactly take her seriously, I think.”

  He leans back. Drops his head against the wall. “I should have.”

  There is no absolution I can give him. “Yes,” I say. “You should have.”

  He closes his eyes. “Can you tell me what happened last night?”

  And I tell him. I tell him everything. Tell him of the threats, the handwriting samples, of the six huntsmen and the noose and William O’Rawe’s final words. I tell him everything, and by the end of it, I feel exhausted. The truth is exhausting.

  “William O’Rawe,” the detective says, staring off into the distance. His suit is so crumpled, his shirt so wrinkled, the bags under his eyes so deep. “We had our sights on him. In fact, we were on our way to arrest him. That’s the only reason why we could react so quickly to your call. We were already on our way. He left Alice Walsh an audio message before her death from a burn phone, delivering a motive as clearly as you could. Tonight was when we could tie it to him, soundly enough for a warrant of arrest. Still, without a confession…” He sighs. “A confession we won’t be able to get now. Tessa Adams, though. What a family. But at least we have her in custody. Maybe she knew something. Maybe her brother told her something.”

  He scrubs a hand across his face. “We were on the lookout from the start for the father of the child she chose to abort. It usually is a lover or ex-lover, when the victim is a woman, or a close family m
ember, you know. And yet…” He drops his hands. Looks at me. “Something struck me as out of the ordinary with this case. The way she was cut up. It seemed like such a statement. A message. A legacy, almost. Like someone who wished to leave something behind. It was so calculated. It didn’t seem like a crime of passion.”

  “We thought the same thing at some point,” I said. “The way her body was left, we thought the killer must have struck before, or have a very deliberate message to send. Kate looked for similar cases, but she only chanced upon one other case where the body of the victim had been treated in a similar fashion. It was here in the area, too. But the culprit has been dead for years.”

  The detective nods. “Oh yes, the Ryan case. We did the same thing, of course, but we couldn’t come up with anything more, either. It kept troubling me, how similarly the bodies of the victims had been treated. I saw photos of Emily Ryan. The victim back then. Almost seemed to me as if someone had reconstructed her position for Alice Walsh from memory. It had me so worried, I triple-checked that her murderer was actually dead. I wanted to look into it further, but my partner and I decided we had better leads.”

  “Turns out you were right,” I say.

  He shrugs. “In the end, I’m still not sure. O’Rawe must have seen those pictures somewhere. Or it must be the wildest coincidence. Maybe Tessa Adams can tell us. I like to understand these things. Make sure there isn’t anything that’s been overlooked.” He furrows his brow. There seems to be something more he wants to say. Then he shakes his head. “No,” he mumbles. “Anyway, I will be needing a formal statement. Can you come to the station tomorrow? Then I won’t have to subject you to any more questions tonight.”

  “Sure,” I say as he rises to his feet. “I’ll come by.”

  “Whenever suits you,” he says. “Get some rest. You’re safe here. And Ms O’Leary, too. You’re all safe now.”