She watched as the slow brother looked at the smart brother. She could win him over, no doubt about that. The promise of a party and a slice of birthday cake, that’s all he needed. This simple, child-like man. The other one was different. A hard man. Difficult to predict what he would do.
The smart brother shook his head.
She tried again.
“Then go, go now. Run into the forest and away. But be quick. They will be here soon and then you will be trapped. Leave me here and run, before they arrive. Save yourself. I’ll say you didn’t hurt me.”
The slow brother looked again from one to the other, and back again. Uncertain what to do.
The smart brother spoke finally in a rising voice.
“I have told you. This is Mother’s home. She has lived here all her life. She does not want to leave it. She wants to die here in her nice warm bed.”
The slow brother nodded. “Yes,” he said, “with us. Her best boys.”
The smart brother agreed. “Her very best boys.”
Carrie came close to shaking her head in disbelief. At the nonsense of it all. The complete detachment from reality. Of what was about to happen to them. To engulf them all.
The smart brother went on. “The police can come here. And they can surround the barn. And they can give us one chance. But I will give them one chance, too. One chance only. To bring Mother back and return her to us here.”
The slow brother nodded, yes, yes, that’s right, that’s what we’ll do.
“And when they don’t?” Carrie asked.
“Then we will stand you by the door of the barn. And we will ask them again nicely. Very nicely. And if they do not bring Mother back, we will shoot you dead.”
The smart brother looked at Carrie unblinking.
The slow brother seemed uneasy, looking from one to the other and back again. Not meeting Carrie’s eye.
Carrie tried to swallow, but found that she couldn’t. She was scared. Whatever he’d said about not hurting women, she knew, from the kitchen, that he would if he thought he had to do so.
27. SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER, 12.26AM
Carrie sat herself down and edged back along the wall of the barn while the brothers hurried to prepare for the siege. Tense, nervous, yet somehow excited. The slow brother, anyway. Like it was a game of cowboys and Indians. One where nobody died.
The slow brother ran back to the farmhouse for supplies, food, drink, more ammunition. Three times he came and went. Each time saying they’re not here yet, they’re not here yet, they’re not here yet. As if the police would just roll up the driveway, would not think of doing anything less obvious. Might actually be here already, encircling the farm.
The smart brother was quieter, more serious, as if he knew and understood exactly what was coming. He secured the barn as best he could. Pulling the door to and fastening it. Dragging Gayther further to the side. Climbing the rickety staircase to peer out into the night, his gun cocked and ready to use. Like he was a sharp shooter. The sharpest shooter in the town. She’d have laughed to herself if the situation weren’t so desperate.
Carrie studied the barn, taking it all in. Broken down. Wide-open upstairs. Ready to be attacked from all sides.
The thought of a kitchen sieve came to her. Even the wood of the walls was rotting in places. She could see through gaps in the roof.
This wouldn’t last long, she was sure. Once the police arrived en masse. She just had to make it out the other side.
She knew she had to huddle down, stay out of view. Get her back against the only sound wall in the barn. Make herself as small as possible. Hope that the two brothers would leave themselves open, vulnerable. Would walk around not realising that the police would soon be there, hidden and waiting. Marksmen at noon, three o’clock, six o’clock and nine o’clock.
Carrie was not sure exactly what the police procedures would be. She knew they could not just storm in unless there was a real and imminent threat to life. Nor shoot the brothers through an open window, even if they provided an easy target. Could do that only if someone were about to die. A madman holding a hostage in front of him, while waving a gun around. No other choice then.
They would have to engage first. With the brothers. Try to reason with them. Assess the risks. She wondered if they’d assume both she and Gayther were alive. Were being held hostage. That would slow things down. But she thought maybe the mother may have said she was dead. Only Gayther then. Roger Gayther, who was already dead. But the police would not know that. God knows what they would do, she thought.
She knew she had to do it.
Look at his dead body lying there towards the front corner of the barn.
Decide what to do.
She wanted them to move his body, lay it out somewhere quiet and peaceful, respectful, in another barn. Feared though that, if she asked, the smart brother might just dump it unceremoniously outside of this barn, to show the police what they were capable of.
Carrie thought that, if the police saw Gayther’s body and had been told by the mother that Carrie was already dead, they might just storm the barn after no more than one or two peremptory warnings. And that she might die in the crossfire.
So, she sat there and waited for what was going to happen. Knew it would all end here. That the brothers were not going to run. They had nowhere to go. Would not give themselves up. To spend the rest of their lives in prison. Would not move anywhere else, somewhere more secure and easier to defend. That they clung to the madness that they could trade Carrie for their mother. The insanity of it.
She knew all of this. And that, at some stage, the police would attack.
All she didn’t know was which of them was going to live. And who would die.
She thought, one way or the other, they all would.
* * *
The smart brother was busy, checking his gun, the supplies of ammunition, going up and down the staircase, deciding where he was going to sit and wait for the police.
He chose upstairs, near the front of the barn. Turning to the slow brother as he went, “Watch her.” Tense and anxious; “twanging,” thought Carrie. So unpredictable.
Now out of sight, Carrie could imagine him lying down at the front, working a hole in the rotting wall, looking out, taking aim. Ready. Waiting. Trigger happy. Like he was with Gayther.
She looked across at Gayther’s body again. Felt a sudden overwhelming sense of sorrow. Knew, in her heart, it was better if his body were inside than out. The longer the police thought he was alive, the more they’d hold off, and the better her chances of escape. She felt the shard of glass still in her hand. Jagged and rough.
The slow brother sat down carefully beside Carrie.
She looked to the side, waiting for him to speak.
He smiled shyly at her, reached into his pocket.
She looked down at what he took out. A small, threadbare teddy bear folded over and tucked into his pocket. One eye, no more than a roughly sewn-on button. Its limbs thin and flaccid. It looks more like a bald rat, thought Carrie, although she did not say so.
“That’s nice,” she said instead. “What is it?”
He sighed almost happily, and she thought he seemed somehow proud.
“This is Charlie,” he answered.
“Who’s Charlie?” she said.
“Charlie is my pal.” He held the bear in one hand and ran one fat finger from his other hand over the bear’s eye, where the other eye should have been, and down and across the nose and mouth, long since faded lines of black.
“He’s an old boy,” she said, as conversationally as she could. “A good old Suffolk boy.”
He nodded. She thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t. He just stroked the bear’s head as if it soothed him.
“Is he yours?” she asked. “From when you were young?”
He jiggled suddenly on his bottom, like a small child, turning towards her. She could see the excitement in his face. “Yes,” he said simply, looking at her
. Little boy lost, she thought.
She nodded. “That’s nice,” she said, “that you’ve kept him so long. Looked after him.” She paused. “I hope you look after me as well.” She tried to sound jolly.
The slow brother glanced at her. Then upwards, as if checking on his brother. To see if he was watching. Or listening.
He looked back at her. She thought he nodded, only ever so slightly, but it was definitely a nod of agreement.
And then he spoke. “This is for you,” he said, putting the bear carefully beside her legs. “For your best boy. So I can come to the party.” He nodded again, more firmly this time, as if to say, ‘there, a present, now I can be there’.
She smiled at him.
“I’d love to hold Charlie,” she dropped her voice.
“Untie me and I can give Charlie a cuddle,” she paused, judging the moment. “And you too, Dennis, if you’d like me to.”
He looked bewildered, confused. She realised she had misjudged it. Offering a cuddle to a man who, most likely, was not used to affection. A brute of a father. A hard-faced mother. A brother who went out and killed men. It was no surprise he almost recoiled at the thought of kindness and a gentle touch. She changed her approach.
“Hold Charlie up to my face, Dennis.”
He looked uncertain but did as she asked. She breathed in. The bear smelled of dirt and dust and decay. It had probably been kept at the back of a drawer in a chest in a damp bedroom for years. She knew she had to look pleased, though. She pretended to kiss the bear.
“He’s so sweet, Dennis, so lovely.”
“He is for your best boy,” he repeated, as if making sure she knew. “For his birthday party. So I can come.” He sounded excited and anxious too, wanting confirmation.
“Of course you can come, Dennis. With Charlie. You can play all the games, and have some cake and—”
“Blow the candles out?” he interrupted in a quiet but urgent voice.
“Yes … and bring a party bag home with you, too,” she whispered back. “But you have to keep me safe and well. Will you do that, will you promise?”
Another glance upwards.
A flickering of the eyes back and forth.
Another nod, more emphatic this time.
She thought about asking him again to free her hands. Knew that this might be a step too far. Was pleased that he might, just might, protect her if – more likely when – the other brother turned on her as he surely would. Meantime, holding the shard of glass, she could continue working on the material that bound her wrists so tight.
A noise above, rustling, footsteps.
The Scribbler. Carrie expected him to shout, “What are you whispering about?” Suspicious, he’d come down, pull them apart, find the shard of glass, her best chance of getting away or at least defending herself.
Instead, he simply said, “They’re here. The police.”
* * *
“Bring her up. Where we can see her,” the smart brother instructed.
The slow brother stood up and moved towards her, bending down and pulling her gently over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. She did not struggle, just focused on covering the shard of glass with her hands. No matter what, she had to keep hold of that. And keep it hidden, too.
“Then go back and get your gun.”
Carrie looked around the upper part of the barn where the slow brother had sat her down. There was a window with broken panes at the front, towards the farmhouse. The smart brother stood to the left side of that, just out of her sight, peering through one of the broken panes, his gun ready.
To the back, another window, six small panes, all thick with dirt. She saw the slow brother knock one pane out with his gun, then crouch to see through, covering the back towards the trees and the fields.
She sat in the middle, to the side of the barn and against a solid enough wall, halfway between the two brothers. Below her, the floorboards, part-covered with straw, felt soft and spongy and she could see parts had simply rotted away. Easy to fall through, she thought, in the shadows. The moonlight, streaming in the holes in the roof, was all that lit the barn. It was chilly now, and she could see her breath. The brothers’ too. Cold as a morgue, she thought, then wished she hadn’t.
“They’re at the farmhouse,” the smart brother said, almost as if he were thinking aloud. “Two police cars. The headlights are on. Full beam.”
“I will come to the front,” the slow brother replied.
“No,” snapped the smart brother. “There will be more of them. At the back.”
“They cannot get in at the back,” the slow brother said, as if he needed to explain. “There is no door there.”
“They’ll circle around. Surround us from all sides.” The smart brother hesitated, wanting to clarify what he’d said. Make the other brother understand. “Like Custer and the Indians … in that cowboy film we used to watch when we were small … remember? Custer in the middle with the Indians on horses, all running around him, shooting at him with bows and arrows.”
Carrie looked at the slow brother, could see him thinking slowly, remembering, working things out in his head. Eventually, he spoke. “Custer died,” he said sadly. “The baddies killed him when he ran out of bullets.”
“They won’t kill us,” the smart brother answered. “We’ve plenty of ammunition. And we’re sharp shooters.”
“The smartest shooters …” echoed the slow brother before they chanted together.
“The rooting-tooting …”
“… super-duper …”
“… best-ever shooters in town.”
Dear God, thought Carrie. They think it’s some sort of game. She wanted to tell them again, over and over, to give themselves up. That this was it, their last chance. The final chance for all of them. Her too. But she knew they wouldn’t give in now. And that, with the police outside, they could not run either. Not that they wanted to do that. They wanted a shooting match. Some sort of heroic shoot-out as they’d see it.
She sighed. This is hopeless.
Sat back.
Shut her eyes. The madness of it.
The smart brother, as if sensing her mood, spoke to her, almost over his shoulder, as he kept watch towards the farmhouse.
“We will trade you for Mother,” he said firmly. “You won’t be here long. A policeman will approach soon and he will shout up at us, what do you want, he will say, and I will tell him. Mother! That’s what we want. Bring her back home. Our mother! And the policeman will reply, what do you have to trade, to trade for Mother? And I will tell him we have you …” He looked towards her, almost nodding, as if asking for her name.
“Brenda McButton,” she answered, surprising herself with the savage edge to her words. He did not seem to notice.
“And I will tell him we have Brenda McButton to trade. And they will go and fetch Mother from wherever they have taken her and bring her to us. And I will see her and shout, Mother, we are here for you, your best boys—”
“Best boys,” the slow brother interrupted, moving away from the window at the back and coming towards his brother. Carrie could see the look of excitement on his face.
“We are here for you,” the smart brother repeated. “And I will tell the police to let her go, let Mother go. To come to us here in the barn. And my brother will take you down. He will take you downstairs and let you out and he will bring Mother here into the barn with us. Mother and her best boys. And we will be together again.”
“Mother and her best boys,” the slow brother repeated slowly, as if in astonishment, the undamaged side of his face all shiny with pride.
“And then what?” Carrie said bluntly. “You, what, live happily ever after? In this barn?” She knew she should go along with this charade. The stupidity of it. And keep her big mouth shut. But she couldn’t. She knew her loose tongue would be the death of her.
“Mummy’s boys,” she added. Then wished she hadn’t. She saw the sudden rage on the smart brother’s face. The look of
bewilderment on the other’s. The smart brother turned towards her. She bought her head up, defiant.
And then he stopped.
She could see him swallow.
At the sudden loud clanging noise from behind the barn.
28. SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER. 1.35AM
The smart brother rushed by Carrie and the slow brother.
Moved to the side of the window at the back.
Fired his gun, once, twice, randomly, into the night. Stepped back, watching.
Carrie ducked her head down, waiting for the return of gunfire, back and front, the police then storming the barn. She snatched a look at the slow brother, her only possible protector, but he had moved to the back window, too, standing behind the smart brother looking out. She scratched desperately once more at the material between her hands with the shard of glass.
“Get away,” the smart brother snapped. “Don’t give them a clear shot.”
The slow brother stepped backwards.
“I’ve got this side covered,” the smart brother whispered quickly. “Crouch down. Go and cover the front.”
Carrie saw the slow brother, bent over, move hurriedly to the front window, peer through the broken pane, then put his gun through it, ready to shoot.
Waited for the police response.
A trigger-happy brother at the back.
A slow-witted brother at the front.
The moment stretched into a minute, then longer, more minutes, and towards an unending and uneasy silence.
“What do you see?” the smart brother suddenly called over to his brother.
“Nothing,” he answered matter-of-factly.
“The two police cars with their lights on?”
“There are no lights. It is dark.”
“Farmhouse?”
Carrie saw the slow brother nod. The smart brother, still keeping watch at the back, did not. He spoke again, a hardness to his voice.
“Are there lights on in the farmhouse?”
The Scribbler Page 28