The Scribbler

by Iain Maitland

  She waited for a moment for the smart brother to say, stop, let me see, and to get up and come across, peering in the moonlight at her wrists and hands and seeing the cuts. Then declaring, she’s been cutting with something, she’s got a knife. Searching and finding the shard of glass. Taking it away. Strapping her up tight after that so she could not move at all.

  But he did not even glance over. Just waited as the slow brother looked from Carrie’s wrists to her face and back again and she smiled at him and slightly shook her head as if to say, ‘no, don’t say anything’. He seemed to understand as he cut her ties and then took her arm gently and led her towards the stairs.

  The smart brother stood and called after her. “If you try anything, I’ll aim for your kneecaps.”

  She swallowed, could not help but think he would do just that. She looked back at his cold, hard face as he finished his words.

  “You’ll live, but you’ll wish you hadn’t. You’ll be a cripple for the rest of your life.”

  * * *

  “Please turn around,” said Carrie quietly as she loosened her trousers.

  The slow brother did as she asked, over by the barn door, his gun in his right hand.

  As she squatted down, she tried to listen to the smart brother upstairs. She heard nothing. Assumed he was watching the door, waiting, half expecting her to try something. Wanting her to, most likely.

  She started peeing, realising as she crouched there that she really had to. Had not been since she wet herself in the afternoon. Did not seem to need to. Adrenaline, she supposed. That, and fear, had got her this far.

  She did not need to do anything more, although the brothers didn’t know that. So she had, she thought, two or three minutes more squatting here to figure out what to do.

  She could finish and then run at the slow brother, fast and unexpected, trying to spin him round as he was off guard so that his body was between her and the smart brother and his gun.

  Considered this for a moment and decided it was too risky. If the smart brother was watching like he’d said, he could fire at her legs or, more likely, into her back and head as she got to the slow brother to twist him round for cover.

  Shoot her dead like Gayther. She thought of Gayther, his sudden death, the terrible waste of it all. Knew she did not want to take such a chance with the odds stacked against her.

  Remembered Gayther’s body, his large, lifeless corpse, arms and legs at odd angles. She had not really seen his head and was glad of that. Knew that the sight of it would have sickened her.

  “Have you …?” the slow brother turned his head slightly towards her.

  “Not yet,” she answered. “Give me a moment … women take longer than men, you know,” she added, assuming he didn’t.

  He turned away. Shuffling and twitching. The thought of a woman’s basic needs unsettling him.

  She thought maybe, if she stopped and stood up and gestured the slow brother to come over, to speak to her, that he might approach her and, if she was quick, she could snatch his gun off him.

  Or she could whisper to him, something about the birthday party and his invitation. And she could ask to see the teddy bear again. Make a move as he shuffled about, reaching into his pocket for the bear.

  She could just ask him to help her. To let her go. That her little boy would miss his mummy, like the slow brother missed his mother. That her little boy would be scared, not knowing where she was and what was happening. Get him to stand up to his brother. While she made her escape. She hesitated, not sure what to do. Had to come to a decision.

  “You’ve got two minutes.”

  She jumped as the smart brother shouted downstairs. “Okay,” she answered.

  “And then you’re coming back up, come what may.”

  The barn wall behind her was soft, more damp and mould and rot than solid wood. She felt it with her fingers then pushed at it with the palms of her hands, trying to find the softest spot, wondering whether she could somehow force her way through it and away. It was so rotten.

  Looked across at the slow brother in front of her, his back to her. Awkward. Uncomfortable. She did not think, if push came to shove, that he would shoot her. If he turned, as he heard the soft rotting wood giving way and saw her scrambling out, he would not fire, she thought, at least not straightaway, would hesitate for a second or two.

  And then she would be gone, around the side of the barn, away from the line of fire from the windows at front and back, zig-zagging into the night. Her hands held high, no mistaking the surrender gesture, as she ran towards the police cordon that must by now surely be surrounding the barn.

  She shuffled slowly to the left, feeling the wall. It was harder there, impossible to break through.

  Back and to the right. Again, the wall was hard, and she knew it would not give way here, even with all her weight against it.

  Now back where she started, the softest part. Here, then, her best chance. She took a deep breath, steadying her nerves, searching for confidence.

  She knew if she did not do it now, the chance would be lost. That she’d be tied back up, taken upstairs, sat down and told to wait. Would sit there, ready to be caught in the crossfire.

  Pressed hard against the wood, such as it was. More sponge than wood. Felt it give against her hands. This was it. Now. She changed position, pulled her trousers up, fastened them, and leaned her body against the wall. Felt it move. Clear and definite.

  Stood up, pushed back harder this time. Yes, definitely some give here. She heard footsteps above. The smart brother moving. Looked at the slow brother, about to turn. This was it, she had to do it now.

  She stood tall, ready to throw herself back against the wall as hard as she possibly could.

  Then staggered, holding her hands to her face.

  As the barn filled with sudden, blinding light.

  30. SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER, 2.51AM

  All hell broke out, all sudden panic.

  Carrie dropped to the ground, expecting gunfire.

  The two brothers running back and forth.

  In the confusion, she thought she might escape. Pushed hard with her back, then scrabbling with her hands, at the wall behind her. It gave a little but not enough. Went so far, but no further. Her hopes of breaking through dashed. She stood, half up, half down.

  Looked across, towards the barn door, thinking she might run to it and out, her arms held high, praying that none of the police marksmen out there were jittery. Feared one might instinctively shoot at an emerging figure.

  The slow brother was there, twisting and turning. First this way, then that, holding his gun up, not sure what to do, which way to go, where to turn. She tensed, ready to tackle him if he loosened his grip on the gun or even dropped it.

  “Bring her upstairs, cover the back window,” the smart brother shouted down.

  She moved forward, saw the smart brother, shielding his eyes, looking at them.

  “Let me go,” she gabbled as the slow brother came at her, ignoring her words, pulling her towards him in his haste.

  She thought that she might struggle, fight back, push at the slow brother, demanding that he free her. But she hesitated, knowing that the smart brother would shoot her where she stood or as she ran out through the barn door.

  She let the slow brother carry her upstairs over his shoulder. Suddenly angry at the indignity of it. That she should be used like this. An object. Something to barter over. To trade.

  She knew, as he tumbled her clumsily to the floor and moved to the back window, that she had to control her anger. Her temper had always been quick and hot, and it had cost her dearly in the past, with friendships and relationships. If she were not careful, this time it could cost her everything, her life.

  “Anyone there?” the smart brother at the front called to the slow brother at the back.

  “No,” the slow brother shouted back.

  “They’re at the front. Behind the light. It may be a distraction to sneak up on us at the back,”
the smart brother called again, at the side of the window, shielding his eyes, peering out, careful not to provide a target. “If they come from behind, shoot at them. Over their heads first. Warn them off. Shoot to kill if they keep coming.”

  Carrie watched the two brothers. Scared. Engrossed. Ready to fire their guns.

  In the turmoil, they had forgotten her and her untied hands and legs.

  She crouched down quickly, as if sitting waiting. But really, she was feeling carefully behind her for the shard of glass.

  The smart brother turned to her as if alerted by her sudden movement.

  “Do anything and I’ll shoot you. I’ve told you. You know that,” he said.

  She stood up slowly, her hands behind her back, and leaned against the wall as nonchalantly as she could. It took all her powers not to show she was shaking. She did not speak. The fear would be heard in her voice.

  “Stand there and wait,” he added. “Move unless I tell you to and you’ll be shot before you’ve taken a step. The back of your kneecaps. You’ll not walk again.”

  She nodded, yes I understand, and stood there silently, moving the shard of glass carefully from her left to her right hand, ready. It gave her a chance; to use in self-defence if – more likely when – the smart brother turned his gun towards her.

  And so they all stood, motionless.

  The smart brother at the front. The slow brother at the back. Carrie in between.

  All waiting for something to happen.

  * * *

  They all jumped at the same moment.

  A voice, a woman’s strong and steady voice, calling through a megaphone.

  Blurred and somehow distant, though, blown in the wind.

  The smart brother turned towards his slow brother, then to Carrie, before edging back to the side of the front window, peering out in the direction of the voice.

  “Who was that?” asked the slow brother, moving away from the back window and forgetting he was keeping watch. He sounded puzzled. His brain turning it all over, working it out, making some sort of simple sense to it all.

  The smart brother moved his head dismissively, ssshhh, I’m trying to listen.

  “It was a lady,” the slow brother continued, taking a step or two towards his brother, his voice full of curiosity. “A lady was calling to us.”

  The voice called out again. A little clearer now.

  Ronald. Dennis. Talk to me. Then something else. Some other words lost to the wind.

  That was the gist of it, though, thought Carrie. Talk. Engage. Let’s find a way out of this.

  “Is it Mother?” the slow brother asked, taking another step forward, the astonishment clear in his voice. “Is Mother calling to us?”

  A pause and then another comment. “Does Mother want us to pray with her?”

  It would be funny, thought Carrie, if it weren’t so stupid. Tragically funny. The utter nonsense of it.

  “Shut up,” the smart brother replied, his voice rising.

  Carrie watched the slow brother move even closer to his brother, wanting to see out of the front window, to look at Mother.

  “Mother is talking to us. Let us both listen,” he said. He sounds suddenly joyful, happy, thought Carrie.

  “Get back.” The smart brother pushed the slow brother away with his arm. “It’s not Mother. Don’t give them a clean shot.”

  The slow brother stepped back, bewildered.

  “What does Mother want us to do?” the slow brother asked, as if he could not understand what he was doing wrong.

  Another pause. One more comment. “We are her boys. Her …”

  “She wants us to shut up and listen to what’s being said. Be …” The smart brother stopped suddenly, listening to the voice again.

  Carrie strained to hear all of the words.

  “Talk to us.”

  That was about it. All that mattered.

  The slow brother approached the front window again. He was pressed close to the smart brother, up by his elbow, providing a clear target and preventing his brother shooting back.

  “Where is she? Where is Mother?” the slow brother asked, pushing forward and peering out of one of the dirty window frames. He wiped at it with the back of his hand.

  “For God’s sake.” The smart brother swivelled and pushed the slow brother back as hard as he could. “Get over there and be quiet.”

  The slow brother took two, three steps back, turning to Carrie, who had taken a step or two towards the stairs to get away.

  The smart brother turned, too, saw Carrie moving, and fired his gun once, then twice.

  * * *

  Carrie stumbled forwards and fell to the ground.

  One shot way above her head, the other closer.

  She dropped the shard of glass on the floor behind her.

  “Only chance …” the smart brother shouted at her, turning fast to the slow brother. “Tie her up. Her hands. Find the cloths you used before … over there.”

  He moved back to the window, shouting into the wind, “It’s all right, it’s all right.” The fear that his gunshots might have been heard and would trigger an immediate police attack.

  Silence, though.

  Except for the slight grunting of the slow brother as he tied Carrie’s wrists, tight as before, and then sat her back down against the wall. Carrie could feel the shard of glass jabbing into the outside of her left thigh. Where she had dropped it. She moved slightly to the side.

  Waiting.

  The slow brother made his way, ducking down, to the back window. Seemingly chastened by the smart brother’s warning shots. He stood to the side, looked out, put his gun through the broken pane.

  Nothing.

  The smart brother peered out, half-shielding his eyes, into the light. Knew there must be several police out there, if not many more. And all around.

  Half-expected to see two or three break cover, running through the light and to the barn door. Did not know if he would shoot to kill or to scare, as he had just done with Carrie.

  Wound maybe, if he could. To bring them down. Cut them to their knees before they got to the barn door.

  “All is well. All are safe,” he shouted into the cold night air, an almost echoing, empty sound. “We want Mother. Bring us Mother.”

  A pause.

  “Let her come into the barn. To be with her boys.”

  Thinking what to say.

  “And we will let the policewoman go … You can have her.” He stopped now, waiting for the reply from the woman with the megaphone behind the lights.

  The longest pause. As if that was that.

  Then more blurred shouts from the police.

  The smart brother shouting back, exchanging thoughts, reaching some sort of agreement, assumed Carrie, too far away to hear clearly.

  “They want to see you,” the smart brother said. “To show you’re alive. That you are safe.”

  “We do not hurt ladies,” the slow brother said.

  “Your brother did … would,” Carrie answered. “He hit me hard across the face and banged my …”

  “Shut up,” the smart brother shouted, the tension twisting his voice. “I could have shot you, couldn’t I? Just now. But I didn’t. I will next time.”

  He dragged Carrie up and to the window.

  Shouts from the police. Checking she was well. Being treated properly.

  She called back, her voice breaking, all good, bring back their mother and they have promised to release me unharmed.

  Another long pause. The brothers and Carrie waited.

  Silence from the police.

  Just the unending light and the eternal quiet.

  And then, after more shouts back and forth, it was agreed.

  Between the smart brother and the police.

  The mother was sleeping, resting right now, but would be brought back.

  At daybreak.

  Wait. Be patient.

  An uneasy truce until then.

  31. SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER, 4.
11AM

  The three of them sat quietly on the top floor of the barn, up by the front window, the two brothers leaning against one wall, Carrie resting at the other. Close to peaceful, almost dozing, despite what was happening.

  Waiting for the police to arrive with Mother. A lull. The calm before the storm.

  The smart brother stretched up and moved occasionally, looking through the bottom pane of glass, checking. Just in case. Now and then, he’d send the slow brother to watch the back.

  It was still dark. And cold. There was a sharp crispness to the air. And the light, lights really, two or three of them, continued to shine in and illuminate much of the barn. Light and shadows. Even so, there was a sense of stillness, a ceasefire, with both sides waiting for the real business to begin, the negotiations, on Mother’s return.

  The two brothers had finished their cigarettes. Had papers still in the tin, but no tobacco. The slow brother rat-a-tat-tatted his fingernails on the top of the tin over and again. Some endless rhythm to a long-forgotten tune. The smart brother eventually reached out and touched the slow brother’s hand, hush now, to quieten him.

  Carrie found herself fighting sleep, could not believe it in the circumstances. But she thought she had nodded off once or twice, soothed by the brothers talking. The smart brother’s stronger voice, explaining, clarifying, instructing, and the slow brother’s slower, monotone voice, listening and agreeing. Then waking at any sudden movement.

  The smart brother was up. Across to the stairs.

  Moving downstairs for a pee.

  She could hear him below them at the back of the barn, the strong flow of urine hitting the wall.

  Carrie looked over at the slow brother, who met her gaze shyly. He smiled back.

  “You look tired, Dennis,” she said, yawning.

  He yawned too, an instinctive response, and rubbed his left hand across his face. His right hand rested gently on his gun, she noted.

  “I am,” he said simply.

  “You’ll be glad to get to bed,” she said.

  He nodded, “I will.”

  “Not long now hopefully,” she said, smiling.