by Ben Cheetham
“Keep still, Charlie,” implored Tracy.
But Charlie couldn’t stop the electric tremors from running through her limbs. Tracy jerked around as a horrifying sound burst from the woods – a gurgling wail that was silenced as suddenly as a radio being switched off. “Dad,” she gasped.
“Don’t listen to it,” Andrea said through clenched teeth. “Untie Charlie.”
Tracy refocused on the knot. Once again, it jumped away from her fingers. “Please stay still, Charlie!” she pleaded, forgetting in her frustration to keep her voice down.
“I’m trying to,” said Charlie, sobs sucking at her words.
Another sound came from the woods – the rustle of something moving through the undergrowth. Tracy stared at mum, wide-eyed. “What do I do?” she mouthed.
“Go,” hissed Andrea.
Tracy shook her head vehemently.
“Run!”
Tracy held her mum’s eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to move. Part of her wanted to stay with her mum and sister no matter what the consequences. The thought that if she ran she might never see them again was almost as terrifying as the thought of what their captors might do to her.
The light left Andrea’s eyes. “We’re all going to die,” she murmured hollowly.
That was enough to make Tracy rise to her feet. Her legs were still wobbly, but not sufficiently to prevent her from breaking into a run. She caught a final glimpse of Charlie’s terror-stricken face, then she was sprinting towards the road. Her feet felt as heavy as bricks. They thudded into the ground hard enough to send painful jolts vibrating up her legs.
Andrea’s voice rang out behind her as loud as a fire alarm. “Watch out!”
An echoing boom tore apart the air. Tracy pitched sideways as if the earth had shifted beneath her feet. Her slight frame bounced off a tree trunk and slammed into the ground. She lay stunned for an instant, inhaling the fusty scent of dead leaves and wondering if she’d been shot. She anxiously ran her hands over her clothes and hair. There was no blood. The only pain was where her shoulder had hit the tree. Scrambling upright, she forced her jelly-legs to run again. The ground rose steadily into the soft gloom of the woods. Tufts of grass and exposed roots strove to trip her up. The trees seemed to thrust their branches at her.
One of the men’s voices echoed through the woods, jumping from baritone to falsetto. “Run, run as fast as you can!” There was nothing taunting in its tone. It sounded absolutely sincere.
Tracy’s lungs were burning. Her heart was going like a jackhammer. But she didn’t slacken her pace or glance over her shoulder. She did as her pursuer said, concentrating every ounce of her strength on driving her legs as fast as they would go.
The voice called out again, contradicting its previous words. “Stop! We want to eat you.”
It was noticeably fainter. She risked a look over her shoulder. There was nothing to see except trees. Stop! We want to eat you. The words seemed to echo in her ears. Did her pursuers really want to eat her? Is that what they intended to do to her mum, dad and Charlie – kill and eat them? The thought was almost enough to bring her to a stop. You have to go back and help them, she said to herself. But another part of her – the cold, analytical part that had facilitated her escape in the first place – said, What can you do? If you go back, they’ll kill you too. You have to find help.
But where could she find help? She tried to remember what houses she’d seen on the drive out to Low Lonning. There had been a farmhouse away to the right of the crossroads, but that would mean doubling back. Besides, she wasn’t even sure which direction the crossroads was in. She’d been running in a blind panic. But now her mind was clearing.
She had to find her way to the hamlet down by the river. She reckoned it was only about half a mile away, maybe less considering how far she’d already run. The problem was, she wasn’t sure in which direction she was going. She knew from movies that people always ended up walking in circles when they were lost in the woods. The thing to do was to use the sun to orientate yourself. She looked skywards. The sun was vaguely visible through a pall of cloud. She remembered it warming her back as she’d walked along Low Lonning. It was on her left-hand side now. That meant she was heading in roughly the right direction, didn’t it? If she kept the sun on her left, then she would at least ensure she continued in a straight line.
Laughter echoed in the air, wild and high, ricocheting off the trees, scattering her thoughts like leaves in a gust of wind. She whirled around. She couldn’t see anyone. But that didn’t mean her pursuers couldn’t see her. Were they taunting her? Perhaps it amused them to watch her run. Well if that was the case, they’d picked the wrong girl to play with. She’d show them how fast she could run. Although her breathing was ragged, she put on a burst of speed, saying to herself with grim determination, They won’t eat me.
The ground continued to climb. She had no concept of how long she’d been running. Five, ten, twenty minutes? Surely it couldn’t be much further before she reached the other side of the woods. Moments later she was proved right. She emerged from the trees at a broad grassy clearing enclosed by a barbed wire fence and tumbledown drystone wall. At the centre of clearing were a slate-roofed stone barn and white farmhouse. A tractor with a trailer of hay bales hooked up to it was parked in a muddy yard.
Tracy would have wept with relief if she’d had any breath spare. It took all of her strength to haul herself over the drystone wall. She winced as the barbed wire gouged her trailing ankle. She staggered across a patch of grass sprinkled with sheep droppings. A black and white Border Collie emerged from the barn and ran barking towards her. The farmhouse’s inhabitants were nowhere to be seen.
Picking up on Tracy’s distress, the dog circled her warily. Help, she mouthed at it.
As if it understood, the collie turned tail and sprinted to the farmhouse’s green front door. It nosed the door open and disappeared into the house. Seconds later Tracy too was at the door. She pushed it fully open, staggering to her knees on a flagstone floor. A pair of big dirt-ingrained hands caught her and set her back on her feet. Through sweat and tears, she looked up into strikingly blue eyes set in a weather-beaten face.
“What happened to you?” asked the man. “Are you hurt?”
Tracy’s mouth worked rapidly, but she couldn’t find her voice.
A woman stepped into view behind the man. She had dark bobbed hair and a broad, smiling red face. The smile disappeared at the sight of Tracy. “What have we got here?” she said, creases of concern spreading from the corners of her eyes.
Blood beat in frustration against Tracy’s temples as, once again, her lips moved without producing any words.
“There, there,” soothed the woman. “Whatever’s happened, you’re safe now. You just catch your breath and tell us all about it.”
Tracy sucked in a shuddering breath and when she exhaled her voice finally came out. The man and woman took on matching bemused expressions as Tracy gasped, “You have to help. They’re going to eat them!”
Chapter 1
2018
Butterfly followed Charlie around the room, ready to catch him lest he should fall. He reached a chubby hand towards a glass of water on a bedside table. A set of false teeth were submerged in the water. “Ah, ah, no you don’t,” said Butterfly, scooping him into her arms. He let out a shrill cry, arching his back in an attempt to escape. His annoyance turned to a gummy chuckle as she nuzzled his fine blonde hair saying, “Who’s Mummy’s cheeky little monkey?”
Keeping hold of Charlie, Butterfly dropped wearily into a high-backed chair at the side of a hospital-style trolley bed. He was only ten-months-old, but he was already like lightning on his feet. In the span of a few weeks, he’d graduated from using the furniture to prop himself up to charging around with kamikaze recklessness. It had been exhausting enough trying to prevent him from wrecking the joint when he was restricted to crawling, but now it was ten times worse. Finding his feet had brought all sorts of interes
ting new objects within reach. Anything was fair game – ornaments, mugs of scolding hot tea, the cutlery drawer.
A sunken-cheeked woman in a white nightie was propped up on a mound of pillows on the bed. She had wavy, shoulder-length hair like Butterfly, only hers was silver-grey not auburn. Her bony, liver-spotted hands lay at her sides. She was staring into space with an oddly blank expression. She showed no sign of having heard as Butterfly said, “Charlie’s getting faster on his feet every day, Grandma. I think he’s going to be a hundred-metre runner.”
Butterfly picked up a hairbrush. “Are you going to help me brush Grandma Shirley’s hair?” she asked Charlie. Careful not to let him jerk the brush around, she combed the old woman’s hair.
Shirley didn’t blink. Her gaze remained fixed on the ceiling. Or maybe she was seeing past the ceiling into some other place where her imagination could roam free. Perhaps she was with her husband William in that place, young and happy once again. That was what Butterfly liked to think. Not that she knew whether her grandparents had been happy together. She could no more remember her long-since-dead granddad than Shirley could remember what she’d had for breakfast.
Butterfly put down the hairbrush and lifted her hand to a circular red indent just below her hairline. Day by day, almost imperceptibly – like Charlie – the wound was changing. The redness was fading, the skin was growing smoother, the indent was becoming less pronounced. She couldn’t say the same of the pain. It seemed to follow no logical pattern – sometimes receding to a barely noticeable deep throb, other times striking her as fast as… well, as fast as the bullet that was still embedded in her brain.
Charlie tried to pull Butterfly’s hand back to the hairbrush. When she resisted, he gave out a warbling cry. The sound lanced through her skull. She felt it like a physical thing pushing into her brain, touching the bullet, nudging it even deeper into the soft grey matter. The pain was so intense that she too almost cried out.
Her voice grated between clenched teeth. “No, Charlie.”
His hand became entangled in her hair and he yanked at it, his cries growing more insistent.
“No,” Butterfly repeated, her tone shifting from irritation to anger. The pale August light seeping through the bedroom window suddenly seemed blindingly bright. She closed her eyes, clutching her hand to her head. Lights flashed like fireworks behind her eyelids. The bullet was moving. She felt certain of it. The blunt inch long cylinder was worming its way towards the centre of her brain. Once it got there, the pain would stop. But so would everything else. Her world would come to an end. No more visiting Shirley. No more chasing Charlie around. No more anything.
Charlie’s crying ratcheted up even louder. This time Butterfly did scream, “Stop it! Stop crying you little shit!”
Her eyes snapped open, bloodshot with rage. Such white hot rage! It burned through her like a forest fire. Barely aware of what she was doing, she curled her fingers into a fist. Her pale knuckles quivered over Charlie’s tear-streaked face for an instant, then she blinked and her hand dropped to her side. A horrified sob forced its way up her throat at the realisation of what she’d almost done. Her voice racked with shame, she said, “I’m sorry, Charlie. Mummy’s sorry.”
Butterfly held Charlie close, rocking him until his crying subsided. She rose to her feet somewhat unsteadily. The floor seemed to shudder beneath her as she stooped to kiss Shirley’s forehead. “Bye, Grandma. I’ll see you soon.” In a whisper, she added, “Please don’t remember this.”
Shirley continued to stare into that other place. Butterfly’s plea was needless. The chances of her grandma remembering what had happened were zero. Even on her best days Shirley didn’t recognise her granddaughter. The only thing that tended to draw any sort of response from her was Charlie. Sometimes she would smile and coo at him whilst stroking his hands. But it had been weeks since even Charlie was able to work his magic on her. The Alzheimer’s was progressing rapidly, destroying the neurons that transmitted information between her brain and body, severing her last tenuous links to the world. The doctors were reluctant to say how long she had left to live, but it obviously wasn’t long.
Butterfly retrieved the bulging bag of nappies, dummies, teething rings and other baby paraphernalia that she lugged everywhere. The pain was fading now almost fast as it had arisen. She felt steadier on her feet as she left the room. She headed for the exit, hoping she didn’t bump into any of the nurses who cared for her grandma. She didn’t want to have to field any awkward questions about why she’d shouted.
She was almost at the front door when a nurse appeared and asked, “Have you signed out?”
Butterfly pushed out a smile. “Sorry, I almost forgot.”
As she signed the visitors’ book, she could feel the nurse’s eyes on her face – more specifically, on the tattoo that flared outwards from her right eye like one half of a masquerade mask. The tattoo’s centre comprised of three concentric circles of white, black, white. Then came a larger rusty red area with a slender band of brown along its outer edge. The edge itself was frayed like a butterfly’s damaged wing. When she met people for the first time they invariably reacted in one of two ways. Some acted as if the tattoo didn’t exist. Others were fixated by it. Occasionally they asked about it. How long had she had it? Where did she get it done? What had made her want to tattoo her face? She gave the same answer to all their questions – I’ve no idea. Which of course prompted more questions. What do you mean, you’ve no idea? How is that possible?
If Butterfly liked the person asking, she might answer politely, I have amnesia, before trying to change the subject. If she didn’t like them, she would simply ignore their questions. And if she really didn’t like them, she would let rip with the full story.
This particular nurse was new to the nursing home. She was a prim-looking woman with an unsmiling face. She’d made Butterfly uncomfortable on the way in by ogling her as if she was an exhibit in a Victorian freak show. Now Butterfly could almost hear the question on the tip of the nurse’s tongue. Don’t go there, she silently warned her. She could feel that same rage bubbling just below the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.
“I have to ask,” began the nurse.
Before she could say anything else, Butterfly treated her to such a withering glare that she took a step backwards. “The answer is, I haven’t got a fucking clue,” retorted Butterfly. “You see, a pair of psychopathic pricks destroyed my memory.” With a kind of perverse enjoyment, she watched the nurse squirm as she continued, “But they got what was coming to them. One of them’s dead. The other’s serving a life sentence.”
“Oh… right,” stammered the nurse, her eyes dancing around as if she didn’t know where to put them.
“Have a lovely day.”
The nurse smiled uneasily. “You too.”
Another, less intense, twinge of shame passed through Butterfly as she stepped outside. What the hell’s the matter with you? she asked herself. Did that woman really deserve that?
The answer to the second question was most definitely no. The first question was harder to answer. The bullet was part of it for sure, but there was more to it than that.
Butterfly opened the front passenger door of the lumbering people carrier Jack had insisted on buying her. He’d chosen it because it was supposedly the safest family car on the market. It certainly looked as if it could withstand a nuclear blast and there was more than enough room for Charlie’s clobber, but that didn’t stop her from hating the sight of it. Sometimes she would look at it and think, Is this really who I am? Would the sort of person who had their face tattooed with a butterfly wing have been seen dead driving around in this glorified tank?
She strapped Charlie into his baby seat and gave him his dummy in the forlorn hope that he would content himself with sucking it rather than scream his lungs out on the journey to Manchester. He spat it out and his cries reverberated painfully in her ears.
“What’s wrong, Charlie? Are you hung
ry?” Butterfly tried to give him his bottle, but he pushed it away. She checked his nappy. Clean. She closed her eyes. The throbbing was building behind her forehead again. She started the engine. The drive home might do the trick. Charlie often fell asleep in the car.
As she pulled out of the carpark, she popped a couple of painkillers from a blister strip and dry-swallowed them, knowing they would make little difference. Doctor Summers, her neurologist, had prescribed a rainbow of medication – anti-nausea, anti-migraine, anti-depressants – but all the tablets seemed to do was make her constipated and lethargic. She slammed on the brakes hard enough to jolt herself against her seatbelt. If possible, Charlie’s crying grew even louder.
“What the hell are you doing?” she yelled, hammering the horn at a car that had materialised from nowhere. Her bumper had come to a stop centimetres from its driver side door. The car was a sleek black sporty number with mirrored windows. Butterfly waited for it to either continue on its way or for the driver to lower the window and offer an apology. Instead the car merely sat there.
Butterfly’s rage-inducing headache was back in full flow. The world seemed to be contracting and expanding ever so slightly in front of her eyes. What was this idiot’s problem? She just barely resisted a temptation to put her foot on the accelerator and push the car out of her way. That was one time when the people carrier’s bulk would come in handy.
She hit the horn again. With a screech, the car accelerated away like a sprinter bursting from the starting blocks. “Moron,” Butterfly muttered as she turned in the opposite direction. As Doctor Summers had taught her, she focused on breathing slowly, counting her breaths – breathing in through her nose for a count of seven and out through her mouth for a count of eleven. The pain didn’t lessen, but the anger died down. Charlie’s crying died down too. Soon, lulled by the car’s motion, his eyelids mercifully drifted shut.
She headed south out of Rochdale and got on the M62. To her relief, the mid-afternoon traffic was moving at a steady pace. If she was forced to stop for more than a minute, there was a good chance Charlie would wake up. The motorway took her around the western outskirts of Manchester, passing light industrial estates, shopping centres and suburban housing estates that languished under a grey late August sky. Heavy clouds were sweeping in from the Irish Sea, preparing to dump their rain on Manchester before crossing the Pennines.