They Did Bad Things

by Lauren A. Forry

  The party dragged on until the beer had gone. The guests stumbled away from 215 Caldwell Street, their first—but not last—time hoping they remembered the way back to their temporary homes, while the house’s newest residents made the shorter trip to their bedrooms upstairs. Except Lorna, who, that night, never left her bedroom.

  They woke the next morning to the sound of crinkling aluminum cans and the smell of bacon. When they opened their doors, little presents—Oreos, tea, Pringles—wrapped in brown paper greeted them, each with the same typed note on blue stationery.

  Don’t be fooled. The day’s not done.

  Happy Wednesday’s just begun!

  They cracked their sleep-crusted eyes and stumbled downstairs.

  That’s where they saw him for the first time.

  Backlit by the morning light, a tall, lanky outline was cleaning up their mess, cooking enough bacon to feed an army. A camera hung around his neck. When he noticed them, he waved the spatula, flinging drops of grease onto the wall.

  “Oh! Sorry.” He winced. “I hope you don’t mind? I got in this morning. You were all sleeping, so I thought I’d cook us some breakfast?”

  Almost every sentence ended like a question, as if he were always asking for permission, even when giving his name.

  “I’m Callum? You found your notes! Sorry, I didn’t know what each of you liked? Happy Wednesday’s something a teacher of mine did for us in sixth form. You know, keep us motivated to get through the week? I thought it’d be a nice way to introduce myself? It’s lame, isn’t it? Sorry.” He held out the pan. “You guys want some rashers?”

  They did. And as they ate, they got to know one another better, the awkwardness of being strangers melting away as Callum filled any gaps in the conversation with a funny anecdote. That morning, he became the glue that held them together.

  Nine months later, Callum would stumble down the stairs, slamming his knee so hard on the bottom step it would leave a bruise. It would be the most drunk he had ever been in his life, or ever would be, for his life would only last a few minutes more. But he wouldn’t know that, just like he wouldn’t know there would be someone watching him as he made his way to the house phone. That he would be watched as he put his hand on the receiver. That he would be heard as he muttered, “I’m gonna do it. Got to. Have to. Have to turn them in. It’s wrong. What we did is wrong.”

  And someone—someone who had been sitting at that wobbly table nine months prior, sharing that crispy, greasy bacon—would come forward as he picked up the receiver, and would ask him, “What are you doing, Callum?”

  2

  Lorna

  Hollis eyed them up in turn, like he was running through a checklist in his mind of what they each should look like in order to confirm they were who he thought they were. Unlike the rest of them, he wore his age well, his stocky body a better fit for a man in his forties than a boy of nineteen. Lorna was trying to reconcile the grown man in front of her with the young man she once knew when Hollis turned his analytical gaze on her, and there he was. The Hollis she remembered. The look of a troubled boy out of his depth, trying his best, wanting only to do what was right.

  “Lorna.” He spoke her name as if brushing the dust off a long-forgotten book. “What the fuck is going on?”

  She couldn’t tell if the question was meant for her. Her clarity had vanished the moment Ellie entered the dining room, and it hadn’t come back upon the appearance of Oliver and Maeve. No less than five minutes ago, she knew Hollis’s arrival was imminent, but that had done nothing to lessen the shock of actually seeing him. Of having all four of them in the room with her. If his question was for her, she couldn’t answer it. She would do what Lorna had always done. Stand back quietly and let the others hash it out.

  Hollis slammed a whisky bottle down on the nearest table. The bang echoed through the room.

  “I said, what is going on? What are you all doing here?”

  “We . . . we don’t know,” Maeve offered. Yes, of course Maeve would go first. Try to smooth things over. “We were trying to figure that out when you . . .”

  And of course Maeve would utterly fail.

  “Trying to figure it out? You mean this is all a surprise to you? None of you knew the others would be here? Well, that’s complete and utter shit. Go on then. Which of you was it? Who put this together?”

  Oliver leaned forward, going for one of his chummy “man to man” speeches. “Hollis, mate—”

  Speeches that Hollis had never fallen for. “I am not your mate!”

  Like Lorna, Ellie knew talk was useless, but unlike Lorna, the tension showed in her body. She rocked back and forth in her chair like a branch caught in the wind. Lorna couldn’t help but remember how quickly that dry branch could catch fire.

  “That’s it. I’m going.” Hollis spoke so softly that only Lorna, who was standing closest, could hear.

  She did nothing to stop him as he picked up the whisky bottle.

  Maeve—always interfering Maeve—asked, “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m leaving!”

  His intention was what shook Lorna. The house felt more dangerous with him here, with them gathered altogether, yet also safer. Hollis’s presence, his clarity over the danger they were in, returned to her the strength she thought she’d lost, that had been drained first by Ellie, then Oliver, then Maeve. Hollis could leave, but Lorna needed him. By the time she spoke, he was already at the door.

  “Hollis, you can’t,” Lorna said. “There’s no place else to go on the island, and Mr. Caskie told us the road might wash away in the storm.”

  “And the last ferry’s already left,” Maeve added.

  “Oh, leave it, Lorna.” Oliver kicked his feet up on the chair. “Let him run. It’s what he’s good at. I mean, I’m surprised he’s stuck around this long. It’s been, what? At least five minutes.”

  Hollis re-gripped the neck of the bottle and removed his free hand from the doorknob. “What would you have me do? Stay for a drink? Or seven? How many have you already tucked away, Oliver? By the slur of your speech I’d say at least five. That’s a healthy belly you’ve put on, too. It can hold, what, at least half a dozen more? You know, I’m glad you’re sitting there smoking all casual-like while several mounds of shit are clearly hitting the fan. I’m not sure I would’ve recognized you otherwise. Getting your haircare tips from Prince Charles nowadays?”

  “Really, Hollis. Insults?” Oliver said. “Can’t we at least try to be adults about this?”

  “I don’t know what this is, but I have to say, that advice is rich coming from the person who coined the nickname ‘Hunt the Cunt.’”

  Ellie gasped.

  “Oh, you didn’t know that, Ellie?” Hollis asked as Oliver’s face went red.

  “I always assumed it was Maeve,” she said.

  “I may have said it, but I didn’t start it,” Maeve said. “And I didn’t even say it that often! I swear.”

  Maeve apologizing, Ellie feigning ignorance, Hollis and Oliver fighting. How quickly they’d each fallen into their old roles, herself included. Good ol’ Lorna—keeping silent, trying not to let them draw her into their argument. But it didn’t take long for them to fling questions her way. She had blocked out the conversation after Maeve’s comment and didn’t know which direction the argument had gone when Hollis asked, “What about you, Lorna? Anything to add?”

  “No.” She squeezed the single syllable out like the last drop of water from a dry tap.

  “That’s just typical, isn’t it?” Oliver laughed. “Switzerland over here refusing to get involved while bombs are going off around her. ‘But it’s nothing to do with me!’ If it’s nothing to do with you, sweetheart, why are you here?”

  “Why are any of us here?” Maeve asked.

  “Don’t be thick, Maeve. If it’s possible.” Oliver rolled his eyes.

  “There’s only one reason someone would get us together,” Hollis said. But no one wanted to say what that reason was.


  “It wasn’t our fault,” Ellie whispered. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “We didn’t do anything right, either,” Hollis said.

  Lorna closed her eyes and pretended she didn’t know what Hollis was talking about. Pretended she could leave. But Lorna had no place to go.

  2 hours prior

  The Vauxhall sedan kicked up dust as it sped down the drive. Lorna gripped the steering wheel, her vision narrowed on the horizon, watching for the house that was to appear at the end of this drive, and missed the pothole. The car bounced in and out, landing so hard that the boot scraped the ground. She hit the brakes, and her head smacked back against the headrest. A squeaky belt chirped louder than the ping of the rain on the car. The steering wheel vibrated in her hands.

  “Don’t die here. Don’t die here.”

  She pressed down on the accelerator. The Vauxhall inched forward, then picked up speed.

  “Thank you.”

  A warning light dinged.

  Hatch open.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the open boot bobbing up and down.

  “Shit.”

  If the universe wanted to stop her from exiting the car, it almost succeeded. The seat belt almost strangled her as she fumbled with the latch. On the drive, her shoes slipped on the wet stones as she stumbled around the car. Twice she slammed the boot down, but it refused to latch.

  “Shit shit shit.”

  Rain gathered at the nape of her neck and dripped down the back of her shirt to her bra strap. She rested her hands on the car and took several breaths, letting the water travel along her spine.

  “I’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. I will make sure everything is fine.”

  She pushed down on the boot a final time and heard it click shut.

  “See? Fine. Just like I said.” When she returned to the car, she didn’t bother with the seat belt.

  Viewed from the crest of the drive, the lumbering red brick manor that was Wolfheather House looked like a redcoat soldier standing at the edge of a long, thin loch. Cast in the shadow of the surrounding snow-capped peaks, a single plume of smoke rose from one of its six chimneys. An inconsonant glass conservatory protruded off its backside, an unnecessary addition that made the house even more of an eyesore.

  Lorna parked at the base of the drive, facing away from the house. Rain peppered the quiet loch and she remembered how, as a child, the water could calm her. Despite the weather, she left her suitcase by the Vauxhall and went down to wet her hands. It eased the pain on her scratched hands but failed to provide the calm she’d hoped for. The towering mountains made her feel trapped in a large cage, the gray cloud a heavy tarp pulled across the top. But wasn’t a cage what she wanted? She skipped a single stone, rippling the loch’s surface, then dried her hands on her jeans and made her way to the house as an unseen dog barked.

  A fire burned in the empty reception hall while dishes clattered in a room to her right. Lorna followed the sounds of clinking porcelain and saw the back of a man laying out plates and cutlery in the large dining room. The room comfortably fit ten round tables, each surrounded by four chairs. No two tablecloths were alike—some lace, some polyester, some plain blue, others patterned with spring flowers. A hodgepodge of candles, two or three to a table, acted as centerpieces. The mismatched décor helped hide how the heavy red curtains clashed with the pea green carpeting and yellow walls. If she had her way, she would redecorate the entire place so that it didn’t remind her of her great aunt’s drawing room and the uncomfortable evenings spent there. She could almost smell the Jean Patou Joy perfume. Lorna rubbed her cold arms and cleared her throat.

  The young man spun round, a dinner knife clutched in each hand.

  “Bloody hell! You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. Give them a heart attack, you will. Sneaking around like a bloody ghost . . .”

  “Sorry to interrupt. I’ll go wait till you’re ready.”

  Lorna happily exchanged the coldness of the dining room for the warmth of the fireplace and debated sending a text as she waited. Her mother’s voice rang through her head.

  Always let someone know where you are, at least one person, please, Petal, please. In case of an emergency. In case something should happen . . .

  But who would care where she was?

  “You’re the—”

  “Bloody hell!” She jumped at the sound of the man’s voice.

  “Now you know what it’s like to be frightened.”

  “I wasn’t frightened.”

  “’Course you weren’t.”

  She stuffed her phone in her pocket and followed him to the front desk, signing the book.

  “You’re the first one here,” he said.

  As he handed over the key, he looked as if he wanted to say something more, but the phone rang. He answered, and she started for the stairs.

  “Wolfheather House. James Caskie speaking . . .”

  At the top of the stairs, her first instinct had been to turn right, but a rope blocked that direction along with a frayed roll of pulled-up carpeting. So left it was, down a hall with dark brown side tables adorned with silver candlesticks and geometric paperweights to a room with a brass 1 inelegantly screwed into the door.

  She withdrew her phone and sent a quick text to the one person she thought might care. Then, before changing out of her travel clothes, she collapsed on the bed, eyes closed, arms outstretched. For the first time in months, she lost the feeling of being watched and, for a few brief minutes, became herself again.

  Ellie

  Ellie was not yet certain of what she was seeing. She could identify the images—Hollis yelling, Maeve rubbing her arms through the wet sleeves of her jumper, Lorna staring into her empty wineglass, Oliver with his cigarette burning down—but it was like watching a show on television. A show about their lives, dramatic reenactments portrayed by actors who resembled them but didn’t quite match with her memory of them. Hollis’s hair was never that short, and his shoulders were too wide. Maeve looked several pounds heavier, some of the fat rounding out her face. Lorna had a somewhat smaller chest, and wasn’t her nose stubbier? Oliver she could barely look at. He was all wrong. Like Oliver’s father had dressed in the real Oliver’s clothes. So yes, they were all here, but these weren’t the people she remembered. And although the prospect of spending the weekend with complete strangers sounded exciting, in reality she thought it would be better to follow Hollis’s original intent and vacate the premises as soon as possible. As soon as no one was looking. And yet, could she?

  Possibly the best option was to wait and keep an eye on everyone. See how this all played out.

  She thought of texting David and asking his advice. But she dismissed that thought with the blink of an eye. She couldn’t text David. Not about this. Not right now. Not until she could return to her room. She drank some of the wine, tasting nothing as it passed through her lips. Then she clapped her hands together.

  “Right,” she announced, interrupting Hollis’s argument. “I’m here because of Avon.”

  They all looked at her, confused, as if they’d forgotten she was there.

  Hollis came so close, she could feel his breath on her cheek. The wrinkle on his forehead that had once been a slight line had deepened to a crevasse.

  “You’re here because of what?”

  She adjusted her bracelet. “Avon. I sell Avon. You know, soaps, lotions, beauty products. We have an excellent men’s line that would do wonders for those worry lines, Hollis.” She uncrossed and crossed her legs. “Anyway, my regional supervisor held a sales contest to promote our new Highland fragrance line. I won.”

  “Did you get to choose where to stay?”

  “No. They arranged everything.”

  “They?”

  “Avon.”

  “How did you know you won?”

  “They sent me an email.”

  “And you’re sure that email came from Avon?”

  “Who else would�
�ve sent it?”

  That terrible laugh, the one she never thought she’d hear again, sprang from Oliver’s throat.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it, love? That’s why Hollis here is playing detective. He thinks he can catch you out in a lie, or figure out who’s been lying to you.”

  Oliver’s voice drew Hollis like a lure to a greyhound.

  “Playing detective?” Hollis slapped Oliver’s feet off the chair.

  The heat of interrogation lifted, Ellie hadn’t realized her hands were shaking until they stopped.

  “Playing detective?” Hollis repeated. “I am a detective, Holcombe. Manchester CID. What have you been up to? Any of your big plans come through? Your business investments? Saw Dragons’ Den by the way. Loved the suit.” Hollis’s face remained grim, but there was a smirk in his voice. “So, because I am what Oliver says I’m playing at, I’m going to ask you all questions, and you’re going to answer them. Because, one, I’m the most qualified person here to do so. And, two, I won’t trust any of you until I do. Ellie’s already volunteered. Do I have any others?”

  Ellie held her wineglass to her lips and cast her eyes around the room. Each of them gave away so much on their faces. They didn’t know how to keep their emotions bottled in, not even Lorna, who kept fidgeting with the ring on her forefinger. No, there would be no leaving. Not until she saw more.

  1.5 hours prior

  “Talk to your father. He can make that decision. I’m sorry but . . . I’m sorry but . . . Well then, if that’s Daddy’s decision, I’ll stand by it. I’m sorry but . . .”