They Did Bad Things

by Lauren A. Forry

  The world outside the windshield sank under water, rivulets blurring the gray road. Ellie scrambled to find the windshield wipers in the hired Land Rover while holding the phone to her ear.

  “Poppet, I’m sorry. If Daddy said . . . if Daddy said . . .”

  She switched her phone to her other ear, taking in a deep breath of the floral scent of her Avon car freshener.

  “I do understand, poppet, but if Daddy—All right . . . All right . . . I’ll talk to him . . . Yes, I’ll talk to him. Yes, I’ll—Yes . . . I love you, too.”

  She set the phone in the cup holder and located the correct lever. On high blast, the wipers distracted as much as the rain itself, but she could at last make out the twisting road ahead.

  “What did I do? What?”

  “In five hundred meters, turn right.”

  “Haven’t we given her everything she’s asked for? God forbid her brother turns out the same way.”

  “In two hundred meters, turn right.”

  “I blame myself. I really do. You’re too nice, Ellie. That’s exactly how you get into these situations.”

  “Turn right.”

  “David’s right. You need to grow a backbone or you’ll never—”

  “Missed turn. Make a U-turn.”

  “What? How did I? Of course I did.” She spun the Range Rover around, slipping on the wet road but managing to save the car before it tipped into a ditch.

  “In one hundred meters, turn left.”

  “Where? There’s not even a—Oh, there!”

  Her frustration shifted to a new target as the car bounced down the unpaved drive.

  Why hadn’t there been a sign to mark the house? Why couldn’t they have done this on Skye itself? Why make her take a ride with a ferryman who wouldn’t stop leering at her? Why make her drive out into the god-forsaken middle of nowhere?

  She smacked the steering wheel, then took a deep breath. Tried to see the positives. For example, when was the last time she had been on her own?

  No David, no children, no anyone? It must have been before their wedding, so at least fifteen years. She looked at the passenger seat. So strange to see it empty. Yet freeing, in its own way. She was alone, and she was doing something for herself. Something that had nothing to do with her family.

  The manor house, when it appeared, looked more like a child’s drawing than the real thing. Uneven lines and too many windows. Ellie would’ve laughed, except it seemed inappropriate, like laughing at the child who came to school in dirty jumpers and too-small shoes.

  She parked near a beat-up little Vauxhall and tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, debating whether or not to wait out the heavy rain that patterned the glass, obscuring the house’s façade. Through the rain, the house looked like a watercolor painting, one she might see hanging in a café on the King’s Road. She could be there now with a mug of black coffee, cooing over the babies in prams that clogged up the seating area. But that thought retrieved a memory, one she thought she’d shaken once her plane had taken off at Heathrow. One that now made her shudder. She unclipped the air freshener and stuffed it into her trench coat, pulled the trench over her head, and exited the car, only to step right into a mud puddle that splashed up her leg. She swallowed down a scream and ran into the house.

  Hoping the staff wouldn’t notice the messy trail she left on the carpet runner, Ellie rang the bell at reception until an attractive young man hurried down the stairs.

  “Yes, yes. I’m here. Let the bell rest.” His immediate frown conveyed his frustration at her mess, but he left it unmentioned as he checked her in.

  “Such a lovely place you have here,” she said with a smile after giving her name, twirling her hair on her finger. “It must be so much work to maintain.”

  “It keeps me busy. Your room is on—”

  “And what an enterprising young man you are”—she laid a hand on his arm—“to run it all by yourself.”

  He withdrew his arm with a closed-lip smile and held out her key. “I do what needs to be done. Now, your room is on the third floor. If you—”

  “Could you be a lamb and help me with my suitcase? It’s been just a terrible drive, you see. I’m not usually this exhausted, but I haven’t traveled this far by myself in such a long time.”

  He cupped the key in his palm. “Of course, Mrs. Landon. I’d be happy to assist. My mother is about your age, and she also tires easily.”

  He carried the suitcase toward the stairs. Ellie frowned, wiped her muddy shoes on the carpet, then followed.

  Once they reached the top floor, he handed her the key. “By the way, Mrs. Landon, if you happen to hear a wee knocking in the middle of the night, don’t let it alarm you.”

  “Just the pipes?”

  “No. It’s not the pipes.”

  Without another word, he returned the way they came. Ellie stared at the shining 5 on her door, then leaned her ear toward the wall. Silence. She shuddered, then laughed it off and unlocked the door.

  Once in her room, Ellie stripped out of her wet clothes, purposely leaving them in a pile by the bed. David would yell if she left damp clothes on the hardwood floors in their bedroom.

  Water spat from the showerhead in fits and starts before the flow evened. She was lining up her own bath gel, shampoo, and conditioners on the soap dish, humming to herself, when her phone chirped. Expecting to see Jilly’s name, she returned to the bedroom. But it wasn’t Jilly. She read the text three times, now reminded of why she’d come all this way.

  Oliver

  “What about you, Oliver?” Hollis asked. “Did you win a contest, too?”

  Of course Hollis would choose him next. Unfortunately for him, Oliver already had his answer ready.

  “You think I’d fall for a stupid trick like that? Like I’m that naive?” He turned toward Ellie. “No offense, love.”

  “Well, either you were that naive or you knew the plan all along. So which is it?”

  It took every ounce of self-control not to pop Hollis one. That would only put more suspicion on him, so instead he finished off his whisky, let it burn all the way down. The others waited, watching. He plopped the glass onto the table.

  “Fine. A mate. Said he’d booked the place but something came up and he offered me his reservation.”

  “How well do you know this mate?”

  “Worked with him once or twice. We have the same local and spot each other for drinks now and then.”

  “And would this mate need money?”

  “Yeah, suppose so.” Oliver lit a cigarette. “You think someone paid him off?”

  “Easiest way to manipulate people, isn’t it?”

  “If that’s true, then I’m going to beat Gerald’s ass into the ground.” He propped his feet on a chair.

  “Happen to have Gerald’s surname and phone number?”

  “Fancy a date?”

  “More like evidence.”

  “For or against my word?” Oliver met Hollis’s stare, took a long drag of his cigarette, then exhaled. “Sorry, we’re not that close. First-name basis kind of thing.”

  “Convenient,” said Hollis.

  “Or just the opposite.” He held Hollis’s gaze as he tapped ash into the empty whisky glass, daring Hollis to challenge him.

  But Hollis gave in first and shifted his attention to Lorna, who had been pacing slowly since Hollis started his interrogations. Oliver watched the proceedings carefully, wanting to be ready if Hollis tried to catch him out.

  “Go on, Lorna. How did you end up here?”

  Lorna stopped pacing. Oliver watched her rub a scratch on her hand. “Similar to Oliver, really. A colleague. I needed a last-minute holiday. It’s a long story. But she offered me her stay here. Said I could pay her back.”

  “How long have you known her?” Hollis asked.

  “About two years.”

  “And does your colleague have a full name?” He looked at Oliver as he asked the question.

  “Jennifer McAlli
ster.”

  Hollis looked back at Lorna, another question on his mind based on the confused expression on his face, the one Oliver remembered from Hollis’s study sessions in the front room, but Hollis shook it off and turned his attention to Maeve.

  Lorna caught Oliver staring at her hand and shoved it in her pocket. She toed a piece of broken glass on the carpet with her shoe.

  Oliver bit the end of his cigarette to keep from jumping in with a well-timed insult. It had to be a lesbian thing, he thought. A girlfriend, the kind Lorna never admitted to having. She looked more like a dyke than ever, wearing that big black turtleneck that did her chest no favors.

  “That leaves you, Maeve,” said Hollis. Oliver swiveled in his seat so he could watch Maeve stammer out a response.

  “I thought . . .” She looked away. “I thought I was meeting someone.”

  She wiped sweat from her forehead, then chewed the cuff of her jumper, the same way she used to act whenever she and Oliver had been alone in a room together. Out of all of them, she looked the most like her younger self. Almost pretty, if she could ever fix that hair and lose about a stone. When Hollis asked another pointed question about her missing companion, Maeve flinched and stammered out an incoherent response. It clicked then, and Oliver couldn’t stop laughing.

  “Something to add?” Hollis asked.

  “You haven’t figured it out, Detective? Maeve thought she was meeting a man here. That she was coming for a romantic getaway. You got catfished, didn’t you?”

  She hid her hands in her jumper and wrapped her arms around herself, unable to meet his eye. It was too easy with Maeve. Like riding a bike that had hung in a garage for years. She might be a little rusty, but he remembered how to pedal. Twenty-odd years gone, and he remembered how to play them all.

  1 hour prior

  “God damn piece of . . . god damn!”

  The jack lifted the tire, the tire iron cranked the jack, but for some reason the lug nuts refused to budge. Oliver’s fingers slipped on the wet hubcap, and he fell back into the road. Water seeped into his clothes from new angles.

  “Fuck cars. Fuck tires. Fuck Scotland!”

  Mud clinging to his hands and face, Oliver grabbed his phone and bag from the car, stuffed the pamphlet into an outside pocket, and continued on foot, carrying the tire iron out of spite, the long walk exacerbating his limp. If there was beauty in this barren landscape, he didn’t see it. Even a stupid hired car didn’t want to make this trip. Why should he have come? It was stupid. He’d known that all along. What would this solve? Fuck all, that’s what, he told himself.

  By the time he reached the house, he held nothing but contempt for it. A spare parts house, that’s what it looked like. Cobbled together from bits and bobs nobody wanted, and poorly done at that. He was tempted to throw the tire iron through a window but flung it into the hedges instead.

  After kicking the door shut behind him, he dropped his wet things and rubbed his hands by the fire. What he needed was a way to warm himself from the inside out. To his surprise, he found his favorite method in a room to his left. A large, Victorian-themed study lined with bookshelves and a long leather chesterfield sofa housed a full bar complete with tin counter and, most importantly, a healthy selection of spirits stacked in front of a mirrored wall.

  “They must be having a laugh.”

  He dug the damp brochure from his jacket pocket and glanced over it. But this was definitely the right place. He looked around, expecting a trick, but when no one appeared, he helped himself to a fifteen-year-old Glenlivet single malt.

  “Five pound fifty.”

  Oliver choked on the whisky.

  At the other end of the bar, a young man in a suit wiped down the counter with a flannel. Oliver couldn’t see where he had come from.

  “I can start a tab or add the cost to your bill.”

  “The bill’s fine.” He wasn’t paying anyway. He finished the glass and poured another. “Oliver Holcombe. This your dad’s place, then?” He looked out the windows. The falling rain made it difficult to discern the edge of the car park and the wilderness that lay beyond.

  “James Caskie. And it’s my place, actually. You might want to take it easy on those.” Caskie checked his phone and, face pinched, dropped it back into his pocket.

  Oliver hadn’t checked his since the tire blew. She’d probably left three or four voice mails by now, he thought, but when he checked his notifications, there was a single email: Groupon Getaways.

  “I didn’t hear you pull up,” Caskie said.

  “My car copped it on the main road. Transmission, I think,” he lied. “Had to walk the rest of the way in.”

  “Glad you made it in before nightfall.”

  “My phone doubles as a torch.”

  “Not the dark that should concern you.”

  A shutter flapped against the window.

  “Shit.” Oliver grabbed a cocktail napkin and blotted spilled whisky off his hand.

  “Care to see your room before you have another?”

  Oliver bit his tongue and followed Caskie into reception, wishing he still held the tire iron instead of this glass.

  Maeve

  Maeve’s good jeans, soaked from the rain, chafed her thighs. She never had the chance to get changed. Not even Hollis had asked if she wanted to get out of her wet clothes before he questioned her. The worst part was feeling like she’d wet herself, and she pretended this was why she was uncomfortable as Hollis explained what catfishing was to Ellie.

  “Oh, you poor thing!” Ellie cooed.

  “It’s not a big deal, god,” Maeve snapped.

  “Do you have his email or phone number?” Hollis asked. “I can have someone try and track him down.”

  “His email. And his Skype username. Kit_Snow0273.” She reached for her phone, praying for her hands to stop shaking. Her phone case was damp from being in her pocket and she went to rub it on her jumper, but this was just as wet. “Sorry. Sorry, I—”

  “Here.” Hollis handed her one of the cloth napkins from the table.

  Maeve wanted to thank him, but he had already turned away. They were all drifting away from one another. Lorna toward the windows. Hollis toward the door. Ellie leaned against a far wall. The table behind Maeve kept her from drifting all the way back to the kitchen entrance. Only Oliver remained anchored to his chair in the center of the dining room, but Maeve got the impression he would sink through the floor if he could. Having embarrassed her, Oliver had shifted his attention once again, leaving Maeve to roil in a mix of relief and disappointment. She stayed nearer to him, both hoping and not that he would notice her again.

  “Go on then, Drummond,” Oliver said. “Storytime. Who lured you here? Or maybe you’re the one who brought us all together?”

  Hollis’s confidence slipped like a glove from a pocket. Pain creased his face, but Maeve could see he was going to answer. Lorna interrupted before he could.

  “Someone’s leaving.” She stared out the window.

  “Who else is here?” Maeve asked.

  Everyone answered at once. “Caskie.”

  Hollis led the charge into the front hall. By the time he flung open the front door, Caskie was nothing more than a pair of red taillights cresting over the hill of the drive.

  As the others lingered in the rain, sharing shouts and curses, Maeve retreated inside, taking the warmth of the fire for herself. The burning peat sounded like soft wind through the trees, and she enjoyed that brief peace for all of a few seconds before the others joined her in the foyer. All four argued at once among each other, seeming to forget Maeve was there. So Maeve remained the only one by the fire and the only one to see the letter propped on the mantel.

  As soon as it was in her hand, they noticed her again. Noticed that she had found something.

  “What’s that?” Hollis asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  He took it from her and opened it himself.

  “Dear guests,” he read. “Due to a
private family matter, I must return to Skye tonight. Prepared food is available in the kitchen refrigerator. See note for reheating instructions. Apologies that the normal caretaker is unavailable. Once on Skye, I will arrange for a housekeeper to arrive via private boat tomorrow morning. Thank you again for choosing Wolf-heather House. Yours faithfully, James Caskie. Note: In the earlier confusion caused by Mr. MacLeod’s absence, I neglected to distribute the gifts from your benefactor.”

  “Your benefactor?” Lorna peered around Hollis’s shoulder to read the note.

  “He must mean those.” Ellie pointed to the reception desk.

  On the floor by the desk was a pile of brown-wrapped paper packages, each tagged with a name. No one said anything. No one wanted to.

  “Those look like—”

  “Shut up, Maeve,” said Oliver.

  Hollis crossed the room first and grabbed the package with his name. He wasted no time in tearing off the paper. A two-liter bottle of Strong-bow Cider. Lorna went next. A cassette tape of Take That’s Everything Changes.

  “I haven’t listened to that in ages,” Ellie said. “Not since . . .” But she paled and didn’t complete the thought. Oliver went next.

  “Smallest of the lot,” he muttered. He tore the wrapping off in small pieces: a purple Sharpie.

  When neither Ellie nor Maeve approached, Hollis handed them their packages. Maeve waited until Ellie went first: a joint.

  On their own, each of these items was innocuous. But seeing them together filled Maeve’s mouth with a bitter taste. A memory echoed in her mind—thumping music, sticky glasses, sickly sweet alcopops, the smell of pot, and the haze of low lighting. By the looks on their faces, she could tell the others shared the same memory.

  “Open yours, Maeve,” Hollis said.

  Something rattled inside. Maeve’s clumsy fingers struggled to pull the string and tear the paper. An unmarked black box. She took off the lid, and they waited for her to reveal what was inside. After a long breath, she held it up.

  “It’s a key.”

  But the key mattered less than the Scottish Rugby keychain hanging from it.

  “Well, it can’t be—” Maeve started, but a gasp from Ellie interrupted her.