They Did Bad Things

by Lauren A. Forry

  “Let me go,” she whispered.

  “I told you we stick together.”

  “I need to change my shirt.”

  “Not now you don’t.”

  Though her arms were tired, so were Oliver’s, and this time she was able to pull herself away.

  “You don’t get to decide when I want to go to my room. You don’t get to decide when I get to change.”

  “It’s for your own good.”

  Ellie stared. Then she laughed. It was high and bitter, and it felt good and she couldn’t stop.

  “You’re joking,” she said between laughs. “My own good? My own good?” she repeated. “Since when is anything you do for my own good? Is it when you convinced me to try marijuana and I got so paranoid I cried all night because I thought there was a man hiding in the toilet? Or when you convinced me that cheating on my exams would be the best way to fix my grades? Or how about when you raped me, Oliver? Was that for my own good, too?”

  He stepped back. Stunned. The word shocked him just as it shocked her. It tasted like fire on her tongue. She said it again.

  “Go on. Say it. Rape. Not ‘took advantage of.’ Not ‘I was pissed, too.’ Call a spade a spade. I was passed out. You carried me to your bed and you raped me while I was unconscious. Say it, Oliver. Say it!”

  She wasn’t laughing now.

  His expression was unreadable, but he was on the verge of something. The verge of finally confessing what he had done. Of apologizing and begging forgiveness. Or the verge of doubling down and smacking the word out of her mouth. She was prepared for either.

  A thud sounded above.

  They fell silent.

  There came another. Maeve crouched as if the ceiling would cave in.

  Fast footsteps sped away above their heads.

  Oliver turned to run. But then a door slammed open behind them. A door at the end of the abandoned east wing. They grabbed their phones and cast circular pockets of light down the dark hall. It mirrored the one that housed their guest rooms but looked occupied by ghosts, the furniture pressed against the walls covered in white dust sheets, the shaking lights seeming to give them movement.

  Oliver hesitated. With no further sound from the footsteps, he yanked the rope from the wall and headed for the open door. Ellie followed, turning when she heard someone behind her, but it was only Maeve hurrying to catch up.

  The hallway ended in a wall. A dead end. And no windows meant no light, until Oliver shone the light from his phone into the open room.

  A bare mattress lay on the floor. Light blue curtains made from old bedsheets covered the window. Posters of Pamela Anderson and Glimpse ’91 and random NME covers were taped to the walls. A business ethics textbook on the floor bore the smiling penis Oliver had been prone to drawing on everything at the time. And, stuck in the book, a blue envelope with Oliver’s name typed on the front. He unfolded the unsealed flap and read the note inside. The note fell from Oliver’s shaking hand. Ellie caught it before it hit the floor.

  There once was a cad name Ollie,

  Who fucked up his life, by golly.

  He thought he had won

  When he decided to run

  But turns out his thoughts were all folly.

  She was about to comment on it when the footsteps again raced across the floor above. Oliver shoved Ellie out of the way and ran after them. Ellie lost her balance. Her shoulder caught the edge of the doorframe. She couldn’t grab the wall in time and tumbled to the floor. Maeve stood over her, staring like a dumb cow, like she wasn’t even sure where she was. She made no offer to help. With a growl, Ellie grabbed the doorframe and hoisted herself up, then ran after Oliver.

  She caught up to him on the floor above just as he was about to run down the east wing. Anticipating his movement, she started after him, but he jerked to a stop and she ran into the back of him, falling again, this time into the hard corner of a sideboard. She looked up in time to glimpse a brown blur shoot around the corner of the hall.

  “Did you see that? What the fuck was that? Was that her? Was she crawling like in the fucking Exorcist?” Oliver ranted, hands clasped behind his head. He turned back and forth as if expecting more things to start leaping out of the walls.

  “I couldn’t see because you were shoving me into a wall.”

  “I wasn’t shoving you! It was an accident.”

  “Of course it was. Every horrible thing you do is accidental. None of it is ever your fault!”

  And she could tell he had decided. He was going to strangle her. He came toward her with hate in his eyes.

  This time it was Maeve’s voice that stopped him.

  “It’s my fault.”

  A jolt passed through Ellie. From the shock in Oliver’s eyes, she knew he felt it, too. Maeve was coming clean. About what she did to Mr. MacLeod. Her possible allegiance with Mr. Caskie. About everything. Ellie turned, ready to hear the rest of the confession, but then saw what Maeve was holding.

  “‘ It’s my fault,’” Maeve continued reading. “‘It’s all my fault. I did it.’”

  Ellie pressed a hand to her back. There was nothing there.

  “‘ I went downstairs for a glass of orange juice,’” Maeve read from the diary. “‘ I was so thirsty. And when I came out, there he was and the phone was in his hand. He was going to tell them everything.’” She read the next lines in silence, then looked up and met Ellie’s eyes with her own. Maeve had given up when Lorna died, but Ellie could see what little strength she had return, hardened by twenty years of jealousy.

  Maeve closed the diary. “You fucking bitch.”

  Ellie ran for her, but Oliver grabbed Ellie and pinned her in his arms.

  “Get off me. Get off me! Let me go! Let me go, Oliver!” She kicked at air. Wriggled against a brick wall. “Don’t touch me! I don’t want you touching me!”

  Maeve showed him the page, the page Ellie had known all along that they wouldn’t understand.

  “We don’t need to pretend this woman’s son is alive,” Maeve said. “We just need to give her Ellie. Isn’t that right, princess?”

  Oliver

  18 hours earlier

  He knocked on her door. Three raps, then the drag of his knuckles down the wood. Just like he used to. He listened to her soft footsteps cross the room. Pictured her in slippers and a silk dressing gown, her hair braided and wrapped in a kerchief. It was prone to breakage, her hair. She thought he never listened, but he remembered some things, like their knock and the feel of her hair through his fingers.

  “What do you want?” she whispered through the door. It pleased him that she remembered the knocks as well as he.

  “I thought we should talk.”

  “What do we possibly have to talk about?”

  “You can’t be fucking serious.”

  “Language.”

  But he heard her hesitation, and then the door clicked open, just wide enough for him to enter.

  “Quick. Before anyone sees you.” Ellie closed it behind him, so quietly he never heard the door shut. She was dressed in a nightgown, her hair in a ponytail. In his mind’s eye, he had pictured a golden glow about her, but the yellow lighting revealed the wrinkles around her eyes, the subtle sagging start of a turkey neck. She still had that figure, though. Oliver sat on the bed and stretched out his legs, flexing his knee to ease the subtle ache there. She remained standing, arms crossed at her chest, her body contained and bottled up.

  “Go on then. What is it you wanted to say?”

  “Hello.”

  Ellie rolled her eyes.

  “No, really. We never said a proper hello. So, hello. Hi. How have you been?”

  Her eyes darted to the desk, where the letter containing her blackmail lay, torn into pieces.

  “I suppose that’s a stupid question.” He sighed, self-deprecating.

  She lowered her arms. “Very.”

  “I know the circumstances are as far from ideal as they could possibly be. But I am glad to see you.”
/>
  “Tell me what you want from me, Oliver. I’ve played enough games tonight.”

  “Fair enough. I want you on my team.”

  “Your team?”

  “We know how this is going to play out tomorrow. We’ll talk about Callum. And talk will shift to blame. Whoever gets the most blame will be the one at fault. And the one at fault will be the one turned over to our so-called benefactor. I don’t want that to be me, and I don’t want it to be you because we both know neither of us did anything wrong that night. But the odds are against us. Hollis sure as”—he moderated his language for her —“crap isn’t going to admit to anything. And Lorna will be on his side, easy. She’s never really liked either of us. Maeve—”

  “Maeve is still infatuated with you,” Ellie said. “Did you see how she kept looking at you tonight?”

  “She’s the wild card. But she and Lorna always got on. And Maeve tends to side with authority, which Hollis as a detective,” he sneered, “has in spades.”

  “It would still be two against three.”

  “Which is better than four against one.”

  “And which of us would be the one?” she asked.

  “Do you know why I came here? How I was tricked into coming here? I’m trying to get my life together, Ellie. I’m trying to be better. To be good again.”

  She looked him in the eye. “You were never good. You were never kind. You played at emotions like that, Oliver, but you never felt them. Not once.”

  He sat back, dropped his folded hands in his lap. “Want to hear about my little letter? This person knows I was stealing money from my ex-stepfather’s company.”

  “Embezzling.”

  “If you prefer the proper term. And if my sister finds out about that . . .” He sighed. “Let’s say I have very few positive things in my life right now, and if she knew, I would have zero.”

  Ellie walked to the desk and poured a glass of water from the carafe. The bed creaked as he rose. She tensed, but he took a deliberate step back and chose his next words very carefully.

  “I was wrong that night. We were both pissed, but I still had enough of my wits to know better. And I wasn’t ashamed then, you’re right, but I am now. And I know my words won’t mean much, so I want to prove it with my actions. Whatever happens tomorrow, I’m on your side.”

  She stared into her water glass. “So long as I’m on yours.”

  “I’ll leave that up to you.” He moved toward the door, not too fast but not too slow, giving her enough time to think and respond.

  “Be nice to Maeve tomorrow,” Ellie said. “Flatter her. Don’t overdo it, but don’t be cruel, like you were tonight. She’ll have spent tonight, like we all are, thinking about Caldwell Street, so she’ll be thinking about you. Play into her fantasy of you, her need for affection, and she’ll bend your way. She can’t help herself.”

  Oliver nodded and started to leave, but the hardness in Ellie’s voice gave him pause.

  “You didn’t know we would be here, did you?” he asked. “You didn’t know what you’d find.”

  She raised the glass to her lips. “I thought I won a contest.”

  He returned to his room then, knowing she was lying, but not why or to what extent. But he also knew it wouldn’t matter, so long as he stayed in her good graces.

  Present

  Ellie kicked out and bit Oliver’s arm, but even though Oliver wasn’t as fit as he once was, he beat her in sheer weight and was able to keep her restrained.

  “How about in here?” Maeve asked, holding open a door. Oliver nearly dropped Ellie when he saw the replica of Ellie’s Caldwell Street bedroom. All that saved him was Ellie’s own panic. She fell to her knees. Without her kicking, he was able to lift her up.

  “Well, isn’t this just perfect for you, you lying cunt?” He spat the word in her ear and threw her in. Maeve shoved the door shut and held the knob tight as Oliver dragged over an armchair. The dust sheet fell as he secured the chair beneath the doorknob. Ellie railed from the other side, no words, just shrieking and pounding her fists. Oliver, winded, leaned against the wall while Maeve cradled the diary against her chest. He had gone to Ellie’s last night to gain an ally. He knew the others had always suspected him the most in Callum’s death. He knew he would need someone on his side, someone to defend him if need be. He and Ellie were most often on the same wavelength back at university. She had seemed like the best choice. He hadn’t realized Ellie had been his ticket out of here all along. If only he had known then what was in the diary Maeve held. He could’ve turned Ellie in last night. Maybe Hollis would still be alive, Lorna too. He could’ve headed off a disaster instead of trying to scrape together a meager stalemate.

  Maeve paced back and forth, staring at the carpet. He couldn’t even guess what she was thinking. He could count the number of times he and Maeve had been alone together on one hand. In those times, he’d either be sniping at her or they’d stand in awkward silence. Back then he would’ve ditched her as soon as possible. But things were different now. She was his only ally. The one holding the key to their escape.

  “Can I?” he asked and held out his hand.

  Maeve hesitated, then gave him the diary. He read the whole page again.

  “You know, Ellie, if I would’ve found this back then, I would’ve just called the police and handed you over,” Oliver called through the door.

  “Would’ve saved us a lot of trouble,” Maeve added. They smiled at one another.

  He could hear Ellie breathing through the door. She must’ve been pressed against it, her fingers like claws digging into the wood.

  “You did good, Maeve.” He spoke loud enough so Ellie could hear him.

  Maeve shrugged and examined a hangnail. “I only found it because she dropped it.”

  “But the old Maeve would’ve handed it back to her without thinking.”

  “I wasn’t one of her lackeys.”

  “No, but you admired her.” He stretched out his knee and heard it pop. “I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. I did, too.”

  Maeve ran a hand through her hair. It tangled in the knots, her fingers getting stuck until she yanked them out.

  “So what do we do now?” she asked. “Wait for this woman to show up and take her?”

  “It would be nice to see her face to face. Maybe we should—” but he was interrupted.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  Oliver looked up and down the hall, expecting the woman to appear. But there was only carpet and antique furniture and Maeve, who heard it too, her head cocked toward the stairwell. A few seconds of silence and then a series of thumps.

  He waited for more, but seconds passed without a sound. After checking that Ellie’s door was secure, he guided Maeve toward the main staircase by her elbow.

  There was no one there.

  Not even Caskie’s body.

  “Where is he? Where is he?” Maeve asked and asked, her voice pitching higher each time. Oliver covered her mouth with his hand. They inched toward the top step. Though difficult to make out on the red carpet, wet splotches marked where Caskie’s body had stained the steps. Oliver peered down, his eyes following the wet stains that appeared around every third step, expecting to see the body at the bottom.

  But it wasn’t there, either.

  He looked at Maeve and lowered his hand from her mouth. Without either of them saying anything, she nodded and together they started down the steps. The house had fallen completely silent. Not even Ellie made any noise from behind her door.

  Halfway down, they could follow the blood trail that led from the stairs around to the right. Three-quarters of the way, they could see James Caskie’s body propped up against the reception desk. At the bottom, they could read the piece of paper propped in front of his bloody stomach.

  NO DEAL

  Maeve threw her arms around Oliver, and for the first time, he reciprocated. He needed warmth. Physical contact. And Maeve would suffice. He hugged her tight as she cried into his shoulder
and placed the lightest of kisses on the top of her head.

  “We’ll give her Ellie,” he whispered. “She won’t hurt us if we give her—”

  A crash sounded from the study.

  “Go!” He pushed Maeve toward the stairs, but she tripped, banging her knee hard on the step. Oliver grabbed her underneath her armpits and hoisted her to her feet.

  A glint of metal gleamed from the pocket of her jumper. He pulled it out before she saw what he was doing, and while Maeve continued up the stairs, Oliver stared at the ring of keys in his hand. Why did Maeve have the keys all this time?

  “Oliver, hurry!”

  She turned. And when she saw what he held, she patted her pockets.

  Then she was coming down the stairs after him, and she no longer looked scared. Oliver ignored the stiffness in his knee and ran, trying to pick out the right key as he did so. There were only four but they all looked alike.

  The first key didn’t work.

  Maeve reached the foyer, but slipped in a smear of Caskie’s blood.

  The second key didn’t work.

  As he inserted the third key, he looked over his shoulder and saw the study door open. The key turned in the lock. Oliver ran out in the cold, damp air and slammed the door behind him, cutting off Maeve’s scream.

  Pp. 92–96

  Of course, I’d known all along it was Ellie. Ever since I’d found her old diary, I knew. I knew it was Ellie who had stepped out of the kitchen doorway with a glass of juice and saw Callum on the phone. It was Ellie who listened to Callum as he explained that he was going to call the university office and leave a message on the answering machine, explaining what he had done and who else was involved. It was Ellie who had begged Callum to put the phone down and, when he didn’t, Ellie who had shoved him onto the couch, placed her hands over his mouth and nose, and held them there until he stopped breathing.

  Look, I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t I just go after Ellie? Because they were all at fault, you idiot, in one way or another, for what happened that night and the morning after. I couldn’t just let the rest of them get off without any consequences. What kind of a person would that make me? But I admit, it was fun to watch them all suffer. To see them suspect one another and pass the blame back and forth. Fun to see how Ellie would react as she tried to hide her secret. And fun to see what she did after they knew.