The Two

by Will Carver

  She’s not going anywhere.

  I stretch my neck, first looking to the right, then to the left, then rolling my head from side to side as I look up at the ceiling. Quietly, I edge over to the door of her cell and gently release the clasp to look in on her. She is asleep on her back, fastened securely to the bed, exhausted from a night of futile ranting.

  I carefully shut the flap, keeping her in the dark.

  I’ll miss Gail this morning. My routine has changed.

  I open my front door and reach down to the mat for my morning dose of current affairs. Not everything changes. Out of habit I roll off the elastic band as I walk to the kitchen area, I lay the paper down on the work surface and reach for the fridge. I’m out of grapefruit juice, too much to think about over the last couple of days. I grab an upside down glass left to drain after the last time I washed up. The bubbles have left a scum around the rim of the vessel which I wipe off and dry with the bottom of my T-shirt before filling it with tap water.

  I lean against the worktop as if I am about to stretch my calf muscles, but there’s no need this morning, so I just read. The front page has hardly any text. Instead it shows a life-like drawing of a woman.

  A pretty woman with high cheekbones and flowing hair.

  The woman I have tied to a bed only ten feet from where I stand right now.

  I smile to myself. London knows the face of its demon.

  You have done well, V.

  This is the Lord’s will, V.

  I take a swig of my tap water and turn through the remaining pages. An article on national identity, something about the financial state of Britain, the usual political scandal, and before I know it I have flicked all the way to the sports section.

  I feel gratified. Fulfilled, even.

  I shut the paper leaving it sports-side-up on the counter. I don’t need to see the picture of her face. I can see her face whenever I want to.

  It won’t be until tomorrow’s paper that they report on the second girl they found that evening.

  I float back into the living room, perch on the edge of my worn sofa, place my hands together, close my eyes and ask, ‘What will you have me do with her now, Lord?’

  Celeste

  HE’S OUT THERE. I can sense him.

  I hear the murmur just beyond the door.

  ‘… sobrazod-ol Roray i ta nazodapesad, Girae ta maelpereji …’

  I close my eyes tightly, hoping the darkness will somehow improve my hearing.

  ‘… farezodem zodenurezoda adana gono …’

  It sounds Latin, maybe. But the way he speaks is so rhythmic, like a chant or a mantra. It’s monotonous and continual.

  He’s praying.

  Logically, I link the Latin with Catholicism and my situation begins to make more sense.

  I see now why he cannot understand what I do, what I have been doing. That he would think my actions immoral, my rituals unnatural. That, for a righteous, devout man, there is only good and there is only evil.

  That he is good and I am evil.

  That he is right and I am wrong.

  ‘… eca, od zodameranu! Odo cicale Qaa …’

  Arabic. Maybe Aramaic. Perhaps he is speaking the language of Jesus. He is praying to a God.

  He is not in control of what he does; his purpose comes from a higher place. To him, my beliefs are erroneous. My anger turns to fear.

  The image of Brooke Derry strapped to the wheel as the fire burns beneath her flashes into my mind.

  At least I know that my work is done.

  I strain my ears to hear more but he stops. I hear the crack of bone as he stands up from what must be a kneeling position.

  A second later, I am blinded.

  The fluorescent bulb chugs into action, immersing the room in a bright white light, shrinking my pupils to pinheads and sending blotches of colour across my retinas.

  I slam my eyes shut, sucking air through the gaps in my teeth, hissing in the pain before focus returns and the reality of my situation dawns.

  Recovering from the sudden influx of light, I quickly try to examine the room, my prison.

  Creased white linen on a white wooden bed frame. The walls are painted a bright white too. Everything from the door in the middle of the wall ahead of me to the straps around my wrists and ankles is white. Everything except the writing.

  To the left of the door, in letters around twelve inches high, it says: 1 Corinthians 10:18–22. The words have been handwritten in black paint.

  ‘The sacrifices of Pagans are offered to demons, not to God. You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons too.’

  The writing below the reference is in a smaller scrawling font, but it allows me into the mind of my captor.

  It is as expected.

  To the right of the door is another reference and another message.

  ‘2 Corinthians 6:14. Do not be yoked together with unbelievers. For what do righteousness and wickedness have in common?’

  There is good and there is evil.

  He is right and I am wrong.

  To my left is a missive from Deuteronomy 31:16–19. This time in two-foot letters exclaiming how ‘God’ is angry with me.

  I shake my head and squint my eyes in disbelief, trying to avoid the temptation to look left, where I am sure the writing will allude to Thessalonians in some way.

  I don’t and it does.

  ‘The coming of the lawless one will be in accordance with the work of Satan displayed in all kinds of counterfeit miracles, signs and wonder, and in every sort of evil that deceives those who are perishing.’

  His message is clear.

  His God is the light and I am darkness.

  For he is good and I am evil.

  I know this cell is homemade. That the authorities have failed again. That this is somebody taking matters into their own hands. A vigilante who will thwart the efforts of the lawless one in the name of a God.

  I understand his motives even if he does not remotely comprehend mine. That he thinks Paganism is somehow linked with Satan.

  But it isn’t until I tilt my head up towards the painted circle I had partially glimpsed in the original darkness that I realise it is more than that.

  It’s not just a circle.

  I see it so clearly now.

  It has been painted there to keep me trapped.

  V

  SHE REFUSES TO eat, but she will take water. Maybe to moisten her throat, which has grown sore from all her unheard, futile screaming over the last thirty-six hours. As I sit down on the side of her bed she struggles, wanting to hurt me, trying to strike out at her captor.

  ‘I’m here to look after you,’ I tell her truthfully, sincerely. ‘To stop you doing what you have been doing.’

  I tilt the cup so that she can take down some liquid. In three gulps the cup is empty. She stares at me, not saying anything, unresponsive to my kindness. Then she spits directly into my face.

  And laughs at me.

  Calmly, I stand up and walk towards the door. I could leave it open, I could untie her; still she would not be able to go anywhere. I’m just being cautious. Also, it’s another layer for her yelps to penetrate, and I want to go out. I need to maintain routine, to perpetuate normality.

  Closing the door shuts off the sound of her chortling, her puerile victory. I put on my trainers, tying the laces into a double-knot, and leave the flat.

  I must improve on my time.

  I have to see Gail upon my return.

  She has to believe that nothing is out of the ordinary.

  I come home, not in record time but adequate, and my neighbour is making her way out to her office job.

  ‘Morning, Sam. Didn’t see you yesterday,’ she comments, instantly worrying me that she thinks something is wrong.

  ‘Everyone needs a rest day, Gail,’ I respond, smiling, looking the part of the unflustered jogger, camouflaging the role of panicked kidnapper.

  ‘True, true,’ she nods. ‘I don’t know ho
w you do it.’ She smiles and carries on walking. ‘Have a good day, Sam,’ she calls back without even looking, her thoughts shifting immediately to the working day ahead, instantly forgetting her arbitrary morning niceties.

  ‘You too,’ I oblige, but she has already disappeared around the corner.

  I bend down, the lactic acid building in my thighs because I stopped to exchange pleasantries, and I pick up the paper, satisfied with my smokescreen, content with the return of regime.

  Inside my flat, with the front door now closed, I tuck the rolled paper under my chin, bend my right leg so that my foot touches my gluteals, grab the ankle with both hands and stretch out my thigh for six seconds. I repeat on the left leg. Then once more for each leg again, trying to keep the lactic acid build-up at bay.

  I grab the tube of tabloid articles, shake my legs one last time and head straight in to check on Celeste.

  A triangle of light appears across the floor as I open the door to her dark prison.

  She doesn’t move.

  I ease my way through the gap so as not to let in more light, so I don’t disturb her.

  She has been here less than two days and already the room is starting to smell.

  Of course, I had thought about feeding her and bringing her water, but it looks as though she has held out as long as she can and has had no choice but to wet herself. Maybe this is why she doesn’t want to eat.

  It suddenly dawns on me that I have no idea what I am doing.

  I have captured the woman who has been doing these horrible things that have been reported in the papers, but now what? How long am I supposed to keep her here? She has seen my face now; she doesn’t know where she is but she can identify me, her captor, her guard. Is there any intention of releasing her?

  Why do I question? Who am I to question?

  I lay the newspaper down next to her on the page that describes the second incident on Litha, the other woman that was found later, the details of the fire and salt and candles still evident.

  We will discuss this later.

  As I leave the room I switch on the bright, blinding fluorescent lights I installed and shut the door behind me. Celeste’s eyes screw up tightly before the inevitable barrage of disparagement ensues. She will then be silent as she reads her article. Straight after, the indignity continues.

  But I can’t hear it.

  I am praying to the Lord.

  I am questioning.

  As I open my eyes, my knees sore from the floorboards, the poison in my thighs refusing to back down, I am filled with new knowledge.

  That I am to make a monster of her.

  That only one of us will ever leave.

  Samhain

  October 2008

  January

  I NEVER DREAM of Cathy. But, most nights, I go to sleep thinking about her.

  Today, she would have been thirty-four.

  Sitting on the lounge carpet, my back resting against the leather sofa I used to share with Audrey, a pile of Mum’s journals stacked to my left, a glass of red wine to my right – not the wine that Audrey used to buy but the kind you can afford on a detective’s salary; the kind most people use only for cooking – I crane my head to the left to stretch my neck. And I think of Audrey. How I wanted to protect her. How I saved her. How I sat by her bedside until she recovered. How I tried to make things work, get them back to how they were. How she wanted to keep the baby. How I just let her go.

  I can’t seem to get the place warm any more.

  Or tidy.

  It’s difficult enough to drag myself upstairs to bed each night; there appear to be more steps now I’m here on my own. Tonight is no exception.

  I drop my chin onto my chest, blowing out a lungful of alcohol-drenched air as both eyelids edge closer to my softening cheeks, gravity pulling my relaxed lips closer to the floor. As I inhale, a dankness travels up my nostrils, filling my throat with a familiar acridity that jolts me backwards into a bewildered darkness I have not visited for some time.

  And any thought of Cathy dissolves into nightmare.

  The carpet that just cushioned me has been replaced with hard wood caked in a dense layer of dust. The legs that had been outstretched in front of me are now crossed, compelling me to sit upright. I force my eyes wider in an attempt to allow more light to hit my retinas, but in front of me is never-ending black. Realisation instinctively widens my eyes even further, but still no light enters.

  This is not the same as before.

  I am not tied to a chair.

  There is no blindfold.

  I can see.

  And there are two of them this time.

  Only the sound of shuffling feet permeates the eternal black nothingness; the dust displacing as they shift from foot to foot in this all-encompassing shadow.

  Then quiet.

  I’m paralysed. My mouth dries in anxious expectation. I find myself holding my breath. Anticipating something spectacular.

  This may just be a dream. Something is telling me that, at any moment, a flood of light will engulf the room and I will be confronted by that haunting yellow smile.

  Wrong.

  And wrong again.

  Candles ignite in circles around the two figures ahead of me. First one flame then a trail of fire spitting to life, accelerating round to end where it started. To the left I notice a boy. Dressed plainly in grey trousers and shirt, his skin is pale, his hair is dark. His eyes are closed and his fists clenched. He is motionless.

  On the right, the figure is a blur. Though lit by the burning wicks, it is distorted. She is distorted. Through the haze I can still make out that it is a young girl; I cannot focus on any specifics but I recognise that much.

  I flit my gaze back to the left at the boy, who still does not move, then back to the right at the girl. I squint in an attempt to sharpen her edges and, in that moment, things change.

  Because I think it is Cathy.

  Why would she be here?

  I must deconstruct the scene, analyse my dream, but, instead, I gasp; I manage to draw some breath. A gust of air causes the temperature to drop, extinguishing one of the boy’s flames, and the cold removes the dust, replacing it with the pungent scent of rosemary.

  Now the boy can escape.

  I am still distracted by his cloudy partner.

  The boy tilts his head robotically to the side, his eyes now open and flashing, cycling through different colours, his gaze locked into mine. The girl turns slowly inside her circle, her arms outstretched playfully, her face a blur of hair and motion.

  My body is glued to the floor; only my head will move. I pan back to the boy and he is making his way towards me through the gap in his ring of fire, the dead circle of wax in his left hand.

  He steps through the opening, edging along a painted tightrope, never deviating his stare from my face. I do not want to avert my eyes but the girl is spinning faster and faster. I see there is a line from my circle to hers.

  We are all linked somehow.

  Already, I am being given answers.

  The boy. He produces three ribbons: black in one hand, white in the other and red from around his neck. They are tied together and placed atop the candle in front of where I sit. Despite the proximity, his facial features seem out of focus, with the exception of the eyes.

  The girl rotates at an unreal pace, the flames around her lying down with the wind she creates.

  The candle on the floor in front of me puffs to life, burning the ribbons, producing a smoke that temporarily masks the herbal aroma. And I can move. The boy walks backwards into the diminishing light like a toy soldier, keeping a staccato rhythm with his laughter, a child-like chortle at first, then deeper and into a whisper.

  The girl ceases her revolution and looks straight at me, screaming a silent wail before her final whirlwind blows out the lights, plunging everything back into gloom.

  I expect to wake up.

  Not yet.

  Silence.

  I feel him near me again.
In front of me.

  I wait.

  There’s nothing else I can do.

  A speck of light appears. Somewhere in the distance, directly in front, between the circles of dead candles at either side of me, a light. What looks like a match being lit miles away begins to grow. It’s getting closer.

  Gradually, it reveals the outline in front of me.

  The boy is not alone.

  The girl has stealthily made her way over, directly behind the distressed boy.

  The light draws ever nearer and the girl creeps closer to the boy. I punch my fists and shout in an attempt to warn him, but he doesn’t move.

  The light grows brighter; I can feel its heat. Something on fire.

  Now the girl is directly behind him. I notice he is holding his chest, perhaps in pain. She weaves her blurry hands around his waist but he doesn’t flinch.

  Gently, she places her hands on his, caressing them until their fingers interlock.

  The light grows redder then white again as it draws nearer.

  My eyes flit between the two in front of me and the flame behind.

  She is not Cathy.

  The girl rests her chin on the boy’s shoulder as they complete their embrace. His mouth moves into a smile. I can’t tell whether he is still laughing over the sound of the approaching fire-crackle.

  The heat is palpable. I see him grip her hands tighter.

  He wants her there.

  I resign, taking this cue to desist my violent outbursts against my unseen jail.

  The glow behind is a giant wheel, ablaze and rolling towards us.

  The Two squeeze each other for protection, bracing themselves for impact.

  Somehow, their closed eyes seem to shut even further as the flaming wheel prepares itself to take them out. As it hits, the girl screams one last time. In this instance, it is audible. So high-pitched it seems to shatter the impenetrable bubble that holds me.

  The fire engulfs the two children in a miniature supernova and continues towards me, the roar seeming to harmonise perfectly with the scream.

  The last thing I remember is the light.