by R. H. Dixon
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40
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‘Can you forgive me?’ Sissy’s voice was rough, her throat dry from having talked so much. ‘Will you forgive me?’
Anger surged inside John. Despite the old woman’s story he couldn’t feel pity towards her. He struggled to find any words; it was Natasha who replied, her voice despondent, ‘How could I ever forgive what you did? From one mother to another, how could you have given that thing to me, knowing what would happen?’
‘She made me do it,’ Sissy sobbed. ‘When I came here, to Eden Vale, after She’d ruined my life, She had no more innocence to take, She needed to get out.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Thorpe was perfect for Her, that’s why She communicated with me and Muriel Beasley that night. She had all She ever needed there. She survives by taking the innocence of children, you see, and what better place is there to do that than a maternity ward? Infants have the purest souls, they keep Her alive. And She thrives on the corruption of humanity, seeking out the worst in the rest of us, manipulating and moulding those faults to the extreme. She’s a malignant force and for years She dominated me, till I was no longer myself, till I ended up here. And there are, of course, no children in a place like this. But the day you came She saw an opportunity…Oh, I’m so sorry. So, so sorry for your loss. I would never have given you to Her…not on purpose.’ Tears soaked the creases in her face and her small body shuddered. ‘My soul’s unclean now and the spirits won’t let me rest. I can’t sleep because they hound me day and night. Can’t you see them? They’re all the babies from Thorpe, the ones She stole, as well as my own little ones. She took them from me and I was Her device, Her direct link to them.’
John looked around the room but saw nothing. ‘Then perhaps you should ask them for forgiveness,’ he spat. ‘Surely they are the ones to grant you the mercy you want. Not me or Tash.’
Sissy stopped weeping, enlightenment slowly registering on her face. ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right.’ She glanced all about her, her eyes appealing to unseen faces. ‘Will you forgive me?’ she beseeched, her voice trembling. ‘Will you set me free so that I may be at peace? So that we all might be at peace? I know the error of my ways and the good Lord knows how much I’ve suffered for it in my own way. I didn’t mean any harm to come to any of you, I swear.’
The ceiling light made a loud pinging noise as though the bulb had been flicked. Everyone looked up. John felt a sudden thickness of static on his bare skin and flinched as the bulb shattered with a loud pop. He and Natasha shielded their heads with their arms to avoid the shower of splintered glass, but tiny fragments rained across Sissy’s unprotected face, lacerating her skin so that pricks of blood beaded on the surface. The set of drawers at the foot of the bed then began to shudder and a remote control danced across its surface till it crashed to the floor. At the same time the television on top of the drawers crackled to life. Some bearded evangelical preacher appeared in the multi-coloured snowstorm on screen and, with a southern drawl, promised: ‘Ask for forgiveness and it shall be granted…’ A jumble of images then flashed on the portable’s screen and a mashed-up sequence of dialogue was created from various programmes: ‘She is…The one…That can’t be… Named…And never should be…She is the one…Everyone fears…And if you let…Her…In…She will!…Destroy you.’
The television then settled to black and white snow and from somewhere amidst the frantic, buzzing storm the voice of Metallica’s James Hetfield loudly declared, ‘We’re off to never-never land, ha ha!’
Sissy was now writhing on the bed, as though suffering a seizure of some sort. Her face contorted with pain and she reached out a clawed hand to John and Natasha. Neither of them moved, both too shocked by what was happening, stunned into non-action. When the television screen exploded, though, flames leaping outward amongst hot sprays of glass, they broke free of their stupor and Natasha ran to the door. ‘Shit, I need to get help,’ she cried.
John moved close to the bed and towered over Sissy, who looked likely to be fighting her last battle. He grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘What am I supposed to do about the brooch?’ he asked, now feeling frantic that she would die and leave him without a solution. ‘How do I get rid of Her, Sissy?’
But the old woman didn’t seem to hear.
He took her by both shoulders and shook her fragile body. ‘What do I do? How do I save my little girl?’ His face was right in front of hers and he could feel her breath on his mouth and nose.
‘Get rid of it,’ Sissy groaned, her eyes rolling back and her body rigid between spasms. ‘Put it somewhere out of reach. Do it now. Now! Before She gets into your head any more than She is. She’s growing powerful, I can feel Her. She’s been feeding from you too much already, She wants you to be her host. Get rid of the brooch and take your little girl far away from it. But don’t let anybody else touch it. Please.’
‘Why not? What will happen?’
‘She seeks to inhabit a body. She can do this easily with the young and naïve of heart, as She once did with me, but you’re older than I was, you’re proving more of a challenge. She will succeed though, eventually, and She’ll take your child if you don’t act now. She’s almost strong enough.’
‘What if I destroy the brooch?’
‘No!’ Sissy clawed at her throat, as if to talk suddenly pained her greatly. ‘The brooch contains Her. If you destroy it you might free Her, then She would do untold damage. Think of all the children She might steal if She had no boundaries. Get rid of the brooch, put it somewhere that no one will ever find it, but don’t destroy it.’
Footsteps pounded down the corridor and a nurse came rushing into the room followed by Natasha. The nurse was a young Asian lady whose face expressed astonishment at the mayhem she found in Sissy’s room. ‘What on earth happened in here? Mrs Dawson?’ She regarded John suspiciously and reached out to inspect Sissy’s bleeding face.
‘Leave me be,’ Sissy implored, shrinking away from the nurse’s fingers. ‘They’re letting me go. This is my time, my time at last. I’m ready to face my judgement. Crowns and thrones may perish, kingdoms will rise and wane, but the church of Jesus is constant and constant it will remain. I’m tired of this life, so let me go. Let me go to Him.’
John stepped back and stood with Natasha. They watched in silence as the nurse tried to calm Sissy, but eventually the old woman stopped struggling and fell still. The nurse felt for a pulse.
‘Is she dead?’ Natasha asked, her voice conveying surprise even though she knew the answer.
‘What happened here?’ The nurse’s eyes were stern as she looked about the room. Curls of smoke from the television veiled the room and tiny pieces of glass beaded the bedsheets.
‘There must have been a power surge or an electrical fault of some kind,’ Natasha explained, her whole body trembling and her face sickly white. ‘The ceiling light and television set both exploded and the drama of it seemed to set Mrs Dawson off into some sort of fit. It was awful.’
The nurse nodded, her grave frown not loosening at all. ‘I suspect you’ll both need to stay and give a statement to the police. Could you go down to reception and wait there, it’s no longer suitable for you to be in here.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Natasha was already moving towards the door.
John grabbed her arm and spun her round to face him. Something Sissy had said earlier suddenly inspired cold dread. ‘Oh God, Tash, the brooch! I need to get home. Now!’
‘Why? What’s the urgency?’
‘We left it on the table.’
‘So?’
‘Emily!’
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41
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John was out of the car before Natasha had pulled the handbrake on, running up the garden path and scrabbling in his jeans pocket for the back door key. All kinds of anxious thoughts whirred through his mind. Was there really a malevolent force attached to the old cameo brooch? Or was he just as crazy as Sissy Dawson for t
hinking there might be? And would he find Seren and Emily in the house? Safe?
No dogs greeted him as he burst into the kitchen. His heart sank. It sank even lower when he saw the brooch wasn’t on the table.
Fuck.
‘Seren!’ He rushed from the kitchen to the lounge, then the lounge to the hall where he stood at the foot of the stairs and called, ‘Emily?’
There was no answer.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he sprinted up to the landing. He flung all of the doors open and found the three bedrooms were empty. Moments later, when he was thundering back down the stairs, Natasha was in the hall, her face racked with concern. ‘Where might they be?’ she asked. ‘Any idea?’
‘I dunno,’ he said, raking his hair back. ‘They’ve taken the dogs, so maybe the beach banks. Or the beach. Maybe the dene. God. I really don’t know.’
‘Should we wait here till they come back?’
‘No, I need to find them now. Emily has the brooch!’
‘Shit.’ Natasha started gnawing at the skin around one of her fingernails. ‘You could try her mobile again.’
John chewed on his lip and took his phone out of his pocket. He’d tried to contact Emily five times since they’d left Eden Vale, but each time the call had gone to answerphone. When he called her now, for the sixth time, a jingling sound upstairs announced that she’d left her phone at home. ‘Bollocks!’ He ushered Natasha out of the house and hurried her down the path. ‘Let’s try the banks first, shall we?’
‘Er, yeah, okay.’ She pulled the gate open and looked east, towards the sea. ‘Whatever you think’s best.’
Suddenly remembering that Natasha Graham wasn’t someone he might expect, or deserve, help from, John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He touched her shoulder and said, ‘Of course, you don’t have to. You could go home if you want. I mean, this isn’t your problem anymore.’
This time Natasha didn’t shrug away from his hand, but anger flashed in her eyes. ‘Thanks for the pardon, Gimmerick, I’m aware that I can leave any time I damn well choose. But do you honestly think I’d leave right now? Do you really think…’
‘No. I don’t know.’ He shook his head. The intensity of her animosity stung more than a slap to the face would have done.
‘Seren’s not my daughter or responsibility, granted, but I do have a bloody heart.’
‘I know, I know you do, I just didn’t want to be presumptuous. I didn’t want to drag you any further into this mess.’
‘Fine. Let’s find Seren, then I’ll leave you to get on with it.’
They took up a jogging pace and headed over the railway bridge then along past the allotments, attracting a few suspicious glares from gardeners on the way. Neither of them was kitted out in appropriate running gear, so most likely it looked as though they were up to no good. By the time they got to the last few allotments in the row, John’s lungs stung with every intake of air and he struggled hard not to wheeze. At the gap in the fence, which led onto the field, he hurdled over a cluster of tall nettles then turned to see if Natasha needed help, but she had already cleared them. Her face was flushed with exertion, he saw, and she was gasping for breath. She started out across the field without complaint and John accelerated faster now, despite the head-on wind which made progress even more demanding. The greenness of grass all around them seemed dulled by a dirty-white sky which the sun couldn’t burn through and a couple of partridges took to the air, disturbed by John and Natasha’s galloping feet. Off to the far side of the field an elderly man was out walking with a large furry dog, an Alsatian perhaps, but other than that there was no one else about.
John’s legs were quick to discover a new rhythm, albeit one his respiratory system wasn’t happy about, but when the edge of his foot dipped into the deep groove of a pothole he lost all coordination and was propelled forward, falling to his hands and knees with a violent thud. Upon impact with the ground his palms throbbed and a crushing pain from his left kneecap seared through his entire leg. When he tried to pull himself to his feet he felt Natasha’s hands about his waist, helping him up, and he relished the concern apparent in her voice when she asked, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ Panting profusely, he wiped his earthy hands down the front of his jeans and squeezed his burning knee before taking off again at a hobbled jog.
Once at the top of the cliffs they looked down to the beach. The sea was a sulky grey and the sand looked bruised and dull, having taken the brunt of the sea’s now receding mood.
‘There! Down there!’ Natasha pointed to two figures walking along the foot of the banks. One in red, the other purple. Scampering behind them were two dogs, one grey, one beige.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, John yelled, ‘Seren! Emily!’
Neither of the girls looked up.
‘They’re too far away, probably can’t hear you,’ Natasha reasoned. She was standing close enough to John that her long mid-blonde hair whipped his face as the wind blustered all about them.
‘Come on,’ he said. Seeing a worn track on the bank’s rugged, grassy face from which to climb down to the beach, he got to his hunkers, grasping a handful of grass for anchorage, and eased himself down past the initial three-foot ledge. He then turned to offer his hand to Natasha. She took it and lowered herself down next to him.
‘Climbing was never my forte,’ she admitted, dropping his hand, feeling somewhat awkward about their brief contact.
‘Mine neither.’
‘This should be great fun then.’
‘Under different circumstances, I’m sure.’
Natasha cocked a caustic eyebrow but John didn’t see, he was already making his descent. She scurried to catch up, not wishing to get caught in a tight spot up there on her own. The north-easterly wind was cutting straight through the flimsy material of her shirt as she chased John down the decline, but exertion and anxiety kept her warm. She slipped several times on the way down, each tumble small enough and resulting in no more than dirt patches on the seat of her jeans and scuff marks on the toes of her boots. John fared worse, however. When he lost his footing on a loose piece of earth he fell forwards and commando rolled a few metres down the bank’s side, and it was as he flailed his arms in an attempt to correct his balance that a jagged rock he tumbled past gouged a chunk of skin from his wrist. When he came to a halt he sat in a grassy crevice for a few moments, dazed and bleeding. He told Natasha he was fine, but every time the wind sliced into the raw wound he winced and had to count to five.
After climbing down further, when they were nearing the bottom, they could see that Seren and Emily were now walking across the beach towards the sea. John came to a stop and tried calling to them again. This time Emily turned and looked. He raised an arm and waved, but she turned away and carried on walking, her pace increasing.
‘Something’s not right,’ he said to Natasha. He skittered down the last few metres of the embankment till he was standing firmly on the pebbled edge of the beach and yelled, ‘Emily, stop!’
This time Seren looked round and beckoned to him with outstretched arms, but Emily took hold of her hand and appeared to drag her along roughly.
‘Dad!’
Hearing the urgent distress of his daughter’s cry, John left Natasha standing in his wake. He raced down the beach, kicking up pebbles and sand behind him. His wrist throbbed with every heartbeat and his left knee scorched each time his foot smacked the ground, but he gritted his teeth and ran through the pain. He watched as Emily and Seren reached the shoreline. Seren tried to shake her hand free from Emily’s grip, reluctant to go any further, but Emily stooped and bundled her into her arms, then began wading into the sea.
‘Emily, wait! No!’ John’s cry was so ferocious it hurt his throat and he thought his lungs might have seared with the effort because each breath he took thereafter was fiery and hellish. He could hear nothing now, not even the sea, for the frantic thumping of his own heart as he watched his sister carry his d
aughter into the cold North Sea. The absolute absurdity of the situation made him hope he was dreaming.
Once hip-deep in the busy water Emily lay Seren backwards, holding the little girl half-submerged, then she looked up at John and grinned.
No, no, no.
He was close, so close. He had to be able to stop this. Couldn’t let it happen. He carried on running, as fast as was physically possible, scuttling down the broken section of the shore’s shale wall that Emily and Seren had used.
Don’t you dare. Don’t you DARE.
Arriving at the shallows he ploughed ahead, thrashing through the frothy saltwater, and watched in horror as Emily thrust Seren’s head underwater and held it there. His little girl’s arms thrashed amidst the push and tug of the tide, her legs kicking furiously. Frightened but enraged by this, John thrust himself forward and knocked Emily backwards with an extended arm aimed at her throat. As Emily stumbled she was dragged further back by a receding wave and, as a result, her hold on Seren slackened. John, allowing himself to move with the water, seized his little girl and pulled her limp body away from Emily. Clutching her to his chest he looked down at her face, which was upturned to the miserable sky, and said, ‘I’ve got you, kidda. Dad’s got you, okay?’
She spluttered and her eyes cracked open, but she didn’t answer.
‘Give her back, she’s mine!’ Emily shrieked. She was standing chest-deep in the water only a few feet away, her face a distorted scowl.
John had never seen his sister look so feral. He turned and began to fight his way back to the shore, to get away from her, but Emily dived forward, using the swell of an incoming wave to her advantage. She grasped Seren by the arm and pulled, surprising John by how strong she was.