Cruel Summer

by James Dawson

  This wasn’t the ending, Ryan was sure. This was how it was going to go . . . He was going to crawl to the knife block on the kitchen counter. If Alisha didn’t stop Katie, he would. He would ram that thing through her skull if he had to. Then he’d call an ambulance. They’d take him to hospital and pump his stomach or find an antidote or whatever they do. He’d be in hospital for a few days and then he’d go home to a hero’s welcome. He’d be all over the TV, the guy who faced a crazed psychopath and lived to tell the tale.

  ‘Ryan.’ He turned around. It was Greg. He was in a bad way, but was clinging on to life. He could barely keep his eyes open but he reached out for Ryan. ‘Don’t go.’

  Ryan rested himself against the now vacant armchair. ‘I gotta get a knife. I need to help Lish.’

  ‘Please wait with me.’ Greg’s head lolled to one side as if it were too heavy for his neck.

  ‘Greg, stay awake. Open your eyes!’ Ryan snapped. He crawled back to his friend (oh, he was far too weak to worry about defining their relationship now) and clutched his face, just stopping short of prising his eyes open. Greg’s heavy lids opened just a fraction, just enough for Ryan to see the ice-blue of the iris.

  ‘I can’t. I can’t stop falling . . .’ Greg murmured.

  ‘Greg, please. I need . . .’A fresh wave of tiredness hit Ryan. He tried again. ‘I need to get help.’

  ‘Stay with me.’ Greg’s eyes fell closed again. Ryan felt fingers intertwine with his. ‘Just for another minute.’

  Ryan kissed him, half because he couldn’t resist and half as a tactic to wake him up. It didn’t work. Greg was now sprawled on his side, legs hanging off the edge of the sofa. He was dying. Ryan realised that he was dying, too. There was nothing he could do to help Alisha; he could barely lift his own hands any more. Perhaps that was right. It’s how it always is – the hero faces the villain alone. Ryan just hadn’t expected Alisha to be the hero.

  Ryan stroked Greg’s beautiful face and, in that moment, he was oddly proud to have had that face in his life, however chaotic their love had been. Seeing Greg peaceful and serene only made him lovelier.

  ‘Don’t leave me alone,’ Greg muttered again.

  ‘I won’t.’ A tear found its way out. Katie could kill him, but she wasn’t having this moment. Ryan rested his forehead against Greg’s. ‘I’m here. I won’t leave you.’ He nudged Greg’s legs and Greg shifted them onto the couch. Somehow, Ryan dragged himself onto the sofa and lay next to Greg, the room spinning. It was like being in a centrifuge. ‘I’ll be the little spoon this time,’ Ryan murmured.

  Greg wrapped his arms over Ryan’s chest and Ryan recognised belonging for the first time. They belonged to each other. It had come late in the day, but he was so glad it had come. There was a . . . warmth inside his chest. This must be what proper, nice love feels like, he thought. He allowed his eyes to close and it was bliss.

  The only faith Ryan had ever had was in the religion of the happy ending – that everything worked out in the end and that everyone gets what they deserve. Is this any less than I deserve? (Insert flashback: Roxanne’s head dipping under the black sea.) All those films and shows and books had lied. Not everyone gets a happy ending. But then, this was no fairy tale.

  This was correct. There was no such thing as a ‘Final Boy’, only the ‘Final Girl’. As painful as the truth was, the last survivor was never going to have been him. Ryan understood that now.

  ‘I was meant to be the main character,’ he whispered, not sure who he was even talking to – himself, God, the sofa.

  ‘You are,’ Greg breathed the words into his ear. ‘This is the last episode.’

  They let the sleep of death take them together.

  SCENE 39 – KATIE

  Katie stood, hands on hips, in the centre of Ryan and Ben’s room. This was not a part of the plan. Sweat ran down her back. How could this be happening? How could Alisha of all people be messing this up? Alisha might have been the hardest to kill from a moral standpoint, but she should have been the easiest to kill from a practical one. Why wasn’t she dead? Liver damage should probably have finished her off years ago, as it was.

  ‘Come out, come out wherever you are!’ Katie cried. ‘You know I’m not going to let you go, Alisha, so you’re just wasting your time and mine.’

  No reply.

  Katie stormed back onto the landing. There was only one room left to search. Of course, the master bedroom. Alisha had probably gone in there searching for the phone. She should have thought of that. Her prey was now cornered. A smile crossed Katie’s lips as she entered the bedroom, leaning forwards to peer under the bed.

  She was so busy looking at the floor, she didn’t see the door swinging for her face. It slammed into her, knocking her backwards. Her vision went black and then sort of glittery before she landed with a painful crash on her rear. There was a terrible pain in her face. Her hands flew to her nose, which now felt crumbly and wet and warm with blood. Katie howled in pain.

  ‘I can’t believe you fell for that!’ Alisha lunged at her, from behind the door. There were still silver spots swimming across Katie’s field of vision, but she saw that, in her hand, Alisha held her father’s dagger. Where the bloody hell had she got that from?

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Alisha cried. Her face was black with dust but tears had made rivers in the dirt. Her eyes were as wild as the jungle of hair that fell over her face.

  Katie pinched her nose. ‘What are you gonna do? Stab me?’ She tried to stand.

  Alisha sliced at the air in front of Katie’s face with the dagger. ‘Stay there!’ she squealed. ‘Don’t follow me.’

  Katie smiled despite the copper taste filling her mouth. She could feel blood on her teeth. ‘We both know you haven’t got the guts to use that.’

  Alisha wiped her face, inching backwards step by minute step. Katie realised this wasn’t going to be easy. But perhaps it had all been going too well. That was the thing with best-laid plans.

  Katie coiled and sprang. The shock tactic worked. Alisha’s instinct was not to slash at her with the knife but to turn and run. Katie reached her at the top of the stairs and grabbed Alisha’s wrist, holding the dagger as far away as possible. In response, Alisha pushed at Katie’s face, blinding her. They wrestled for a moment and then Alisha slipped on the top stair. Katie was so entangled with her that she fell too.

  They went down in an undignified knot of limbs. Alisha was now spread-eagled across the first few stairs. Trying to disarm her, Katie banged Alisha’s wrist against the edge of the hardwood step, feeling the bone make contact. If she kept this up, she’d break Alisha’s wrist. Good luck stabbing me then, you bitch.

  Alisha clung to the dagger and wriggled around, using her knees to pin Katie to the wall. Then she seized Katie’s hair.

  ‘Ow!’ Katie screeched in pain, relaxing her grip on Alisha’s wrist for a split second. It was enough. Wrenching her arm free, Alisha blindly waved the blade around and nicked Katie’s cheek – an inch higher and it would have been her eye. Katie fell back in shock. Maybe Alisha Cole did have some guts, after all.

  Alisha slid away from Katie and down the remaining stairs, climbing to her feet once she reached the bottom.

  Oh, no, you don’t, thought Katie. She could not let Alisha get away. She sprang to her feet and leapt to the foot of the stairs. Paying no heed to the dead bodies on the sofa, she hurled herself at Alisha, kamikaze-style. Alisha went down like she was made of paper, folding onto the tiles. Katie scrambled upright and straddled her back, pinning her to the floor. Once more Katie seized her wrist and yanked her arm backwards. It gave a satisfying crack.

  ‘That’s for stabbing my face!’ Katie spat. This was an adrenalin rush! Way better than killing Roxanne, who’d just looked at her with a sad ‘I don’t understand’ expression. The thrill, so it transpired, really was in the chase.

  With glee, Katie sank her teeth into the soft flesh of Alisha’s hand. There was that metallic taste again. Alisha screamed a
nd finally dropped the dagger. Katie snatched up the weapon. This was going to require a big clean-up effort but, what the hell, nearly done . . .

  The ground moved. No, not the ground – Alisha. Somehow she’d managed to rise to her skinned knees and, all of a sudden, Katie was riding her like they were playing a game of horsey. Caught off guard, Katie tried to regain her balance, but Alisha threw herself backwards, flipping them over.

  With a cry, Katie toppled onto the coffee table, sending the jug of poisoned sangria crashing to the floor; little pink rivers surged along the grouting between the tiles. They ran towards Ben’s dead face, pressed to the ground behind the armchair.

  Alisha was already back on her feet. She hobbled to the patio doors. On the dining table was a sturdy wooden fruit bowl. Katie saw her reach for it to smash the glass. Katie still had the dagger, though, and, therefore, the upper hand.

  She lunged towards Alisha, but her feet slid out from under her. Skidding in sangria, Katie tumbled over, giving Alisha the chance she needed.

  Alisha half-jumped, half-rolled onto the kitchen worktop. Plates, bowls and glasses clattered and smashed out of her way.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Katie snarled, chest heaving. ‘There’s nowhere to run.’ Alisha’s reply was a mug flying towards Katie’s face. It missed. ‘Well, that’s rude.’ Katie raised the knife again and strode towards Alisha.

  Alisha reached for the knife block, but Katie was quicker. With a swish of her arm it tumbled over the other side of the counter and out of Alisha’s reach.

  ‘Let’s just get this over and done with,’ Katie said.

  But Alisha had other ideas. She took hold of the enormous pan they’d made the paella in.

  Katie’s face fell. ‘A frying pan? You’ve got to be f—’

  Like a seasoned baseball pro, Alisha swung it right at Katie’s head. A black curtain fell.

  SCENE 40 – ALISHA

  Alisha couldn’t quite believe that had worked. A frying pan. But it seemed to have done the trick. Hands shaking, Alisha stood over Katie’s body. There was a glossy black-red puddle fanning out around her head and her eyes were closed. She looked dead. If Ryan were alive, he’d have told Alisha that the killer always comes back to life; even she’d seen enough crap horror films to know that. Alisha knew she should use the pan to properly bash Katie’s head in – just to be on the safe side – but, even after everything, that seemed too monstrous.

  Alisha’s wrist was agony. She rested the paella pan on the counter and, stepping around Katie, hurried to the terrace doors. Locked. Of course. This close, she saw the windows were double-, if not triple-, glazed – the Grants had spared no expense. The glass was as thick as her arm. Breaking it on a good day would be hard; doing so with a broken wrist would be practically impossible.

  She turned back to Katie’s body. The key was probably in her pocket. If Katie was intending to get out once she’d killed them all, she’d have kept the keys on her person, surely. Everything was messy in Alisha’s head, but she didn’t remember Katie having much time to hide the key after she’d locked them in. It must be in her pocket.

  Alisha tiptoed back into the kitchen, trying not to look at the couch where her brother and Ryan lay together. She would sit down and cry for a year or two once this was over, but first she had to get out of this God-awful place. She crouched over Katie’s body. She was lying exactly as Alisha had left her, sprawled on the tiles. Alisha felt warm blood on her bare toes.

  Through the gloom, Alisha scrutinised her for signs of life. Katie’s chest didn’t seem to be moving at all. Oh-so-gently, she felt a limp wrist for a pulse. There was nothing obvious, but she wasn’t sure she was doing it right.

  With shaking fingers, Alisha slipped a hand into Katie’s left pocket. There was nothing there. Damn. In order to get into the right pocket, she would have to roll the body over. Grimacing, she took hold of Katie’s shoulder and hip and coaxed her over, revealing the crack she’d made in her right temple. Alisha fought a wave of nausea and hooked her fingers into the right pocket. The key was there. She could feel the cool metal at the bottom of the pocket.

  That was when Katie convulsed back into life. It was so sudden, Alisha felt sure she must have been only playing dead. The redhead grasped for her, but Alisha recoiled with a scream, falling back into the fridge door.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Katie demanded.

  Alisha didn’t answer. Instead, she scrabbled to her feet, using the cellar door handle to pull herself up. The cellar!

  The look on Katie’s face suggested she’d figured out Alisha’s plan almost as quickly as it had occurred to Alisha. She crawled over the tiles, blood streaming down her face, her mouth contorted in a red snarl.

  But Alisha was quicker. She tugged open the wooden door and slipped through, slamming it shut just as Katie’s hand inched round the doorway. Her fingers trapped, Katie shrieked before whipping her hand back. Alisha threw her weight behind the door, fumbling for the bolt. It was old and rusted, but it squeaked into place.

  She was safe. For now. But the door wasn’t strong and the bolt felt even less sturdy.

  Katie knew it, too. ‘Nice try, Alisha,’ she said.

  I should have hit her harder, Alisha thought, starting to descend the cellar stairs. The stone was ice-cold on her bare feet, but it revived her, brought her more keenly into the present. At the top of the stairs, Katie started to pound on the door, making it shake in its frame.

  Alisha remembered that it wasn’t the only way out of the cellar – there was also the door onto the pool terrace. There was even a key for it hanging on a hook. Tiny fingers of light filtered down from the kitchen onto the stairs. Beyond that there was only pitch darkness. Barely able to see an inch in front of her face, Alisha staggered into the shadows. She collided with the first wine rack, making the bottles jangle.

  With Katie hammering on the kitchen door above, Alisha hurriedly felt her way through the cellar, trying to picture the layout from her previous visit. She could see nothing. A Year Five science lesson chose this precise moment to float back into her head: we can only see if light enters the eye. Down here, there was an almost total absence of light. Her eyes were out of action. Her breath shook and she reached out with trembling hands, trying to find a path through the void. Her fingers finally came into contact with something. She clung to the dustsheets and gym equipment, hoping her feet wouldn’t land on anything sharp. Baby step by baby step she inched across the freezing floor towards where she hoped she’d find the exit.

  She stumbled, crying out as she stubbed her toe, but staying upright. Sticking to the wall, Alisha’s fingers finally found the rough wood of the door. She felt along the edges, recalling the key that had been hanging from a nail hammered close to the top of the doorframe.

  ‘Give it up!’ Katie screeched. Alisha heard wood splinter and a little more light filtered down into the cellar. Katie was almost through the kitchen door. In haste, Alisha slid her hands up the stone wall. Her fingertips made contact with something metal, but she was moving too fast and she knocked the key clean off the nail.

  ‘No!’ she gasped. A second later she heard a metallic clang as the key hit the floor, then a few quieter pings as it bounced and bounced again. Alisha dropped to her knees, patting the floor in a circle around her. The key could have rolled under anything. Alisha’s hand came up against something hard and cold, wrapped in dust sheets – golf clubs or something. She tried to feel for the key underneath but she couldn’t reach far and the golf clubs were heavy.

  This was useless. Useless. Fresh tears ran down Alisha’s face. She’d been so nearly free. She’d found Katie’s error – the cellar door – and totally failed to exploit it. The kitchen door gave another sickening crack. Alisha was going to die, and all because she’d dropped a key.

  Enough candles to survive a nuclear winter. Suddenly she remembered the armoire. The old wardrobe had been full of candles, and she was pretty sure there’d been a box of matches
in there, too. Her candle of hope sputtered back to life. It wasn’t over yet.

  Up above, she could hear Katie screaming in rage. She’d be through and into the cellar any second now.

  Alisha hurriedly patted her way around the walls until her fingers felt the smooth varnish of the armoire. Not wasting a second, she tugged the door open. Even in the pitch dark her hand could identify the cool wax of a candle. She grabbed it and felt for the matches. If she was right, they were jammed in at the end of the shelf. When her hand touched the cube-shape of the matchbox she wept with joy. Actually wept and didn’t care.

  Careful not to make the same mistake twice, Alisha controlled her nervous fingers as she felt for a match and struck it against the side of the box. She was acutely aware of every tiny detail. What is it they always say about being blind? The other senses compensate . . .

  On the third attempt, the match sputtered to life and Alisha forced her trembling hand to light the candle. Now she could find the key and get the hell out of here.

  She turned to start her hunt for the fallen key.

  Alisha screamed. It tore the back of her throat and she almost dropped the candle in her horror. The heavy cold thing wasn’t a bag of golf clubs.

  It was Erin.

  SCENE 40 (CONT.)

  The candlelight danced wildly and threatened to go out altogether as Alisha fell to her knees. Shadows swung up the walls and over Erin’s grey, stony face. Her eyes gaped up at Alisha, utterly lifeless. Alisha sobbed, choking on her tears.

  ‘I guess you found Erin, then,’ said a sing-song voice from the kitchen. The pounding on the door ceased for a moment. ‘She was all packed and ready to go. I couldn’t have that. I figured once you’d all died in “the accident” she’d come forward and tell the cops about Roxanne, so she had to go. No witnesses. Shame she ever came, really.’