The Long Dark Road

by P. R. Black

  The hands only made it so far up Georgia’s back. ‘Mum,’ she croaked.

  ‘Just sit a minute, darling, sit on the bed.’ Georgia eased her back down on the quilt cover – unwashed, like Stephanie’s hair. And in a second, she took in the room, and saw, and smelt, and sensed, everything.

  The dead flies garlanding the windowsill. The three-way combat of urine, excrement and strong bleach smells. The old vomit encrusting the carpet. The bucket under the bed, its contents unspeakable. And on a dressing table, a sick parade of syringes, some in plastic packets, some not. A fine mist of dried blood, surely shot from one of the syringes, pockmarked one wall. The mirror on the dressing table was webbed with stress fractures, but not enough to pop out a shard of glass.

  ‘He kept you here. My God, he kept you here. I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead!’ Georgia kissed the girl hard on the forehead and crushed her head into the crook of her neck. ‘But now we have to go, my girl. We have to get out of here. If you can’t walk, then I’ll carry you. I’ll carry you all the way home if I have to!’

  Stephanie’s head lolled on her neck, and her eyes struggled to point in the right direction. Georgia gasped at the hollows in her throat, at her cheeks. Even her strong jawline seemed obscene without flesh to cushion it. There seemed to be literally no fat whatsoever in her body. ‘Mum…’ she croaked again, then winced in pain.

  ‘No – just wait. I’ll get the front door open and we’ll walk out of here. I’ll call the police, and this will all be over. Don’t you see? It’s over! I’ve saved you!’

  An expression of alarm and pure horror seemed to bring Stephanie back to life, and she jerked upright. ‘No… no, please, don’t, don’t.’

  Stockholm syndrome, Georgia thought. Or just the consequences of addiction, over a sustained period of time. The bastard kept her here! All this time! And nobody knew about it!

  ‘It’s all right,’ Georgia said, holding up her hands, a placatory gesture. ‘I understand. I’m going to help you. I’ll make everything better. I swear on it. I swear my life.’ Then she turned to the door, turning the handle carefully.

  ‘No, I mean, don’t… The door! No!’

  Georgia hesitated. ‘Is there someone still here?’

  ‘No!’ Stephanie said. Then she grew faint; her eyelids fluttered.

  Georgia knelt beside Stephanie and hugged her close.

  Stephanie sobbed, sagging. ‘Take me away,’ she rasped. ‘Take me away now.’

  ‘You’ve got it. Right now,’ Georgia whispered. She took off her jacket, and covered her daughter with it. ‘Can you stand?’

  ‘Um. Please stay where you are,’ said a man’s voice. ‘Both of you. Stay exactly where you are.’

  Georgia looked up. There, stood in the doorway, was the man she’d been dreading.

  42

  If you’re reading this, it means I’ve gone missing. I will almost certainly have disappeared in the same way Stephanie disappeared, as a result of the same person’s actions. I’ll explain where I went below, just so you can speak to the police, and finally get them to take me seriously. But first, I want to say how sorry I am that you’ve been left with the burden of us both having gone missing. Not to mention the suspicion, which will surely come your way. But Rod, I need you to know that however our lives ended up, we did love each other, very much indeed. I remember the first time we went to the Peak District – a tent, two battered cricket chairs and a gas stove that threatened to blow up on us, but my God, was there ever a holiday like it? I remember every sweet nothing that passed between us. And always remember, that this love, whatever it became, gave us our precious, beautiful daughter. There might never be an answer. There might always be torment. But think of the good things, whenever you can. Use them to fight the darkness. It’s the only weapon you have, but it’s a good one.

  Georgia’s final letter to Rod

  Howie Abbot stood in the doorway – tall, blond, handsome, in that Jason Donovan sort of way, except that the shade of his hair was a touch too stark. Photographer. Singer of Prat Spaniel. Or to give him his real name, Dennis Mulrine. Jed’s son.

  He wasn’t dressed for country living; he wore a pair of jeans with floral patterns stitched into the sides, a pretty kaleidoscope of yellow, pink and green. A bright red T-shirt with some black mandarin script stencilled on the front was stretched tight over his skinny frame. On his feet – besmirched by some mud he’d not long stepped in – were a pair of trainers. This hipsterish get-up was almost entirely undercut by the shotgun he cradled in his arms.

  ‘Get up, slowly,’ he said, his jaw working. His blue eyes were the same as his father’s but devoid of the warmth. He pointed the shotgun right at Georgia.

  Her entire body was braced for the appalling blast to follow, but Dennis’s finger stayed on the trigger. Georgia spread her arms, slowly.

  ‘Dennis… Let us walk away. This is over. People know I’m here.’

  ‘People know you’re here… so you broke in? Please. And did you think I didn’t have precautions set up in here? You triggered an alarm on my phone.’

  Georgia didn’t think the young man had blinked once. The young man who hung around Ferngate, part of every scene, but not quite belonging to one. The gamekeeper’s son, never quite part of the elite, not even a student at the university, but involved in university life. Playing in bands, piggybacking on the reputation of a genuine star, but never quite matching it. The one who took the pictures at the magazine. The one who took the pictures of Stephanie. The one who stalked her, and took his chance when he read something on the message board. The one who knew about the false wall, and the gate that led to the narrow, steep path, which led to his house – the ruined cottage either he or his father had renovated. Kept off-grid, off the books. The perfect place to hide the thing he desired most; the thing he wanted to possess above all other things.

  ‘Killed her, didn’t you?’ Georgia asked. Her voice cracked, but she went on: ‘The other girl. The one who knew about you and Steph. Jasmine, was her name. Or Janina – that was her real name. Stuffed her with a bad batch. Was it when I started getting too close?’

  ‘Well, you were asking a lot of awkward questions. Maybe that one’s on you?’

  ‘And you knocked me into the ghyll. It was you.’

  He smiled. It was an expression that might have been badly painted onto a doll. ‘Strange thing is, I didn’t know I was going to do it until the very last moment. I knew who you were. Total coincidence I came across you. I was trying to walk off a hangover. Then you actually bent over and looked into the ghyll. It was such a target. I couldn’t resist. I know how a bull feels, when it sees red. It would have been beautiful if you’d gone down there, you must admit. Would have been poetic. Shame Dad had to come along when he did.’

  ‘And you shot at me.’

  ‘Yeah, I was hoping that was you. But you could have been anyone, of course.’

  She licked her lips. ‘Dennis, this is done. We’re going to walk out of here. I can get help for you. You’re not well. You’re clearly not well.’

  ‘You’re too right this is done. You and the pisspot, over there. The fucking latrine. Any last words, useless? That’s right, stick insect. You, over there. Model material. Anything to say?’

  Stephanie sank back onto the bed and moaned, the keening sound of an animal in a snare. Her eyes roiled again, and her shoulders sagged. Georgia saw her daughter drool, and a tremor activated the wasted body.

  ‘Oh look – must be time for your jabs!’ Dennis sneered. ‘I’ll sort you out with some lovely Cornfed after I’ve blown your mother in half. Keep an eye open, won’t you? Half an eye, if you can’t manage that.’

  ‘If you kill me, will you promise to at least let her live? Keep her alive, Dennis. Please, at least do that much. Even if you keep her in this situation, make sure she lives. All right? Can you promise that? Let her live, Dennis. I’ll beg if I have to.’

  Something faltered in the young man’s gaze.
He looked as if he was about to say something. Then he put the gun to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel. Right at Georgia’s face.

  Georgia took a grip of her jacket sleeve, which still covered Stephanie. Then she twirled it into a compact spear, and swung it in a wide arc.

  The movement caught him completely by surprise. The blow was not enough to knock the gun out of his hand, but it turned the barrel just enough, as he pulled the trigger.

  The mirror on top of the dressing table disintegrated, and much of the wall behind it, plaster and splinters spat high into the air, in the colossal blast. Georgia flinched, nostrils filled with the reek of cordite; a laser line of pain had opened up across the same cheek she’d had punched through with splinters from the last time Dennis had taken a shot at her.

  Stephanie shrieked, piercing the shrill ringing in Georgia’s ears; then a feral expression erupted across her daughter’s features and she sprang for him.

  As it turned out, she was at the perfect height and distance for Dennis Mulrine to connect directly underneath her chin with a left jab. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and then Stephanie was spark out, a heap of tallow-coloured limbs on the bed.

  Georgia used the distraction to close on Dennis Mulrine, gripping him on either side of his head, her nails parting his cornstalk fringe and splitting the skin. She plunged both thumbs deep into those flared, shocked blue eyes, and he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  The meat of his forearm swung round and clubbed the side of Georgia’s head, and her balance shifted somewhat. Then he had a hold of her hair, then his other hand found Georgia’s neck, the shotgun dropping to the floor.

  They grappled for a moment before he hurled her back against the dressing table. Its legs were already leaning at a crazy slant, before they gave way and the furniture collapsed, shards of glass from the disintegrated mirror pattering to the carpet.

  From there, Mulrine overpowered her, easily, knees on her chest, his fingers clutching at Georgia’s neck. On the bed, one of Stephanie’s feet dangled off the edge. Georgia had a glimpse of the girl’s toenails, painfully long and curved like talons; then Georgia bucked and tried to shake Dennis Mulrine off. She couldn’t budge him.

  He could not see; blood trickled down one side of his face as if he had wept it, but Georgia couldn’t be sure if she’d punctured his eyeballs or not. She smashed her hands off his shoulder, but his head was thrown back, his neck muscles bulging, too high up to hit. She pounded at the arms, but they would not move.

  Dennis Mulrine’s hands tightened at her throat. Georgia’s vision smudged. She tried to breathe and could not. He was strangling her; lightning bolts flared across her field of view, spectral fingers. Then purple lights undulated along the edge of her vision like interference on an old TV screen.

  Her hands scoured the carpet around her for a piece of glass from the window or the dresser – anything to distract him. She heard her throat constrict with a ghastly click, just above the roaring and pounding in her ears.

  ‘That’s it. Just stop. Stop… Stop struggling. That’s it.’ His voice was almost soothing, although strain was etched across his face, in taut tendons and blue veins snaking across his neck. ‘At least it’s all over. All done for you. You don’t need to worry. Just take it. Just take it. Accept it. This is the end. It’ll be a relief. Won’t it?’

  Georgia’s fingers closed around something. Something they recognised. Something they manipulated with reflex dexterity.

  With a dreadful gurgling in her throat, she drove both hands up from between Dennis Mulrine’s two arms; there was some give around her windpipe, just for a second, and she took a breath. Then she snatched at the collar of his T-shirt, pulling him towards her.

  With her right hand she plunged a syringe full of air into his carotid artery, and jammed the button down.

  Dennis Mulrine let her go. Then he undulated across the room, like a fire hose allowed to run free across the street while jetting water. He made the sound of the wind whipped up in a narrow street.

  Georgia did not watch him die. She did not look at his face again. While he still writhed and hissed through clenched teeth, Georgia took her daughter in her arms and hugged her close.

  ‘Mummy,’ Steph said, eyelids fluttering. ‘Mummy. You’re back. Mummy.’ Her fingers stroked Georgia’s cheek.

  The girl’s mother covered the hand with her own, then stroked her hair until the room was silent.

  She didn’t hear any footsteps; didn’t realise the Land Rover had pulled up; didn’t hear Saoirse barking.

  Jed Mulrine started speaking the moment he opened the door. ‘Just me,’ he said breezily. ‘I meant to tell you…’

  Then he must have seen something was awry. Or maybe it was the silence. Georgia stayed where she was, with her daughter near-insensible on her shoulder.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he screeched. Then he was at Dennis’ side; the boy’s head lolled horribly as his father tried to raise him from the floor.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Georgia said. ‘I had no choice. And I’m going to walk out of here, now. You’re not going to stop me.’

  Jed Mulrine began to sob, covering his face with his hands.

  ‘You’re a decent man, Jed. For what it’s worth. I’m guessing you always thought you were doing your best. You were protecting your own.’ Georgia lifted her daughter. It was so easy. There seemed to be almost no muscle tone to Stephanie’s thighs. Despite the long, awkward limbs it felt no more difficult than lifting a doll. ‘I am going to walk away.’

  Jed didn’t follow her. She left him sitting there, and walked out into the sunlight, cradling her daughter in her arms.

  43

  Today is January the first. Well, not really. Not by name. Not for a while, anyway. But from now on, every day is January the first.

  I like January the first, to be clear. I like a fresh page, new images to discover on the calendar, new boxes to fill.

  Jottings on a brand new notepad, by Stephanie Healey

  The stitches had hurt. Georgia looked at the ugly black lines stitched across her face, stretching from the corner of her mouth up to her cheek, and tried to smile when she was shown to the nearest mirror. It especially hurt to do so.

  ‘Got the scars to prove it,’ she muttered. Then she allowed them to dress the wound in stinging antiseptic patches.

  Despite this, she still took her time to help bathe and dress Stephanie in a hospital gown, taking care to comb her hair with her fingernails after washing it carefully. Stephanie was sedated – but in repose, with a slight breath shivering her nostrils to keep time with the heart monitor, and her long hair combed and clean, she looked peaceful.

  ‘It’ll take some time,’ the doctor had told her, ‘I don’t really need to tell you that. She’ll need some morphine in the short term – coming off it now could kill her. We’ll figure something out.’

  ‘It’ll take as long as it needs to,’ Georgia said. ‘I’ll be right here. Twenty-four seven.’

  She refused to take a call from Neal Hurlford, although she did allow herself to be patronised by a twenty-one-year-old policewoman who kept repeating that she was a fully trained family liaison officer. By this point, Georgia had gotten into bed beside her daughter, holding her close, marvelling at the hands she had made, the face and neck and shoulders – even the arms, track-marked as they were, the veins a ruin. But Stephanie was warm, and fully hydrated from the drip, and by God, alive, and back with her.

  ‘I think I should stay here,’ the policewoman said, and Georgia didn’t twig what she meant by that until the girl asked outright if she wanted him to be there.

  ‘My God,’ Georgia said, ‘of course it’s all right. Let him in, please. Dear God. Let him see her.’

  Rod appeared, and collapsed on the instant. Georgia had seen people faint before, had seen people seized by utter anguish and grief, but she’d never seen someone collapse like that. She’d never quite understood what the phrase poleaxed meant, but she supposed
it was appropriate here. He looked as if a mallet had been laid across his shoulders, and he fell to his knees, sobbing, taking Stephanie’s limp hands in his own, then burying his face in her neck. Georgia joined them, her head on the other side of Stephanie’s face. They stayed like that for quite some time, heads together.

  Georgia noticed what he was still wearing. ‘You berk… who sold you that gear? You look like a strip club tout at a holiday resort.’

  ‘Doing my fitness,’ he said, muffled by his daughter’s hair. ‘Keeping busy running.’

  She ran her fingers across his smooth scalp, just the once. ‘It’s over,’ she said. ‘This is the happiest day we’ll ever have. God love us.’

  When she finally felt composed enough to speak to Hurlford, in that very hospital room, Georgia only added one thing to her statement: ‘When you see Jed Mulrine… Tell him I’m sorry. It wasn’t what I wanted. I told him I’d meet him just to get him away from the grounds. I couldn’t be sure if he was living at the cottage, himself, rather than his son. I just wanted to take a look. That’s all. I didn’t expect this to happen. He knew, but he wasn’t to blame. He had a son. I don’t think he’s all bad. He did what he had to do to protect him, no matter what he’d done. I’d probably have done the same. In fact, I did do the same. I was on the very edge. Literally, when it comes to that bloody ghyll. I was going to go to any lengths to find out what happened to Stephanie. Who knows where I’d have ended up? Come to think of it, I had to kill someone to finish it. Maybe Jed Mulrine would have done the same. Maybe not. But it doesn’t make him bad. Or… evil. Not like his son. Not a chance of it.’

  ‘We’ll be the judge of that, Mrs Healey.’ Hurlford’s eyes met hers for the only time that afternoon, and he said: ‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not as sorry as you will be,’ Georgia said, coldly. ‘Not nearly as sorry. You’re up to your fucking neck in it. I’d talk to a lawyer, if I was you. What I’ll never know is – did you turn a blind eye because you’re corrupt, or because you’re stupid?’