by SE Moorhead
If I call Alex, will she come?
She remembered Alex’s last words to her.
Mental.
She was on her own.
The front door was shut fast and so she made her way around the building – every window was pitch black. She reached the back of the house. The only lights she could see were the intermittent flashes from her own migraine. She reached the back door, listening for any signs of life. Not a single sound in the thick darkness.
The door gave way beneath her fingers. Did he know she was coming? Was he waiting for her in the silence? She stood back, bracing herself, as though she expected someone to come flying out of the darkness at her, but there was no movement, so she stepped into the house.
She was standing in a kitchen. She noticed a shuffling in the corner of her eye and she saw two little faces peeping out from under the table, a boy and a girl. She ignored them, and continued her search, her eyes skittering over the draining board – a single plate, one cup. A peri-med uniform hung on a coat-hanger on a cupboard door, an iron nearby, unplugged, cold. There was a single chair by the table. A few clean plates stood on the drainer by the sink and the tap was dripping; the water was still connected. There was an old-style gas hob cooker on which sat a small pan containing congealed beans. The light from the fridge dazzled her when she opened the door. There was a half-pint of milk, some cheese, children’s yoghurts … still in date.
Someone had been here recently.
What if they were still here?
Come on, Kyra, pull yourself together. You can do this.
She moved through the kitchen into the hallway, and stood in the hall listening, her desperation to find Molly and Isabel rising and swelling along with her fear.
Maybe he’s not here. He might have gone out, maybe I can find Molly and Isabel and get them somewhere safe. He’s Tom’s problem. If I can find them before he comes back …
The front room was sparse, containing only a sofa, a screen, a small table. There was an empty set of shelves gathering dust. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she heard a thud in the hall. She switched off her Commset light and stood in the darkness, listening.
Something was in the house with her.
Being unfamiliar with the layout, she was uncertain of her escape route. Even with the added flood of adrenaline, she didn’t feel confident of her flight ability. Her legs already felt like jelly.
She heard a muffled sound. Was that someone crying? Was it Isabel, hurt and trapped somewhere? Where was Molly?
Molly’s going to be fine. She doesn’t fit the pattern … she’s too tall … she’s not a … nurse … or … She’s going to be fine. Fine.
She just hoped she was in time for Isabel.
She crept back into the hallway and stood still for a few moments, listening, terrified.
The sound was coming from a cupboard in the hall.
She took a deep breath and flung the door open.
A large grey cat flew out of the cupboard, startling her. He looked her over, his yellow eyes glinting in the shadows, and then strolled away. She bent over, somewhat relieved, and when she stood up she noticed there was another door inside the cupboard.
The round knob rattled but the door didn’t give. She felt along the top of the frame and her fingers hit a key which unlocked the door easily with a loud click. Kyra opened the door and shone her light down the steps, into a cellar, but she could only see as far as a brick wall at the bottom. She took a breath as though she was about to dive into a deep, dark pool.
Emma, please, please help me. Help me find Isabel. Help me get the bastard who took you away from us. Help me find Molly.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
WEDNESDAY 7 FEBRUARY
11.47 p.m.
Her fingertips hit the rough brick wall at the bottom and she went to her right, moving her feet out in front of her in circular motions, blindly feeling for the floor, her Commswatch throwing out a small beam of light which trembled. The cellar stretched out into darkness. In front of her she could see a red generator, and a pair of long metal drawers – long enough to hold a body.
She moved towards them, her heart pounding. Was Isabel already dead? Was she too late? A sudden searing pain ripped through her as her hip caught a sharp corner, and there was an almighty metallic crash. She froze, the sound still ringing in her ears.
She waited, tense and alert in the darkness for an attack; blinding lights, explosive gunshot.
Nothing.
Looking down, she gasped in terror at the sight of a metal trolley lying on its side, and, in the pool of light at her feet, lay the shards and serrations of an assortment of metal surgical equipment: scalpels, clamps, bone-cutters and levers, forceps, cannulae, curettes. She retched twice and stood for a moment, trying to regain use of her body.
She moved towards the metal drawers again and stopped dead when she saw, on another metal trolley, a turquoise gift box, glittering in the light of her Commset, a lime green ribbon next to it.
Her guts cramped, cold and tight.
The lid lay at an angle across the top, leaving the box half open.
Kyra took a step closer, flinching as she poked the lid away, and quickly moved back as though the contents might jump out at her.
Slowly, she leaned over, at a distance, and shone her light in.
It was empty.
Was there still time?
Breathing heavily, she focused on the drawers.
Stretching her hand out, she pulled the handle of the bottom drawer, bracing herself. There was a metallic ‘clunk’ as it released and slid out easily.
The tray was empty, reflecting her light in a dull haze on the brushed steel.
Kyra dropped her hands to her sides and took a few deep breaths.
She reached for the handle of the top drawer and tugged, but it resisted.
Her heart sank.
I’m too late! Isabel, I’m so sorry.
She slid the drawer out and, on the tray, covered in a white cotton smock, lay a slim body, the face covered with a white pillowcase.
Tom had been right – she had messed up her career, risked her health and broken her relationships and for what? All of it had been for nothing.
Slowly, she peeled back the pillowcase.
For a moment, she couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing.
It wasn’t Isabel.
It wasn’t Isabel at all.
Kyra gazed in horror at the face of her niece, Molly.
She reached out to touch her but stopped before she made contact.
It was only a phantom. She was so overwrought of late, upset with the way things had been going with Molly. This was only her brain’s way of expressing her anxiety.
Wasn’t it?
Kyra looked closer – the pale skin of her face surrounded by her dark hair, her eyes closed as if she was sleeping. Kyra was immediately thrown back to the moment at the mortuary when she had had to identify Emma’s body, holding on to her dad’s arm, willing it not to be Emma, but knowing it was.
She was taken back to when she would stroke Molly hair, Emma’s hair, as they settled down to sleep, comforting them as they drifted off.
Her hand trembled as she reached out to touch the dark curls, hoping the awful vision in front of her would disappear.
But it didn’t. She could feel the soft curls underneath her fingertips telling her something she didn’t want to know, the worst possible thing …
… this was not a phantom.
She let out a howl, her legs collapsing under her, and she slumped to the floor, feeling as though her heart had been ripped from her body. She had not been there for her sister when she had died, and now Molly, too, had died alone.
He had taken them both from her.
She could hardly breathe with grief and guilt.
She had led the killer to her precious Molly.
How could she tell her mother this?
She stood up and took hold of the sheet, needin
g to know, but dreading finding out.
Had he taken her hands? Was that what the box was for?
She wanted to tell her how sorry she was, how she should have cared for her better, how if she was still alive, she would do things differently, she would listen more, be more loving … she pulled the sheet back.
Molly still had her hands, crossed over her chest, as though ready for burial.
Kyra broke down, huge sobs racking her chest, tears flowing, dripping onto shroud over her niece’s body.
She took hold of Molly’s hand …
… it was warm.
Hope and desperation flooded her veins as she put her ear to Molly’s chest.
A heartbeat.
Slow but steady.
‘Molly! Molly!’ she cried, kissing her soft skin, her tears falling on to her niece’s cheeks. ‘Oh, thank God!’
Kyra shook her niece by the shoulders. Molly’s eyes flickered.
‘Mols, come on, it’s me, its Ky!’
What had he done to her? Nearby she saw syringes in a kidney dish.
‘Mols,’ she tried again, shaking her.
Her niece moaned, opened her eyes a little and then shut them again.
How could she get Molly out of that awful cellar? There was a small window, high up on the wall, but there was no way she could get Molly to that, never mind push her through it. Could she manage to carry her up the stairs? But there was no way she could run with Molly in her arms. If he came back … and then what about Isabel? She still didn’t know if Isabel was still alive.
She looked down at her Commswatch: 11.53 p.m.
If Isabel was still alive somewhere in this house, then Kyra had less than ten minutes to get to her.
She didn’t care what Tom thought of her now. She had to call him. For Molly’s sake.
There was no reply.
‘Call Alex.’
Alex wasn’t answering either.
Mental.
She left a message. ‘Alex, please, you have to help me. I’m at Dreyton Lane, there’s an old garage. There’s a house – it’s hidden, behind the bushes, hard to see. Molly’s here. He’s drugged her. Please come now!’
She stood for a moment and then dialled 999 and begged for the police and the Peri-Med services to come and help.
The moment the light from her Commswatch call faded she panicked. What if Alex didn’t get her message or, worse still, didn’t believe her? What if the police and the ambulance couldn’t find them? Had she told them they were in the house behind the garage? She couldn’t remember now. How long would they take to get there?
And what about Isabel? Was she still here? She wasn’t in the other drawer – did that mean she was still alive?
She looked to her Commswatch again.
Five minutes until midnight.
Kyra’s eyes travelled back to Molly again. She was out of it and would probably be like that for some time. She could stay here and wait … or she could go and look for Isabel. She had sacrificed so much already to get here. She couldn’t stop now.
All her instincts went against what she was about to do.
‘Mols, baby, I am so sorry but I promise, I promise, I’ll come back very soon.’
She stroked her hair and watched her sleeping for a moment. An image of three-year-old Molly standing at the side of the road came into her mind.
Kyra slowly pushed the mortuary drawer half-closed again, her heart breaking.
Moving towards the door, her foot kicked metallic objects. She bent down and felt along the dusty floor until her hand hit metal. She picked it up and pointed her Commset to see – it was a scalpel, the blade sharp and shiny in the light. She curled her fingers around it, stood up and took a deep breath.
Her footsteps slow and steady, she made her way back up the stairs to the main hall, shining her light into the dark rooms and peering in as she passed, the overwhelming smell of dust and damp filling her nose.
Standing at the bottom of the stairs, her hand on the newel post, she blinked up into the dark void above.
She was going to find Isabel.
Chapter Forty
WEDNESDAY 7 FEBRUARY 2035
11.58 p.m.
The creaking of the stairs as she climbed to the top floor was echoed by the unfamiliar bird cries in the darkness outside. There was no decoration, no photos, no mirrors, just empty frames hanging on the walls. Kyra shone her light up at the ceiling. There was a loft hatch, but it had been nailed shut, ancient paint sealing the wood. No one had been up there for a long time.
The main bedroom was simple, like a monk’s cell, with muted, neutral colours, a single bed, a small wardrobe and a tall set of drawers. The only decoration was an old framed photograph of a boy and a girl, the same blue-grey eyes and mousey hair, his arm around her. It was the two children she had seen under the bed. She checked under the bed and, whilst she was down there, tapped around the floorboards, looking for any place where Isabel might be hidden.
Midnight would bring Isabel’s death. She might be dead already.
The second bedroom was empty, with an ancient thin cord carpet, and a simple rolled-up blind. There was no bed in this room, only a wardrobe, the doors open, not even a single hanger inside.
The next room she came to, the key was in the lock – it twisted with ease and she pushed open the door, holding the scalpel out in front of her in her trembling hand.
The temperature rose noticeably when she entered. There was a single white bed with a duvet with a pink cotton cover and pretty floral curtains, a rocking chair, teddies … a night light still glowing.
What did it mean? Why was there one beautiful room in a house that hadn’t been loved or cared for in years? She lifted the bedclothes, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. The floorboards creaked behind her. She swivelled around and saw, at the other end of the hall, a little girl, standing in front of a closed door. The same girl she had seen under her bed. How could she forget that face, the huge terrified eyes?
Kyra steeled herself.
The little girl stood in an eerie glow, the rest of the house silent and black. She lifted a hand and beckoned Kyra. Slowly, wondering how she was managing to put one foot in front of the other, she moved towards the girl. Was this phantom like Skylar, guiding her towards Isabel?
The child remained still and Kyra reached out a hand. Her fingers moved through the spectral vision which shimmered like disturbed water as she pushed the door open.
Inside was a bathroom. The soft glow of candlelight reflected off the glassy surface of the water in the bathtub, which was filled to the brim and surrounded by pink roses and candles, the wax dripping down the sides. There were more candles and roses on the basin and the window ledge. A red box floated on the water, glittering in the wavering light, the ribbon tied into a bow on top.
A row of chains hung from the rail which had once held a shower curtain. Suspended from each thread of silver was half a Mizpah pendant.
Four. One for each of the victims found in water.
One for Skylar, one for Jennifer, one for Amelia.
And one for Isabel.
Kyra moved closer to look, and from this angle, looking down, she saw that the box wasn’t floating at all, but resting on something previously hidden beneath the refracted light bouncing off the surface.
Isabel.
Kyra dropped the scalpel, dumped the box on the floor and reached into the water. She put her hands underneath Isabel’s armpits and managed to pull her up far enough to get her head out, but the angle at which she stood gave her no strength and Isabel slipped beneath the surface again. Kyra stepped into the shockingly cold water, feet either side of Isabel’s slim body, pulled the plug and tried again to lift her, this time sitting Isabel up, her top half slumped forward. Kyra had no idea whether or not she was still alive.
She was struggling to hold Isabel’s head above the water and the bath was draining too slowly. How long could she stand this cold? Nearby she saw three syringes, t
wo of which were empty. Could Isabel still be alive? Was she drugged like Molly was? How long had she been in the water? If it hadn’t been long, that meant that the killer could still be nearby.
Determined, she placed her hands underneath Isabel’s armpits again and, with all her strength, she heaved. Her feet gave way on the smooth surface beneath her and she slipped, falling onto Isabel.
She pulled herself up again, soaked with freezing water.
‘Isabel!’ she yelled, ‘Come on, wake up!’ She struggled with her body, pulling and twisting until Isabel was hanging forward over the side of the bath, her hands touching the soaking wet bathroom floor. Kyra climbed out of the water, lifted Isabel’s legs and swivelled them over the side of the bath. Isabel slumped to the floor like a newborn foal.
Panting heavily, Kyra pushed Isabel on to her back and listened for any signs of life.
Nothing.
‘Come on, Isabel!’ she shouted. She made a fist and banged on the girl’s chest, which made a wet slapping noise. She began to shiver as the water on her body met the cold air.
Moving Isabel’s head back, and pushing her chin down, Kyra breathed into her mouth five times and then started chest compressions. Her hands were so cold, she could hardly feel them as they pushed against Isabel’s small ribcage.
She put her ear to Isabel’s chest again.
No heartbeat.
Come on, Isabel! We can’t let him win! Breathe, please, breathe!
She blew into Isabel’s mouth again and gave another thirty chest compressions, continuing the cycle of breathing and pressing until she was sweating, even though her body was shaking with cold from being wet through. Finally, exhausted, she placed her ear to Isabel’s chest and heard the faint thump thump thump.
Isabel started to cough up water. She was disoriented and moaning quietly, her arms flailing weakly when Kyra, wet and exhausted, leaned against the bath and pulled Isabel to her chest to hold her.
‘You’re okay. You’re okay,’ Kyra said over and over.
When she got her breath back, Kyra, still shivering violently through shock and cold, laid Isabel down gently and went to the bedroom for a blanket to keep her warm while they waited for the emergency services that she was sure would be there soon. The little night light had gone out and the room was creepy in the moonlight. She pulled out her Commset from her back pocket and tried to flick on the light but water had gotten into it and it was dead. Where was the ambulance? Why weren’t they here by now? Had Alex got her message?