She crouched down and picked up the book the girl had dropped: Paradise Lost, by John Milton. She didn’t fail to spot the irony as she put the book in her shoulder bag.
Having decided to return to the old farmhouse for the vague ‘next lesson’, she took a detour past the church. She had to see if the vicar was there, if only to prove to herself that she wasn’t going mad. Approaching the front door, she felt apprehensive. If the vicar was there, then she was going mad, if he wasn’t ... She didn’t know which option she preferred. On the one hand was madness, on the other someone’s death.
The door was shut, but not locked. She slipped inside, didn’t want to look at the altar, but she had no choice. As she expected, there was no one there. She didn’t know whether she was pleased or sad.
“Hello,” she called. “Is there anyone here?” Her voice echoed through the rafters, sepulchral.
No one answered.
She walked down the aisle, saw the vase had been replaced, although now there were no flowers in it. At the door to the rectory, she paused before knocking. Madness or death ...
She knocked.
No one answered.
Testing the handle, she found the door was unlocked and she stepped through, feeling nervous as she walked through the rooms, looking for any sign of the vicar, but the house was empty.
Back in the church, she approached the altar and crouched down to inspect the floor where she thought she had seen the body. In the joints between the planks of wood, she thought she saw minute red streaks etched into the grain which might have been dried blood, but she couldn’t be sure, at least not sure enough to wager between madness and death with any certainty.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the devilish coffee stain watching her and she shivered.
Angry with herself for feeling so weak willed, she walked outside, thankful of the fresh air. She found the church air too dry and the atmosphere too claustrophobic. Or perhaps that was just her imagination, too.
The trees crowded around her as she approached the derelict farmhouse, as though forming a screen from the world. Wary of the fall she had suffered during her last visit here, she cautiously approached the front door. Peering into the dark interior, she saw that although there didn’t appear to be as many, the carcasses were still hanging from the ceiling like morbid decorations.
“I’m here for the next lesson,” she said, feeling slightly foolish.
No one answered.
She stepped inside, tentatively brushed a rabbit carcass out of the way, setting the macabre Newton’s cradle in motion.
“Hello. Anybody here?”
“Sit down,” a voice commanded, causing her to jump.
“Where are you?”
“Sit.”
Chase sat. Where was he? She looked around, trying to discern where the voice originated.
“You shouldn’t have come.”
“But you asked ...”
“To the village,” the Raggedy man interrupted, pre-empting her.
“It’s too late to tell me that now.”
“Always the fool.”
“Pardon?” She wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. Where was he? Movement in the next room caught her eye, a shadow among shadows, almost imperceptible.
“There’s a disease. Can’t you smell it? The winds of change are blowing, and it’s a storm that can’t be stopped.”
“Storm, that’s who brought me here. A competition, run by Storm Enterprises.” Was there a connection?
The Raggedy man laughed, a chilling, hollow sound. “No, I brought you here.”
“You? What do you mean?”
“I’m the magic man.” He chuckled.
Chase started to stand up.
“I said sit,” the Raggedy man hissed.
A shadow danced in the next room, as though prepared to take flight. She sat back down. There was something about the voice, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
“It’s an apt word.”
“What is?” She frowned.
“Storm. The vicar tried to weather the storm, but it destroyed him.”
“Is he really dead?” She swallowed, not knowing whether she really wanted to hear the answer. Madness or death?
“Is who dead?”
“The vicar.”
He hesitated. “Ah, yes, I remember the vicar. Is he dead?”
“That’s what I’m asking you! Who killed him?”
“Who did? We did. They did. I did.”
Chase flinched. The words reminded her of a sentence in the diary.
The Raggedy man laughed. “And so endeth today’s lesson.”
“Wait, you can’t just leave it like that.” She stood up and walked toward the next room. A shadow moved. Flitted away. Was gone.
Chase clenched her fists and ran after the shadow. A door opened and closed with a bang. Running through to the next room, she found she was too late. The Raggedy man had flown away. She took a deep breath, tried to calm herself, noticed animal bones scattered like runes on the floor by the camping stove, meaning the Raggedy man probably ate the animals he had hung up to cure. She felt a momentary pang of disgust and her nausea returned.
She ran outside, retched, but was unable to be physically sick. Stomach acids still burnt her throat and she spat out a small amount of bile.
Overhead, a black bird circled and swooped, another witch searching for her head.
Chase hurried away from the old farmhouse. Who could she trust? Questions without answers, like a crossword without clues.
All around her the trees harboured flickering shadows, and Chase tried to keep her gaze on the path, tried to ignore the feeling that she was being followed. She wondered if it was the Raggedy man, or perhaps someone else, someone worse.
When she reached High Top Cottage, she quickly unlocked the door and slipped inside, troubled to see another note on the mat. She hesitated before picking it up, now associating them with bad omens. Perhaps she should just burn it.
Curiosity got the better of her and she opened it with shaking hands.
It was from Adam, regretting he had missed her and thanking her for a wonderful night. He also asked her to meet him in the Slaughtered Dog at seven o’clock for a drink.
Unsure what to do, she decided to lie down and sleep on it, hoping answers would come in her dreams ...
But all she had were nightmares.
CHAPTER 17
Ratty didn’t know how long they had been locked in the dark room. Izzy had cried for ages, the tears eventually subsiding to sniffles. A man brought them food and water, nothing special, just ham sandwiches. They hadn’t even been allowed out to use the toilet, having to face the indignity of using a bucket in the corner, both of them turning away when the other used it. The smell in the room was understandably rank, although the man who brought the food, also emptied the bucket and sprayed the air with something claiming to be the smell of summer meadows. He also provided fresh cleaning water, so at least they could have a wash.
Ratty thought they were being treated no better than animals. Worse even. From the sealed room, they had no indication whether it was night or day. Time a meaningless concept for those chained to a celestial timetable.
When Ratty tried to speak to the man, he got no response. It was as if Izzy and himself didn’t exist, as if they were invisible.
He still couldn’t believe his mother had signed him over to a bogus welfare company. What had she been thinking? He knew she was under a lot of strain, what with his father, but to do this ...
Izzy sat up and spoke, bringing him out of his rumination.
“Do you really think they’ll let us go?”
Ratty nodded. “Of course they will.” He hoped Izzy couldn’t tell he didn’t believe it himself.
“I got the impression these people are above the law.”
“No one’s above the law.”
Izzy took the cigarette packet from her pocket, looked inside and scrunched it up. She
threw it on the floor. “I could do with a cigarette.”
Even though Ratty didn’t smoke, he knew how she felt. Cigarettes were a crutch, just like religion – he wondered whether it was too late to start praying.
As he contemplated their predicament, Ratty put his hands in his pockets, surprised to feel the penknife. He had forgotten it was there and no one had bothered searching them. Taking it out, he looked at it, turning it over in his fingers. He stood and approached the door, felt around the edge. There was a metal plate about six inches square to the left of the door and using the knife’s screwdriver, he began to undo the retaining screws, more through boredom and frustration than with real purpose. It gave him a sense of doing something.
“What are you doing?” Izzy walked over and peered over his shoulder.
“Just trying to find a way out of here.”
“You can’t do that.” Alarm flashed across her face.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to stay here.”
Izzy grabbed his hand. “Stop it. You’ll only make things worse.”
Shrugging her off, Ratty continued to turn the screws. “How can they get any worse?”
“These people are dangerous.”
“I thrive on danger.” He gave a half-hearted grin.
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Stupid is my middle name.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” She shook her head and sat back down on the bed. “Well, I’m not having anything to do with it.”
Ratty shrugged and turned his concentration back to the task of turning the screws. There were eight of them in all, and when seven of them had been removed, the plate swung clear of the hole to reveal a series of plastic air pipes worming through the wall like intestines. Ratty frowned, deep in concentration. He didn’t know a lot about pneumatics, just that compressed air was used to push pistons. He recalled the sound of escaping air when the door opened and closed, and a vague idea took seed in his mind.
Grabbing one of the pipes he pulled on it. The pipe didn’t move. From somewhere in the hole came the faraway sound of escaping air, like a snake hissing a warning. Without heeding it, he pulled on another pipe but it was also too tight to move. Exhaling an anxious sigh, he looked at the pipes, looked at the knife in his hand and then began stabbing the sharp point into the plastic pipes. Angry air hissed out, spitting condensation into his eyes like venom. But he didn’t stop.
When all of the pipes were punctured, he approached the door, placed his hands on the flat surface and pushed. The door slid to the side and Ratty almost fell down in shock. He hadn’t really expected it to work. Cautiously he peered out into the fog.
“Are you coming?” he asked, looking back at Izzy.
Izzy shook her head.
He felt as if his heart was breaking. “Okay, I’ll go and get help then.” He walked out of the room and into the fog. Before he had walked five feet away a hand grabbed his shoulder and he jumped, suppressing a scream.
“Okay, you win,” Izzy said, her lower lip trembling.
Ratty let out a sigh of relief and smiled to himself. He wouldn’t really have left her there on her own. “Come on then,” he said, marching into the fog.
***
Chase woke with a start. Monsters had pursued her out of her sleep. She trembled, gooseflesh mottling her arms. Looking at her watch, she saw it was six o’clock, couldn’t believe she had slept so long. Still full of doubt, she decided to meet Adam at the pub. At least then she could surreptitiously question him about the vicar and about Paradise to see if he knew more than he was letting on.
As she put her make-up on, she heard a distant scream. Rushing to the window, she looked outside, watching for any sign of movement. But there was nothing to see. She wondered whether she had imagined it, or perhaps in her insecure state, had mistaken the call of a bird for something more sinister.
Checking all the windows and doors were secure, she slipped a serrated kitchen knife into her shoulder bag and left the house. She doubted she would use the knife to hurt someone, but knowing it was there made her feel more secure.
This time she had opted for a more conservative manner of dress: jeans, jumper and her green parka.
As she walked down the lane, her gaze darted from the hedgerows to the trees to the houses, alert for any sign of movement. Clutching her shoulder bag more tightly, she felt comforted by the knowledge of its contents.
The sign outside the Slaughtered Dog swung to and fro, squealing for want of oil. The sound grated on Chase and she entered the dingy pub with her nerves set on edge.
The dark interior still held its secrets; the hint of people sat huddled in unlit corners. She couldn’t believe a place could be so dark and dismal and wished she had a torch, if only to prove that the only monsters were in her imagination.
George was in his usual place behind the bar. He eyed Chase with his usual disdain and walked down to serve her.
“Yes?” George grunted.
“Orange juice, please.”
George bent down and took a bottle from the fridge beneath the optics.
“And how are you then, George?” she asked, trying to get more than a monosyllabic response from him.
George grunted in reply.
“And how’s your leg?”
While pouring the orange juice into a glass, George looked up, spilling some of the drink across the counter. Chase saw a momentary flash of colour heighten his cheeks and a glint of madness in his eyes. The moment passed and he pushed the drink across the counter.
“One twenty,” he grunted.
Chase rummaged in her bag for her purse, feeling the cold edge of steel brush against her hand before she paid for the drink.
“Is Adam here?” she asked, still trying to get a semblance of a conversation going.
George shook his head and walked back to his stool.
Chase turned and looked for somewhere to sit when she spotted the young girl who had run away the last time she’d seen her. She was sitting by herself at a table, staring at the ground. Unsure whether to approach her, Chase remembered the book in her bag. Taking it out, she approached the girl, using the book as an excuse.
“Hello again.” Chase smiled disarmingly.
The girl didn’t acknowledge her.
“Are you on your own?”
As though hearing her for the first time, the girl looked up. A combination of exhaustion and fear was written across her face. She was dressed in the same clothes as the last time Chase had seen her, and there was a slight unwashed smell about her.
“You left your book behind.” She handed the book over, but the girl just looked at it morosely.
Chase put it on the table. “My name’s Chase.”
The girl started crying. She shook her head. “The world’s gone mad.”
“I beg your pardon?” Chase sat down next to her.
“I’ll be next.”
“Next what?” Chase frowned. She felt as though she was engaged in a cryptic conversation to which she didn’t have the key.
“I don’t want to change.”
“Change?” She wondered whether she had heard right.
“We all change. I can feel it happening.”
“What do you mean?” She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see George carrying a plate toward them. He slammed it down on the table along with a knife and fork, glaring at Chase as he did so.
“Your meal,” he said to the girl before turning and walking away.
Chase smelt it before she saw it. Looking down at the plate, she frowned, unable to believe what she saw.
Still steaming in the middle of the plate was a turd. That can’t be hygienic, she stupidly thought, still not quite able to believe what she was looking at.
The girl picked up the knife and fork and cut into the excrement, sliding a portion onto the tines of the fork and lifting it to her mouth.
“Stop, don’t eat that.” Chase knocked the fork out of the girl’s
hand. She felt disgusted and sick just looking at it.
The girl looked from the plate to Chase, from Chase to the plate. Her hand was still hovering in the air, now without the fork. Comprehension seemed to drift across her face. “I’m going to be sick.” Knocking over her stool, she ran for the door, her hand over her mouth.
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