The Scorched Earth

by Rachael Blok

Ben sees the guard take a step backwards. Another stands by the door and they exchange a look. The one by the door speaks into his radio.

  A bottle, shampoo perhaps, flies over and smacks the guard full in the face, and then there is banging. The prisoners start banging on the showers, on the metal, hitting it hard with whatever they can lay their hands on. A cacophony of shower gel. Of soap bars.

  Ben goes cold. He flattens his back against the side of the shower wall.

  No. Not now. Not when he’s so close to getting out. To being free.

  ‘Right, you lot want to fight?’ The shout of the guard is barely audible. ‘Well, fucking fight then!’ He retreats.

  Ben wants to run after them, to say he’s not involved in all this. He’s just here by mistake.

  The doors lock. He knows two guards aren’t enough. They will call for backup, and if it’s a riot they send for the lot that are an hour away. Procedure is to lock the doors until they have the numbers.

  He’s locked in here.

  Even the ones who weren’t in on it have taken the scent like baying wolves, and he closes his eyes. All he can hope is that by staying here, staying quiet, staying with his head down, he’ll remain unscathed. He assumes they’re after Tabs.

  Tabs is bleeding, over the other side. He’s kneeling on the tiles and the blood from his mouth spills into the swirling pools of water that run down the plugholes. The water amplifies the blood. One teaspoon becomes a pint. One pint a bucket. Soon, the ground is soaked like a battlefield.

  But they’ve stopped. The fists were quick. It’s not Tabs today.

  ‘Getting out, I hear?’ Macca stands at the edge of Ben’s shower. His feet planted like trees, his pit-bull snarl smiles at Ben, lip caught just at one edge. His hair shaved down, a faint tattoo on his scalp.

  ‘We thought it would only be fair to send you off with a goodbye party, since you’re asking. Wouldn’t want you to miss out, like. Eh, Benny boy.’

  Ben’s heart races, his breath comes in spurts. They’ve come for him. Not for Tabs. They’ve come for him.

  ‘Please, I’ll pay you. You can have everything on my canteen. Please, anything.’

  ‘Knows how to pay, this one. Don’t he.’ Macca’s breath is hot on his face. Someone kicks him in the lower back. Someone else lands a blow to the back of his ribs. They pull him out of his cubicle. He grabs the steel with his fingers, but they slip, and he sees the trails of his own desperation marked out as his fingernails scratch on the scored walls.

  He’s horizontal now. His legs kick upwards, his trunk dipping and rising, trying to shake off the hands. But they’re clamped. There’s no breaking free.

  The fear in Tabs’s eyes is all for him as he scrambles up and back out of the way. He sees in glimpses Tabs move to the back, and he knows he can do nothing for him, but he still screams his name, through the heat, the water vapour, the smell that stands in the room like a body.

  ‘Tabs!’

  ‘He can’t help you, mate. That nonce.’ Macca’s face is close and Ben can smell tobacco.

  ‘Macca, you want me to do him?’

  Ben can’t see who speaks but thinks of the tall man with dark hair whose arm Macca broke last year. Who has spent the last few months like a lapdog, head bowed, anxious to avoid trouble, to offer up his fists in exchange for a free pass.

  ‘Nah.’ Macca spits, and the globule lands on Ben’s cheek, sliding slowly down.

  ‘Got more than fists for you, we have. Something special, innit.’

  His mouth is clamped. He struggles back against the hands pressing his shoulders down.

  Ben’s hands are pulled tight round his back. He’s flipped up and over, and he lies flat on the floor; his face chokes on water, on blood. On shampoo bubbles.

  There’s a knee in his back and someone clamps him in a headlock, his chin straining against someone’s forearm, the bent curve of the inner elbow to the right of Ben’s jaw.

  His back strains, his neck strains. He can hear the alarm sounding. He can hear gathering voices outside. Maybe they’ve got enough guards together. Maybe they’re coming back in.

  The metal of the damaged vape is brown at the join. The smoky glass valve, a sure sign of spice, is active. A tiny volcano, about to blow apart his world.

  ‘No,’ he tries to say, spitting the water from the floor. His kidneys ache and someone must be sitting on his lower legs. His calves scream.

  ‘Not sure, are we, Benny? You’ll love it.’

  The hand at the back of his head presses him hard. It forces his head forward and the back of his neck aches He can’t open his mouth to shout for help, because it’s pointless. There’s no one to help.

  ‘It’s total zoning out, it’s fucking lush!’ Kiz says, his voice high in pitch, excited. But Ben can see the fear in his eyes.

  ‘But I tell you what, if he don’t want it, I’ll take it. Give it to me, I’ll take it.’ Kiz’s eyes find Ben’s. Ben’s panic is fierce but he knows Kiz is trying, trying to save him.

  He holds Kiz’s eyes with his own, his head rocking back as far as it will go, his neck pulling tight, as though something will snap.

  He kicks his feet, trying to grind his toes into the floor and push back, away from Macca, who lowers his weight and his fat hands; that smell of nicotine, of dope, approaches his face. But the weight on his legs holds him. He doesn’t move an inch.

  ‘Oh, he wants it. Look at him. He just doesn’t know it yet. You know you want it, Benny boy. Been too good for the likes of us, ain’t yer. Well, not any more. You’re one of us now. Teach you how to behave in ’ere.’ He lowers his head and his words hiss into Ben’s ear. ‘Think you can fucking snitch on me? When they find you high on this we’ll let them know who’s been hoarding it in here. I’ll put a stash in your pad. Get your sentence extended. I’ve got five here who’ll swear blind you sold it to them.’

  ‘Aw, come on, Macca. You can give it to me. Why waste it on him?’ Kiz’s voice is in the distance now. Ben can’t see anything beyond the metal, which comes closer. Macca’s voice a confidant in his ear.

  His body tenses; he shakes his head. There’s a sound outside. Will they come in? Will they get to him in time? He opens his mouth to shout for help. His chest won’t take it. He’s still on the antibiotics, he’s weak.

  ‘Help me—’

  And it’s clamped into his mouth, thrust almost at the back of his throat, and he feels himself gagging, trying not to breathe it in. Trying to hold his breath.

  But the tightness in his throat, his neck. The pain in his head. He can tell he’s going to inhale, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

  ‘Argh!’ he shouts. As loud as he can make it.

  The last sight he sees is Kiz’s brown eyes, worried, darting back, looking to the door.

  Tabs by the door, hammering with his fist, his mouth moving, but Ben can’t hear anything.

  There’s no sound any more.

  66

  Friday 29th June

  ANA

  Hot chocolate, with brandy for the shock, warms her hands; exhaustion makes her drowsy. The adrenaline of earlier has faded and leaves behind it a blankness. Lassitude. The three of them sit, curled on the sofas. The pitter-patter of rain is light outside.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep,’ Maisie says. ‘Or eat. My stomach is still in knots. Thank God he’s been arrested. It’s all over.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m done in.’

  They’d been told to rest for the night. Statements and final interviews could wait.

  Ana, sick that someone has waged such war against her, feels broken. This thing has tried to smother her.

  ‘Any of us think they’ll get any sleep tonight?’ she says, a laugh stopping in her throat.

  ‘Rain’s getting heavier,’ her mum says, glancing outside.

  They gaze at the darkening window. The tapping of the water louder now.

  ‘Shit! I left the washing out!’ Maisie jumps up. ‘Haven’t had to worry about that for a
while. I’ll head out and bring it in. You two go on to bed. I’ll lock up.’

  She hugs Ana on her way out. ‘It’s almost over. Crap as it is, it’s nearly finished.’

  *

  It must be well past midnight. She checks her clock: only 10.56 p.m.

  She has kicked the sheet off. It lies in a tangle on the floor. Her vest is damp. Her PJ shorts are twisted round her legs.

  Rain crashes outside. It must be that which has woken her.

  But she’s tense. The beating of her heart is fast, racing. She forces herself to take a deep breath. To listen.

  No, there’s a beep. It’s a noise that’s woken her, but she’s not sure what.

  Something is niggling in her brain. There’s something wrong. She doesn’t know what it is. Like when you might have left the iron on.

  Or left the washing out in the rain.

  There’s another beep. It’s a text message. She picks up the phone. There are two of them.

  LEO: Not gone yet, Ana.

  LEO: Got something you might want back.

  She runs down the corridor. She would call out but she still doesn’t have control of her breathing, and she’s crying. Not tonight. Please, not Maisie. Don’t let it be Maisie.

  The door to Maisie’s room cracks ajar, but the curtains remain open. The bed lies made.

  There’s no Maisie.

  There’s no one at all.

  67

  Friday 29th June

  MAARTEN

  ‘Katie, can I ask you about Katie? Aggie, who is Katie?’

  He sees her pupils shrink as she opens her eyes to the light. His hand is on her arm, but gently. It’s never entirely dark in the hospital, even at 11 p.m.; it had taken a while to be allowed to wake her.

  Pale, almost translucent, the blue is watery as her lids lift a crack.

  ‘Is it morning? Already? Did I sleep?’

  ‘Aggie, this is Maarten, the policeman. I’m Liv’s husband. She went home this morning, do you remember? You called her Katie?’

  The pale face is soft around the cracks that line her skin like ruts in the earth. They fill with tears. The rain has started outside. He can hear a clang, the ring of water on the glass panes.

  ‘Katie.’ She cries, her sobs come, and she gulps them back. She grabs his hand quickly, squeezing it tight, pulling him in. ‘I didn’t say,’ she whispers. ‘I promised I wouldn’t tell and I didn’t. Even when…’

  The sobs overtake her and the nurse steps forward.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, she’s getting upset. You can’t carry on,’ she says.

  ‘One more try?’ he asks. ‘Please?’

  Nodding, reluctant, stepping back, the nurse is nervous; glances at the door.

  He doesn’t have long.

  ‘Aggie, you didn’t tell about what? What was it that Katie asked you not to tell?’

  ‘I didn’t, I didn’t say a word. Not a word. Not even when I heard her mum was frail, and came back, asking round, asking everyone if they knew why she’d done it. I never said.’

  ‘What did Katie do, Aggie?’

  ‘Well, killed herself, of course!’ Aggie’s tone is now cross. She pushes Maarten’s hand away. ‘Be off with you! Pretending you don’t know she hung herself up in them woods. And all because of that baby. That little baby. Barely anything it was. Just a tiny heartbeat. A tiny beat. Then it was gone. It was all she wanted. Her dad had left them, her mother was never around. That baby was the brightest thing to happen to her. When she lost it, I saw her… broken. They talk about miscarriage like it’s nothing. When she bled, when she lost it, she grieved like she’d lost the breathing baby. And she thought he’d killed it – payback for what he did.’

  ‘What happened to the baby? Did someone hurt it?’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid! It was nature, taking its course. You can’t hurt it. Not like that. Only weeks it had been growing. Stupid, don’t be stupid.’ Aggie’s eyelids are falling and her head tips back down. He can see white hairs sticking up at angles from the chin, catching the shine of the strip light. The crevasses in her face, empty of water, relax out.

  ‘Katie killed herself? She hanged herself? Because she lost her baby?’

  ‘Barely eight weeks, it was, I’d guess. Barely anything at all. That baby was all the love she was missing. And she never even told the dad. She said she’d tried to tell her boyfriend but he’d run off. The dad was from school, she said. It broke her mum, her dying like that. Cried that she should have listened more, that she should have been there. They moved away, didn’t they. But I never said. I never said a word. It’s a sin, suicide, isn’t it. But I never said. She just needed someone to talk to. I know she’d have changed her mind, once it was too late.’

  The nurse steps forward again, and this time it’s clear she means it. ‘That’s enough now. We need to let her sleep.’

  *

  Outside the hospital, Maarten stands under the covered entrance, next to a patient in a white gown, smoking a cigarette and holding their IV unit, wheeled out alongside them.

  The rain falls on the flat roof above them and it’s hard to hear Adrika’s voice as she answers her phone.

  He doesn’t want to shout, to pass it on to everyone. But he needs to be heard. ‘Katie is the one who hanged herself. She must be Caitlin, it must be the same girl. And she had been pregnant. Only just, but she lost the baby very early. It’s got to be that. It must be.’

  Adrika’s voice crackles down. The rain soaking everything. Even the signal sounds waterlogged. ‘It says in the report she was found by her brother, an A. Miller. It’s him again.’

  Maarten looks up. The rain is biblical. Cigarette smoke curls back under the entrance, blown by the weight of the water cascading; torrents from the sky. It all started at the graveyard.

  ‘Something is niggling. Meet me in Ayot. I’m leaving now. We need to check the graveyard one more time. I know it’s late – shouldn’t be long,’ he says, and he pockets his phone then runs to the car.

  The smell of antiseptic and ash merges with the perfume of the newly soaked flowers. Nature bends under the downpour they have waited for, the earth has been thirsty for.

  It falls like a flood.

  68

  Two Years Earlier

  June

  LEO

  It’s dark. The wind is howling and Leo hears a noise. Listening in the black of night, he feels scared. It’s an uncomfortable sensation – he has no idea why he feels the fright. There’s nothing to fear out here. He’s camped in Canada, near the bears – there it makes sense to be on red alert. And in the Australian outback. There they have snakes.

  ‘Ben,’ he hisses. He shakes his brother but he’s dead to the world. ‘Ben,’ he says again, but nothing. He’s out for the count.

  Cursing, he unzips the tent and looks outside.

  In a second, he feels his head in a lock. He shouts, but there’s nothing, the hold just tightens. In the panic of the instant, he wonders if it’s an animal… but of course it isn’t. He’s being attacked.

  ‘My wallet’s inside,’ he stutters out. The air is cold and he can see the sea in the moonlight – black and purple.

  Something sharp pokes at his chest. He’s sure it’s a knife. He starts to panic, shifting left and right, but the hold round his neck is tight.

  A voice whispers in his ear. ‘Leo Fenton. Remember me?’

  Leo can’t see who it is, doesn’t recognise the voice. The sharp point at his chest presses hard. He’s wearing an old Springsteen T-shirt; he thinks of the grey soaking to black.

  ‘Who are you?’ he manages. Talking is difficult. His throat is tight. Panic makes his breath shallow.

  ‘Don’t worry so much about who I am as who my sister is. Is there anyone to whom you should be saying sorry, Leo Fenton? Anyone in this world?’

  There’s something about a wished-for penance, Leo thinks, in what is almost his last thought. You wish for it, but when it arrives, as this has arrived, all he can think abo
ut is the value of life. Of life bold and bright. The dark of the sea, of the night sky. This is his last vision. He soaks it up, desperately hoping Ben will wake. He starts to struggle – really struggle. He is strong, but these hands are stronger.

  ‘You’re Andy Miller,’ he manages. Tears fall down his face and he thinks of what he did. Has he always expected some kind of payback?

  ‘You’re Andy Miller,’ he says again, and the hold slackens off round his neck. The knife is still sharp, and he knows that to struggle too much will be deadly.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Leo asks, although he knows. He hears the accent twang, recognises the voice. ‘You’re the cyclist from earlier,’ he says. ‘But the accent?’

  Leo thinks of Katie’s elder brother. He had been an indie muso, with longish brown hair. Brown eyes. Girls had fancied him. He hadn’t recognised him at all.

  ‘‘Accents can be adopted, Leo. And I broke my nose surfing. Getting it fixed changed my face – that’s when I changed my name. Gave me a new start, for a while. But you think it’s easy holding on after your sister goes, just like that?’ His voice is soft, it creeps into Leo’s ear, like a serpent. Whatever accent he’d been affecting he drops now, as easily as he’d picked it up. ‘Let’s see how your brother handles it. Handles losing you. You fucking abandoned her. I found her. Hanging. Imagine that? You were her boyfriend. You should have been there. You deserve to pay.’

  Leo shouts. His own voice echoes back at him. He screams for Ben.

  ‘No point, mate. Popped some stuff in his beer.’

  The velvet sea, the midnight-blue sky. A full moon.

  He thinks of Fleeta, of Katie. He thinks of Ana.

  He thinks of Ben.

  69

  Saturday 30th June

  ANA

  ‘Maisie!’ The rain falls vertically, in lines of black rope that come from the sky and lie precisely perpendicular to the earth, like arrow rods. It lashes, throwing itself down, a beast. Plunging, bouncing back upwards, the drops hit the ground with rebound.