Vicious Rumer

by Joshua Winning

  So Celene’s into recruitment. And, going by the way she and Frank are staying on opposite sides of the room, carefully avoiding eye contact, there’s more than business between them.

  ‘Did you recruit everybody who lives here?’ I ask her.

  ‘Some of them. Most people just need a hand, a nudge in the right direction. Lots of them were homeless, or addicts, or both.’

  ‘And they repay you for giving them a roof over their heads by fighting the scourge of London.’

  ‘Basically.’

  The idea of Celene as some kind of Christ figure would make me cackle if it wasn’t so sinister. Everybody here is in her debt. I wonder if she’d kick them out if they refused to fight.

  ‘They want to fight.’ Celene’s looking right at me, as if she’s read my mind. How does she do that? ‘The thing you have to understand is that nobody wants to be a victim. Not if they’ve been through the worst kind of degradation imaginable. People want to feel empowered, and that’s what they get here. They can stop others from suffering the way they did.’

  ‘And Mara’s the Golden Goose,’ I say.

  ‘He’s a ruthless, conniving egomaniac and he must be stopped,’ Frank says.

  Because he’s on a mission to kill your girlfriend.

  It’s almost sweet.

  ‘But killing him won’t wipe the criminal underworld clean,’ I say.

  ‘It’ll knock it back a few steps,’ Celene says.

  ‘Meanwhile, you get your revenge.’

  ‘I’m not doing this for revenge.’ She sounds like she means it but I smell bullshit.

  ‘Mara made you public enemy number one and you don’t have a problem with that?’

  Celene doesn’t blink. ‘How I feel doesn’t matter. Mara’s dangerous and the police are under his thumb. It’s up to us to stop him.’

  ‘Because he believes a gun can make him immortal.’

  ‘Because he holds no regard for human life.’ She meets my gaze. ‘I know I’m the last person you’d expect to say that.’

  You said it, sister.

  ‘I did terrible things and I live with that every day. Believe me, I do, but Mara’s a sociopath. He’s tried everything. The black market, drugs, importing weapons. At one point he traded in slaves, shipping girls over from China. Now he thinks he can harness some kind of feminine power, this transvestite act, the thing with the Crook Spear, but he’s a fraud. Nothing he does comes from a place of honesty.’

  ‘Do you think the Crook Spear has some kind of power?’

  Her gaze is steady. ‘Rumer, none of that matters. It’s smoke and mirrors. It’s a distraction from what does matter, which is life. Freedom from fear and persecution.’

  And suddenly I realise Celene knew all along that Dominic visited me last night. She knows what Dominic told me. That I could break the curse by killing her. She’s been playing me ever since she brought me here. It’s the only reason she’d start spouting all this stuff about valuing human life – because she wants me to value hers.

  ‘I guess so,’ I say, because what else can I say? You’re a liar. You’re only out for yourself. You’re scared I’ll take you down.

  Does she think I’ll succeed? Or is she scared she’ll have to put me down, the way she thought she’d put me down all those years ago when I came out of her looking dead and purple?

  Frank gets up from the sofa and goes into the kitchen. ‘I should get back to cabin one.’ He washes up his mug and leaves it on the drier. So domesticated. Does he bring order to Celene’s life? Is that why they’re together?

  I try to focus on what’s important. Cabin one, that’s the base of operations around here.

  ‘Can I come?’ I ask.

  Frank shoots Celene a look.

  ‘I need to go over the directives for the Mara hit,’ he says uncertainly. ‘I’m not sure–’

  ‘I won’t get in the way. I want to see how this place works. It’s… interesting.’ A little ego-stroking never hurt anybody. ‘Besides, I’ve been around Mara, there may be some way I can help. Not that I really know anything…’

  ‘Let’s all go.’ Celene sets her mug on the coffee table next to mine and goes to the door. I’d been hoping for a little alone time with Frank, a chance to pick his brains about my mother, see how much she’s brainwashed the campers, but that can wait.

  On the way to cabin one, I catch Frank looking at me strangely, but I ignore it. Inside, he goes ahead of us to the operations room and unrolls a sheet of paper, laying it out on a workstation.

  ‘Vinter’s mansion,’ Celene says as we gather around it, a spotlight illuminating the blueprint.

  I try not to look too interested, but Celene must sense I want to know how they’re going to execute the job. I’ve already shown some interest. Perhaps she thinks we’ll work through our issues and she’ll train me up next. Train me to be a killer.

  ‘This is the entrance hall, and this is the ballroom,’ she traces a finger over the plan. ‘Most of the guests will be in there, going by my experience of Vinter’s parties. But Mara will probably head for the collection, where Vinter keeps the Crook Spear. That’s on the first floor, here.’

  My gaze runs over the whole plan. Vinter’s place is big. Like Buckingham Palace big. The kitchens are at the back, and the front of the house contains the ballroom and a couple of living rooms. The first floor has a number of smaller rooms, including a library, and one of those rooms contains the gun.

  The spider in my mind cranes forward, attempting to memorise the plan.

  ‘How do you know the Crook Spear’s in one of those rooms?’ I ask.

  ‘Vinter told me about it the last time I saw him,’ Celene says.

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘A month ago, when he assured me I’d have an invitation.’ She taps the workstation. ‘The gun’s the bait. Mara will want to get up there as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Vinter knows you’re planning on taking Mara out at his party?’

  Celene doesn’t blink. ‘As far as he’s aware, I’m coming for the kicks.’

  Vinter’s in for a treat.

  ‘And then what? You grab Mara, cuff him and haul him out of there?’

  ‘I’ll be the first from camp to arrive because I have an invite,’ Celene explains. ‘Once I’m sure Mara is at the party, I’ll open the gates using the control panel in the entrance hall, letting Frank and the others in. We’ll subdue Mara and take him out through the back.’ She points to an atrium at the rear of the house that leads into the gardens.

  ‘What about Mara’s guards?’ They’d be pretty conspicuous at Vinter’s party in their black masks.

  ‘Vinter won’t allow them in. He’ll be alone.’

  ‘And if they force their way in?’

  ‘We’ll be armed,’ Frank says.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, filing the information away. I’ve asked too many questions already, but I’m hoping they think I’m interested in their plan, rather than forming a plan of my own. I wander to the wall with the photos and clippings. My eye’s drawn to a photo labelled Magnus Vinter. He’s undeniably Scandinavian, striking sea-green eyes set into a chiselled face, his blond hair slicked back.

  Celene and Frank talk over the floorplan and the room’s starting to feel crowded, mostly with my thoughts.

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ I say.

  Celene looks up from the blueprint, the spotlight bright on her face. For a moment I think she looks suspicious, but then her gaze softens.

  ‘Be back for dinner.’

  I nod and make my way through cabin one, emerging into a drizzly afternoon. I consider going back to Celene’s cabin, rooting through her bedroom, but I have no idea when she’ll be back and it’s too risky. Besides, I really do need to clear my head, so I avoid the camp, slipping into the woods. I walk for a while, my mind crowded with Mara and Bolt and my mother.

  I have two nights before Vinter’s party. Plenty of time to figure out an attack plan.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
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  Celene makes us dinner, but I don’t have an appetite. My stomach’s sick with thoughts of Mara, what he’s doing to Bolt, and I can’t go more than a few minutes without Dominic’s bloated face bobbing into my mind. His body dangling by the neck like a duck in a Chinatown window.

  If my mother’s offended I don’t eat the vegetable stew, she doesn’t show it. She doesn’t give much away, which I suppose is what Frances used to say about me. I hate that even though Celene didn’t raise me, not even close, there’s a shard inside me that’s all her. A needle-like sliver of ice embedded deep down and, even if I tore at my flesh, there’s nothing I could do to prise it out.

  Frances knew how to help me forget about it. Frances got it.

  I clench my jaw. Missing Frances isn’t going to help.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ I say, leaving the table.

  ‘Sleep well.’

  I wish she’d give up the concerned mother act. Balling my hands into fists, I go upstairs and into my room. The room she made for me, with the purple cushions and the wheeling night light. Shutting the door, I check the knife’s still in the top drawer, then slip it under my pillow. I doubt I’ll have another midnight visit from one of Camp Virtus’ unstable residents, but it can’t hurt to take precautions.

  Just in case, I get into bed fully dressed, hugging my knees to me as I watch the door. There’s no lock and the thought of Celene checking in on me while I’m asleep makes my skin itch.

  I barely sleep all night. At one point I hear Celene’s bedroom door clicking shut, and then it’s just me and the shadows in my perfect room. If it really was perfect, I’d be able to sleep, but there’s something off about it. It’s on the wrong side of Stepford. A dream room, intangible, unreal. A room that imagines me and my mother could have some kind of life together. That we can be happy. That I’ll settle here. Bygones and all that.

  I must fall asleep at some point, because there’s a moment where I’m not in my room any more. I’m soaked to the bone, clawing my way out of a grave, grabbing my swollen belly with filthy hands, dirt prising my fingernails away from the soft flesh underneath. Pain tearing through my abdomen, I scream, and then a second scream joins it. Something slithers wetly from between my legs and, when I grab the shrieking baby, it has my mother’s face.

  When dreary morning light nudges into the room, I get up and go downstairs. Celene isn’t up yet, so I go out and sit on the porch, trying to get my thoughts into some sort of order as morning steals through the camp.

  ‘You’re up.’

  Celene’s coming up the steps to the porch. I’d assumed she wasn’t in because her door was closed, but she looks like she’s been up for hours. Maybe she’s been checking the camp perimeters after yesterday’s alarm. I didn’t hear her leave. Did I sleep longer than I realised? The thought sends spiders skittering down my spine.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Sleep well?’

  I nod, though the bags under my eyes probably tell her otherwise.

  ‘I’ll get some breakfast on.’

  I watch her through the window as she sweeps about the kitchen. I can’t help it. Whenever I thought of my mother before, how she’d been in the nineties, I imagined her scratching a living in a filthy squat, maybe eating rats or boiling pigs’ heads. I never imagined she’d be almost normal. Like everybody else. Killing aside.

  She’s a decent cook, too, serving eggs on toast with a sprig of something green. I watch her over the table as we eat, waiting for her to reveal her true face, the one I see in my nightmares, but she’s unreadable. She might even look content, in her own quiet way. Does she like having me here? Do I complete the picture of domestic perfection in her head?

  We walk in the woods after breakfast, barely talking, just existing together. It feels weirdly easy, being with her. Almost natural. I fight that feeling, knowing it’s wrong. Knowing I can’t even think about relaxing here.

  After lunch, Celene lays things out on the coffee table for the Mara hit. A hunting knife. A mobile phone. A pair of handcuffs.

  Watching her, I replay my plan in my head. Or the parts I know already. The catering van. The layout of Vinter’s house. The only thing I’m stuck on is how I’m going to get out of the camp without anybody noticing. I’ll need wheels. A map of the area.

  ‘Want some fresh air?’

  Celene’s by the front door. I go after her and we sit on the porch, looking over the camp. A faint mist hangs in the air but it’s stopped raining.

  ‘I never thought it was possible to miss somebody you’ve never known.’

  She’s staring into the trees lined up behind the cabin opposite, Domhnall’s cabin, and I realise she’s talking about me.

  ‘You’ve been my phantom limb for almost twenty years.’

  I don’t know what to say. I’m trying so hard not to buy into her bullshit, but she’s so good at it.

  A horn resounds through the camp and Celene shoots to her feet.

  The horn sounds again and I jump up.

  ‘Inside,’ Celene says, already heading for the steps.

  ‘Another false alarm?’

  ‘Get inside and don’t come out until I’m back.’

  I’d argue, but she’s halfway down the steps, and as I close the front door behind me, I realise I’m alone again. Alone in Celene’s home. Before I know it, I’m hurrying up to the landing and then I’m back outside her bedroom door again.

  This time I don’t hesitate.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I’ve stepped inside and it’s done.

  I’ve crossed that line.

  The smell of something like cedar and fabric softener meets my nostrils and I don’t hang back to think about what I’m doing. If it’s another false alarm, I probably don’t have much time. And if it’s Mara, well, that would present a whole other set of problems.

  The wardrobe contains a lot of black clothes and scuffed boots. The mirror on the back of the door has a faded sticker of a rock band.

  Where are the pagan stick figures and sacrificial knives? I thump the wall at the back of the wardrobe, but there’s no hidden alcove. I tug the carpet up in the corner, but the floorboards are firm, revealing no cubbyhole.

  This isn’t right. I don’t have much time; she could come back any moment and I’ve still not found anything. Sweat breaks out over my top lip and I frantically cross the room again and again, crouching to peer under the bed, then peering behind the bookcase.

  Nothing. Not a thing.

  I scan the books and they don’t help. Some detective novels, more self-help trash, a copy of Winnie-the-Pooh.

  One stands out from the rest, though. There’s no title on the spine and I realise it’s a photo album. I slide it free and flip the cover.

  I stare at a miniature version of me. I’m maybe seven years old, scowling at a boy on a swing. We’re in a park and I’m unaware there’s a camera on me.

  ‘What the–’

  Did Celene take this?

  I flip the pages and they’re all the same. Me outside school aged fourteen. Me walking somewhere, Troll hopping along next to me. Me in a car. Me and Frances at the supermarket.

  Me me me.

  How did she get these? How the hell did she get them?

  I can’t believe what I’m looking at. It’s a portal into my past, but through somebody else’s eyes. Celene said she searched for me after she abandoned me in Enfield, but according to these photos, she found me a long time ago. Has she followed me all this time? Has she been shadowing me my whole life?

  The irony of that isn’t lost on me.

  At the back of the album, there are newspaper clippings.

  MAN DIES IN FREAK ACCIDENT.

  It’s the story about Mr Carmichael, who sliced open his own throat with a malfunctioning power tool.

  TEEN DIES IN FREAK SCRAP YARD ACCIDENT.

  Troll.

  CHARITY WORKER DEATH ROCKS COMMUNITY.

  Frances.

  They’re all here. Everybody I’ve k
illed. Collated and preserved.

  Did she want me to find this?

  She sent me back to the cabin alone. She knew I could do anything I wanted without her supervising. Did she expect me to snoop around and find her little book of the dead?

  I want to tear my hair out. The constant doubt is splitting me right down the middle, cracking open my ribcage and dragging my guts across the floor. Any more of this and I’ll lose my mind.

  Gunfire rattles outside the window and I snap the album shut. I edge over to the window and peer out into the woods at the back of the camp. Dark shapes dart between the trees. I can’t tell if they’re Celene’s fighters or Mara’s. I don’t know which is worse.

  Whiteness flares and the window smashes into lethal shards.

  I drop to the floor, pressing myself flat.

  Across the room, the closet doors are shredded by gunfire.

  A low whooshing sound is accompanied by orange light and a flaming object sails through the window. Even as I look up, the wardrobe catches fire.

  Gripping hold of the album, I worm across the floor, straining with the effort. The closet’s ablaze and choking black smoke ripples over the ceiling. Wood spits and pops.

  At the door, I heave myself onto the landing. I reach into the room, grabbing the door and swinging it shut.

  That should buy me some time.

  A terrible thought hits me.

  What if Celene’s the one who tried to shoot me through the window?

  I know it doesn’t make any sense, not after the way she’s been. And the album. Why does she have the album?

  Racing down the landing, I take the stairs two at a time. At the bottom, I crouch low. The windows don’t exactly offer much protection. If somebody’s in the cabin opposite, they’ll be able to see right inside. I’m a sitting duck.

  WHUMP.

  Another flaming object ricochets into the cabin on the other side of the encampment and it goes up in flames. Within a few seconds, the front door flies open and a burning figure thrashes out, toppling over the railing and flailing out of sight.