by Lucy Cameron
Elizabeth has a round, fat face and soft smile. She seems to smile all the time. Life is one big happy event from the moment she wakes until the moment she sleeps. Such a pleasant, well-mannered little girl. That’s what he hears the grown-ups say. Not like her brother. They all agree he is, well, a little bit odd. She’s always been so keen to help, his little sister. Follows Mother around. Does whatever is asked.
Mother was nicer then. No, don’t laugh. Now it seems that’s impossible. That his mind has made it up to give her some kind of redeeming feature she doesn’t deserve. But it’s true.
No, if Mother didn’t keep reminding him, he could quite easily forget all about her. About what happened in the previous chapter of his life. Life with smiling little Elizabeth. It could be that everything before this is a dream.
Mother always wanted a girl, she said she hadn’t realised it until she had one. A little girl to dress in pink with bows in her hair and frills on her socks. A little girl to teach how to bake and play tea sets with. To knit and sew for. To paint pretty pictures. He was the most important, then he was replaced by something better. Completely ignored with his bullish toys and close-cropped hair. That’s a lie. Not completely ignored, not if Elizabeth needed something.
She tried so hard to please, did little Elizabeth, to be liked, even then it made him feel sick.
Father left not long after Elizabeth was born. He obviously hated pink as much as the silent little boy, only he was big enough to leave. The boy never remembered his parents arguing. His father was there one day and gone the next. He became the shadowy outline seen leaving through the door, nothing more. Nothing more, nothing less. A nothing black shape. He never questioned why his father didn’t take him too. Father had made it clear he never really liked his son all that much. It was fine. The silent boy didn’t like him all that much either.
In the silent boy’s mind, his sister is so very small. That’s how he last saw her. Small and clean and pink, tucked under a silk sheet, surrounded by a cheap mahogany veneer. Everyone’s crying, saying his sister is gone. He shrugs then. He can clearly see her lying in the centre of the room. Mother starts to cry that day. Cry and shriek. She has done ever since.
He can tell by the look in Mother’s eyes that she blames him entirely. At first she doesn’t say it, but he can tell. It takes time to start bleeding out. The hatred is like a scab she isn’t able to stop picking. A sore that will only weep and never heal. She snaps one day when he drops a glass of milk. A putrid wash of hate floods over him. Elizabeth was always so good and he was always so naughty. He should have been watching her. He should have known better. He was the responsible one. And finally, how she wishes it had been him, wished he was dead. Silence hangs heavy in the air after the final words. Mother slaps her hand over her mouth involuntarily to mimic the wish that she had never said the words. Her eyes tell a different story. They dance with the liberation of speaking the truth. Now she is liberated there is no going back.
The silent boy and his sister were playing out one day when they were far too young to have been left alone. He suggests an adventure. She’s unsure, little Elizabeth. Unsure of anything without Mother there to hold her hand. He tells her not to be such a baby. Keen to please, to gain the respect and love she so seeks from her big brother, she follows him tentatively through the broken fence at the back of the garden. The silent boy knows exactly where they’re going. He’s been there before. He’s too young to be out alone but Mother doesn’t care or notice.
She’ll care now.
Through the small pocket of trees at the back of their house is a field. At the back of the field is an old dairy farm. It’s been shut for years. Closed when the final son of the family rejected two hundred years of family sweat and tears in exchange for a dream in the city. The For Sale sign has fallen down. Teenagers use the barns to drink and smoke and try to touch each other.
Through one of the barns full of rusty metal equipment, is a smaller room with a heavy metal door. At the back of this room is an even smaller room, not much bigger than a cupboard. The room has no windows. Floor to ceiling shelves. There are crates of glass milk bottles. Most of them are broken. He tells Elizabeth to be careful. Not to cut herself. He says they’re going to play a game. Hide and seek. She’s to stay in the little room and count to one hundred. He’ll go and hide. He knows she likes hide and seek. He has watched her play it with Mother. She nods, shivers slightly in the gloomy room. He can see she’s afraid, wants to ask if she can count somewhere else. She also wants to please him. To seem brave and grown up. The boy knows she can’t count to one hundred. Hasn’t learnt that far.
Her small voice starts. Cut off instantly as he steps out and slams the door of the little room. He just wants a bit of peace. A bit of peace and quiet to think. A bit of peace to spend some time with Mother, without his sister getting in the way. She’ll be okay in the little room for an hour or two. Maybe a little frightened, but it will be good for her. Perhaps she wouldn’t even notice. It could take her that long to try and count to one hundred. She starts knocking then. Calls out his name. Cries. Asks him to open the door. Cries that she’s frightened. Can he let her out? Cries that she wants Mother. He turns and walks away.
How was he supposed to know there wouldn’t be enough air? He was too young to possibly know these kinds of things, wasn’t he? He swallows the tiny smile and lets a tear roll down his cheek.
It didn’t take Mother long to call the police. She didn’t want to play with him. She wanted to pace and wring her hands and call Elizabeth’s name. It doesn’t take the police long to arrive and start asking questions. He thinks it best to say they were out playing. That Elizabeth said they should sneak off and explore. That he wanted to go back but she wanted to play hide and seek but never come to find him. Mother is shouting. Shouting why didn’t he say something sooner? He really cries then. Says he’s frightened. A policeman places a massive hand on his shoulder. Tells him to calm down. It isn’t his fault.
In the end, it doesn’t take them long to find her. The same way it didn’t take her long to run out of air.
The police rule it as an accidental death and really it is. An accidental death brought on by her own stupidity. She would have been panicking and flapping and wasting all the air. All she had to do was count to one hundred and by that time he would have been back. He would have gone back sooner too if Mother had just wanted to play one game with him. But he had to keep waiting. Hoping she would change her mind. Elizabeth was still the focus even when she wasn’t there.
He isn’t sad she’s dead. Not for one moment.
Builders come to the farm very soon after Elizabeth dies. Spurred into action that is long overdue. Very quickly they pull the place down and throw it in the bin. This is when Mother meets Strong Hands. He moves in not long after, and everything starts to change. So slowly the boy hardly notices his new existence until it takes shape and has him by the throat.
Now he is here, wet and cold and alone in the dark.
Somewhere far away, equally as dark but not quite as alone, he wakes up drenched in sweat and finally screams.
35.
Quinn stuffs food into his face. Rhys watches in silence. Quinn’s lips move. They flap and spit food. He’s trying to find a motive. Pull information together. Create, as he calls it, a ‘crime line’. He speaks behind a wall of water.
Rhys needs to speak, input. His lips won’t move. They feel glued together. Unlike his ears. They tingle. Pinprick sharp.
The voice at the crime scene was real. Not a dream. A fully formed sound, whispered from nowhere. It clings like a hand around his brain.
Is Anna right? Does he need to see a doctor? What if he’s told he can’t work? Or worse? He remembers what they did to his mother. Doctors are not an option. Too many questions in his head. The words fight to be heard.
Speak, Morgan. He chastises himself. Redeem yourself. Be needed.
Quinn doesn’t notice Rhys’s silence. He’s too busy trying t
o impress Chantelle Watts who appears from nowhere. Mind you, Quinn is cleverer than he looks. He probably is noticing. Storing away notes to tell the boss. Get him kicked off the case. Take all the glory. Is that why she’s here? Sitting with her extra dark make-up and cobweb stuff in her hair? Maybe she’s a spy? She seems too clever, for how she comes across. Come on. Think of something. Say something that will add weight, aid the investigation.
Where does the blood go?
Stupid question.
How does he remove the blood from the scene?
Stupider question.
Why is the blood being removed from the scene? Why? Why? Why? His lips part. There is no sound. Watts looks at him. His mouth closes.
Quinn pays the bill. Says they should go for a drink. He angles for Rhys to go home. Makes a comment about the kids. Rhys ignores him. He really needs a gin and tonic.
The Travellers’ Rest is decorated in the theme of a cave, which is a cop out – it pretty much looks like a cave the rest of the year too. Someone has half-heartedly strung fake cobwebs across the walls. Watts screams as she walks into a rubber spider outside the cloakroom. Quinn leaps to her rescue. He pretends to kill the spider to cries of ‘my hero’.
The boy behind the bar has made no effort on his costume. He’s bought one of those fake knives that look like you have been stabbed through the neck. He hasn’t bothered to try and hide the clips. He’s sprinkled a little fake blood onto his ripped white uniform. A lot more passion and effort has gone into the ripping than anything else. Rhys and Watts select a booth halfway up one side of the dance floor. Quinn gets the drinks in.
‘Pretty quiet in here tonight.’ It’s the first time Rhys has spoken since Watts joined them. It’s better than the silence.
‘A bit like you,’ Watts replies. She really could be a spy. ‘Everything okay?’ They both ponder the idiocy of the question until Quinn joins them.
‘Over eleven pounds for that round. I mean, it’s not like we are paying for the ambience is it? That’s your fault, Morgan, for drinking poncy girls’ drinks. No offence Chan.’ She smiles. ‘Why can’t you drink a pint like the rest of us?’ He takes a loud slurp. ‘So, I was thinking, a quick one here then the two of us could head on somewhere else?’
Their voices fade. Rhys watches a lone teenager dressed as The Crow, dance to the melancholy music. That hadn’t worked out so well for Brandon Lee now, had it? The gin is perfect. A little weak. He knew Quinn would be too tight to buy a double. Rhys’s eyelids start to droop. He’s so very tired. He could sink into the dirty booth and sleep forever. Except he doesn’t want to sleep. Is too afraid. Too afraid of the night-time visits and the creature that stalks him there. Here. Everywhere.
Shit.
He rubs his eyes. Must stay awake.
‘You look tired. We’ll leave you to it.’ Quinn is out of the booth before Rhys can speak. ‘See you tomorrow. Ciao for now.’ Rhys drains the last of the gin.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Two wide tumblers of ice and gin clink onto the table. ‘They call it mother’s ruin, you know.’ The voice laughs. ‘I hope me saying that doesn’t offend you.’
Rhys is tired. He should be at home. He needs to be at home. He needs to see his kids. Make amends with his wife. Get his head round everything that has happened. The last thing he wants is company, polite small talk.
‘Actually I was just…’ Rhys looks up. His heart freezes. He is looking straight into the piercing blue eyes of the man, the creature from his dream. The hospital. His street. His neighbour.
The creature smiles. Razor sharp incisors catch the light. Rhys’s mouth drops open.
‘As I suspected,’ says the creature, ‘time for another.’
36.
‘Who? What?…’ Rhys can’t find coherent words.
‘Why, where, when?’ The creature laughs, mocks. It slides into the booth opposite him. Pushes a glass of gin across the table. The glass leaves a watery trail of condensation. ‘Kier Finnegan.’ It extends a long, well-manicured hand.
This must be a dream. It’s what he read about, isn’t it? Lucid dreaming. That’s what’s happening. Right here, right now. A live feed of his life projecting straight out of his brain. Kier’s handshake is firm, cool. Very much real. Not asleep then? The other dreams all felt physically real, why should this be any different?
‘Stop torturing yourself. You’re awake. See.’ Kier’s hand darts across the table and pinches his arm. By the time Rhys flinches, it’s as if Kier never moved.
Kier takes a sip of his drink.
‘Close your mouth. People will start to stare.’ Rhys closes his mouth.
Kier tilts his head to one side. ‘It is good to finally meet you, Rhys Morgan. Up close, you are much more than I ever imagined. Unlike your choice of drinking establishment.’ Kier looks around in distain. ‘We shall have to work on that.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘No. Not really.’
‘Have we ever met?’
‘Again, not really. At least not properly.’
‘Did I see you at the hospital?’
‘Do you think you saw me at the hospital?’
‘What? Yes of course.’
‘Then you saw me at the hospital.’ Kier smiles. Looks at Rhys with intrigue. ‘I work there. I am a surgeon.’ He was at the hospital. That’s good, right?
‘And in the street, my street, last night?’ Rhys already knows the answer.
‘Of course. I live there. You didn’t seem… How can I put this politely? Capable of rational conversation?’
‘And whose fault is that?’
‘Hardly mine, Rhys. That really isn’t fair.’
Is this even real? How on earth can this be real? There’s no way this can be real. He should leave. Get up and go. But what if this is the only chance he ever gets for answers? They must have met somewhere before the hospital. Their paths must have crossed regardless of what this creature says.
‘Hardly likely, Rhys. I’ve only just moved back to town.’
Has he lost his mind? Is he actually sitting having a conversation with himself? Rhys has seen films like this. Could this creature be a character from his own mind? Can this character answer his questions? Answers only his subconscious knows? Shit. It’s complicated. Rhys takes a sip of gin.
Kier looks at him and sighs, shakes his head. Does Rhys detect pity? Rhys rubs his eyes.
In reality he feels fine. A little tired, but otherwise fine. If you were losing your mind, by the very definition, you would feel the opposite of fine. Sure, there have been a couple of moments of ‘not so fine’ but hardly anything life-changing. Not now, he knows he’s right. He has seen this Kier both times.
‘You are not losing your mind, Rhys.’ Kier’s voice breaks into his thoughts, bored. ‘Can you save the self-analysis until you get home? You humans are all so predictably boring.’ Kier looks at his nails. ‘Maybe I should have picked someone dumber, a little less self-conscious? But then where would be the fun in that?’
‘Sorry?’ Focus, focus, focus.
‘So you should be. I do have other things on tonight you know.’ Kier laughs loudly. ‘Which is odd as I usually hate Halloween. It’s all so contrived and well, wrong, don’t you think? So stereotypically predictable?’
‘I meant, sorry what did you say?’
When?’
‘Just then.’
‘What?’ Kier laughs, teases. ‘I know, I know.’ He lifts his palms. ‘I said you are all predictable, and a little boring. In the nicest possible way of course.’
‘You said “you humans”.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why would you say that? Are you taking the piss because it’s Halloween? Has someone put you up to this because I’m a copper?’ The words sound lame. He doesn’t care.
‘No.’ One simple word.
‘Who are you then?’
‘I’ve told you.’ Kier sits back.
‘What? No you haven’t. You’ve told me your name.’ Kier ra
ises an eyebrow, listens. ‘Why are you in my dreams?’ The words are out before Rhys can stop them.
‘Oh Rhys, you do flatter me.’ Rhys stares at him. Hard and blank. The smile fades from his lips. ‘Who do you think I am? Actually the more pertinent question would be, what do you think I am?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.’ Is this conversation even real?
‘Yes you do, of course you do. I have seen you up at night tucked away in that pretty little shrine of yours, internet surfing, as I am told it’s called. Always preferred books myself.’ Kier holds Rhys’s eye. Rhys feels his throat tighten.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes you do.’
‘No, I don’t.’
This is crazy. Get up and leave. This man is mad. Delusional. Possibly dangerous. He is saying ridiculous things. Making Rhys say ridiculous things.
Rhys wracks his brain. How are you supposed to deal with delusional people? Why hadn’t he paid more attention at the training session? Too close to home?
‘Rhys.’ Kier pulls his attention, a razor edge to his voice. ‘This is getting more than a little tedious. Go on, say it?’ Rhys can’t. ‘Yes, you can.’
Rhys takes a deep breath. This is crazy.
The other option is of course that this is some kind of surreal experience. Has he somehow ingested some drugs? Has Quinn slipped something in his gin?
It comes to him then. A flash of remembered inspiration. You are supposed to play along. It stops the delusional person turning nasty.
He looks Kier dead in the eye.
‘You want me to say I think you’re some kind of demon. A Nosferatu.’ Kier claps slowly. ‘Except you can’t be can you, not really. They don’t exist. Only crazy people, kids and depressed teenagers think that. Which does that make me?’ Kier pretends to ponder the question.
‘Let’s not go getting all philosophical here, Rhys.’ Kier yawns theatrically. ‘It is again all rather boring. Have you noticed how many things bore me, Rhys? It’s such a shame, isn’t it?’ Kier leans across the table. ‘You want to be more accepting, like that lovely little boy of yours.’ Rhys feels his face harden. Something like glee dances behind Kier’s eyes.