Hideout

by Jack Heath

  ‘Ah.’ He beams. ‘I was so young. There was so much I didn’t …’ He trails off.

  ‘This one’s my favourite.’ I point to the page.

  He peers at it. ‘Ah! “Mesopotamia”. They always asked me about that one in interviews, you know. I had to pretend like it meant something.’ He sits down on the bed. ‘That’s what we’re all doing, isn’t it? All the time. Pretending like it means something.’

  ‘Interviews?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I was a hot young writer.’ His smile turns bitter. ‘Years later, I realised no one ever said I was a good writer. Just hot and young. My hair started to turn grey when I was only twenty-four, so I shaved it off. I started moisturising. Exercising. None of it helped. No one wanted my second book. Actually, no one wanted my first book either. My poems were popular on Instagram but not in bookshops. The few copies that sold were given away as gifts to people who never read them …’

  As he rambles, I feel an unexpected burst of contempt. By the time I was his age, I was homeless and starving. My parents were dead. My dreams were filled with blood. Cedric doesn’t know what problems are.

  I keep my voice even. ‘So you found the site and offered to be one of the Guards.’

  ‘No. I wanted to be one of the prisoners.’

  That throws me. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I hated myself,’ Cedric says, his voice tinted with something like pride. ‘I thought I deserved to be punished.’

  He wanted thousands of people to see him suffer. Part of me wonders if this was just a poorly thought-out way to promote his book.

  ‘They wouldn’t take me,’ he continues. ‘The Guards only imprison the worst of the worst. People who can’t be redeemed. But Fred saw my potential. He said my words could hack people’s brains, make them feel something. That’s a valuable skill, he told me.’ Cedric’s eyes finally focus on the laptop. He sees a picture of me on a major news site, right next to the headline: UNIVERSITY STAFFER SOUGHT ON CHARGES OF FALSE IMPRISONMENT.

  ‘Googling yourself, huh?’ He smiles sadly. ‘I used to do that all the time.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘At least they caught my good side.’

  He stares at the article for a while, but I can tell he’s too high to concentrate on it.

  ‘You look tired,’ I tell him. ‘You want to take a nap while I finish up here?’

  ‘I really shouldn’t.’ But Cedric is already lying down. ‘I have so much work to do.’

  As he closes his eyes, I glance down at the open page of his book.

  Mesopotamia

  Why shouldn’t my heart be a stone? A stone, forged in volcanic fire

  Can bear so much

  A stone will never be anything

  Other than what it appears

  A stone will always be here

  For you

  Doesn’t even rhyme. Maybe Cedric should be locked up with the other prisoners.

  I save a screenshot of the doctored site. It might be useful later. Then I answer a few more support tickets. When I look back at Cedric, he’s asleep.

  He’s thin, but not everywhere. There’s some meat on his upper arms, and his calves.

  His breaths are shallow. It would be easy to stop them altogether. It would look like an overdose. I could steal the body after the Guards have examined it.

  He volunteered to be tortured and killed, says the dark voice in my head. It wouldn’t even be murder. More like assisted suicide.

  I close the door, and kneel next to the bed. I reach under Cedric’s robe and squeeze his thigh gently. He doesn’t wake up.

  My heart is racing. I didn’t plan this. I haven’t prepared. But it’s too good an opportunity to waste.

  I reach for the spare pillow—

  And the doorbell rings.

  CHAPTER 12

  I am a hole, yet I’m not empty. Sometimes you can see right through me, sometimes you can’t. What am I?

  I leap to my feet. Cedric stirs, eyelids fluttering, but he doesn’t wake up.

  I quickly scan the room for signs that I was about to murder its occupant. There’s nothing, so I duck out and run towards the living room.

  By the time I get there, Zara, Kyle and Donnie are in a panicked huddle.

  ‘Who the fuck is at the door?’ Donnie whispers. ‘Why didn’t our phones go off?’

  ‘I’ll check the cameras,’ Kyle says, hurrying towards the basement.

  ‘The cameras are all in the woods. This is someone on our goddamn doorstep.’

  I share their unease. It’s a long driveway off a dirt road off a long-since bypassed highway. No one should be here by accident.

  ‘Where’s Fred?’ I ask.

  ‘Still out searching for the guy from last night,’ Zara says.

  ‘Maybe he locked himself out.’

  ‘He would never ring the bell. None of us would. The bell is a warning system. Someone is here who shouldn’t be.’

  ‘Where are Samson and Cedric?’ Donnie asks suspiciously.

  ‘Samson’s still out with Fred,’ Zara says.

  ‘And Cedric’s asleep,’ I put in.

  Donnie and Kyle look incredulous—who could sleep through this noise?—but Zara doesn’t seem surprised.

  The doorbell rings again. It’s not the gentle bing-bong that would suit a luxurious house like this; it’s a harsh buzz, like you’d hear inside a prison. This is followed by a sharp knock.

  Zara has tiptoed over to the front door to check the peephole. Her eyes widen.

  ‘Police,’ she mouths at us.

  A brief surge of relief. Help has arrived. Then I remember that if the cops arrest the Guards, I’ll go hungry.

  Donnie turns and heads for the armoury.

  ‘Wait,’ I say. ‘How many?’

  Zara holds up one finger. Not enough to arrest anybody. Donnie will just kill the cop on our doorstep. I can’t let that happen.

  ‘Donnie, wait,’ I say. ‘One cop isn’t a raid. We can convince him to go away, but not if you start shooting.’

  Kyle comes back up the stairs. His voice is frantic. ‘The car came up the drive about two minutes ago.’

  ‘Why didn’t we get an alert?’ Zara says.

  ‘We probably did. Check your phone.’

  ‘Two minutes is long enough to tell the precinct he made it here,’ I say. ‘If they don’t hear from him again soon, they’ll send more.’

  ‘The driver was a woman,’ Kyle says.

  Donnie returns, holding two shotguns.

  ‘Wait,’ I say again. ‘I can get rid of her.’

  ‘So can I,’ Donnie says, inserting cartridges into his shotgun.

  ‘If you shoot her, more will come.’

  ‘We can be gone by then.’

  ‘Let me talk to her,’ Zara says. ‘She might be more inclined to trust another woman.’

  That sounds like crap to me. ‘Why would a woman who looks like you live alone in the middle of nowhere?’

  I hoped the flattery would convince her to back off, but it backfires. ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘You can be my husband.’

  ‘What?’ I say, but Zara is already walking back towards the door. I run after her.

  The doorbell buzzes again.

  Zara shakes her hair out and messes it up. ‘Unbutton your pants,’ she says, and reaches for the doorhandle.

  I barely get it done in time. Zara opens the door, revealing a police officer.

  She’s white, fifties, five-foot-nothing in the black boots and tan uniform of a county sheriff’s deputy. She turns back to face us as the door opens, like she’d already given up and started to walk back to her cruiser. It looks like the Guards’ problem would have solved itself had Zara not opened the door.

  ‘Sorry,’ Zara says. ‘We were just—’

  ‘Vacuuming,’ I say.

  ‘Washing up,’ Zara says at the same moment.

  ‘I was vacuuming, she was washing up.’ I clear my throat. ‘What can we do for you, officer?’

  The deputy looks at Zara’
s dishevelled hair and my unbuttoned pants, and gives a slight nod. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she says. ‘I’m Deputy Lewis. Can I come in?’

  It’s a reasonable request. Snow has started to fall behind her.

  I glance back through the doorway. From here, I can see Donnie in the kitchen holding one of the shotguns.

  ‘The place is kind of a mess,’ I say, hoping Donnie will take the hint and get out of sight. ‘But if you really need to …’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I won’t take up too much of your time.’ Lewis watches us closely as she talks. ‘A hiker has gone missing in this area. It’s been three days since his family heard from him.’

  Zara puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘Oh God, that’s awful!’

  ‘Hiking, at this time of year?’ I say. ‘He must be nuts.’

  A thin smile from Lewis. ‘Well, the County Sheriff’s Office likes to look after the entire community, not just the sane individuals within it, so we’re canvassing the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Not much of a neighbourhood,’ Zara says. ‘It’s just me and David out here.’

  I’m David, apparently. My false identities are getting harder to keep track of.

  ‘So you folks haven’t seen anything?’ Lewis asks.

  ‘We haven’t been outside much on account of the weather,’ I say.

  Lewis glances at my open fly again. ‘Right. The weather.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Zara asks. ‘The hiker.’

  ‘Name of Floyd Harris. He’s forty, married, three kids. Walks the Sundress Hills Trail by himself every year, according to his wife, but I guess this time he went off the path. We’ve walked the whole way along it, looking for him.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of the Sundress Hills,’ I say.

  ‘Me neither, until the missing persons report was filed.’ Lewis looks carefully at Zara. ‘Is everything okay out here in general?’

  She seems to think I might be dangerous. Astute of her.

  ‘We’re doing just fine.’ Zara threads an arm around my waist and holds me close. Her body is warm, her abdomen soft through her shirt.

  ‘Yup,’ I agree.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Lewis offers a card to Zara. ‘Well, if you see anything, give me a call.’

  Zara takes the card and examines both sides of it. ‘Will do.’

  Lewis clomps back down the stairs to the driveway, hands clenched into fists against the cold. Strange that she didn’t bring a picture of the hiker to show us.

  Snow has started to settle on the roof of her patrol car. As she climbs in and takes one last look at us through the windshield, Zara kisses me on the cheek.

  ‘Well done, sweetie,’ she says.

  ‘You too.’

  I watch as Lewis starts her engine, reverses out and drives away. Another chance to do the right thing, disappearing into the snow.

  CHAPTER 13

  Which animal keeps track of time?

  We find Donnie in the kitchen, still clutching his shotgun. ‘Is she gone?’

  ‘She’s gone,’ I say.

  ‘Did she call for backup?’

  ‘No.’ Actually, she didn’t touch her radio before driving away. Seems odd that she didn’t tell the precinct she’d finished talking to us. If she has a car accident on her way back, a SWAT team might show up here, assuming we’re responsible for her disappearance.

  ‘Good news.’ Zara straightens her hair. ‘The guy last night was just a hiker. His family hasn’t heard from him, so the police are just asking around.’

  This can’t be the whole story—the hiker knew my name somehow. But at least my immediate problem is solved.

  ‘Huh.’ Donnie looks relieved, but also annoyed that he won’t get to shoot anybody. ‘Good job, Lux.’

  ‘Zara was very convincing,’ I say.

  Zara squeezes my shoulder. ‘You make a great husband.’

  Kyle clears his throat. ‘We all should get back to work then, I guess.’

  ‘Right,’ Donnie says. ‘Come on, Lux. Let’s feed the inmates.’

  ‘Sure.’ I try to sound casual. No one has noticed the sabotaged cameras yet, or at least, they haven’t mentioned them.

  Donnie collects the masks. This time I’m Frankenstein and he’s the witch. I can taste his breath from yesterday inside the mask.

  Swapping faces probably disorients the prisoners. They can’t be sure who’s who, or even how many Guards there are.

  We go out the back door and up the hill towards the slaughterhouse. I listen for approaching sirens, and hear nothing. Officer Lewis must have been fooled.

  Donnie unlocks the door and heaves it open, casting a long rectangle of light on the stained floor. By day, the slaughterhouse looks shabbier. The sets are revealed to be plywood, the props plastic. But looking at the prisoners creates the opposite effect. The bags under their eyes, the scars on their chests and the chains around their wrists and ankles look all too real.

  Donnie hands me a stack of plastic bowls and a bucket of dog food. ‘I’ll be checking on things over there,’ he says, gesturing vaguely towards the greenhouse. ‘Holler if you need anything.’

  None of the prisoners make eye contact as I walk in, but I can feel them watching me as soon as I look away from them. They remind me of zoo animals. Not the cheery ones that run over at feeding time, like monkeys and otters. Nor the big ones that don’t care you’re there, like tigers or alpacas. They’re like eels, or octopuses. Afraid of visitors, always desperate to get out of sight, cowering in the hidey-holes not quite big enough to conceal them.

  I put down the bucket in the centre of the room. I’m hungry. Is there real beef in the dog food? Some vegetarians buy meat for their dogs. I don’t know why—the cows are no better off in dog biscuits than in burgers.

  ‘Ironic, right?’ One of the prisoners has worked up the courage to talk to me. He’s Indian American, forty-something, with deep-set eyes under a heavy brow. He’s going both bald and grey. His clothes look like old army fatigues, with leaves and dead grass glued to them.

  ‘What is?’ I open the bucket and scoop some dog biscuits into a bowl. The sour smell is sickening. Even I wouldn’t eat that—and I once ate my own thumb. Dogs must hate humans.

  ‘It needs to be closer,’ the man says. ‘I can’t reach.’

  One of his hands is free, the other is chained to the floor. All the men are secured like that, by one wrist. The women are chained by one ankle instead. This man looks withered and weak, but I don’t want to come within reach of his free arm. I nudge the bowl with my foot so it slides over to him, the dog biscuits rattling inside.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘You must be the new guy.’

  I cock my head. He can’t see my face behind the mask. ‘New guy?’

  He’s not fooled. Maybe he recognises my voice from yesterday, or noticed that I only have nine fingers.

  ‘I’m Gerald,’ he says.

  ‘Lux.’

  ‘Was it you, last night?’

  He’s asking if I sabotaged the cameras. I pretend to misunderstand: ‘I didn’t pull the trigger.’

  ‘Oh.’ This time he buys it. I can see him trying not to look disappointed.

  ‘What are you in for, Gerald?’

  He swallows. ‘Rape.’

  I’d read the profile of the Rapist on Cedric’s computer. A year ago, he concealed himself among the trees of Memorial Park dressed in a homemade ghillie suit. When the sun went down, he assaulted a court stenographer on her way home from work. She later said it was like the forest had come to life and attacked her. After the rape, he attempted to blind her with a vial of acid so she couldn’t identify him. It must have worked, because he was arrested but never charged. The profile included hacked emails and text messages with his attorney, which revealed what he’d done. There were also screenshots of several news articles, complete with photographs of Gerald—looking a lot fatter and happier than he is now.

  ‘It’s bad, I know,’ Gerald says. ‘But this isn’t justice.’

  I move
on to the next prisoner, no longer interested in conversation. This one is dressed in black, with a swastika armband. I guess she’s the Nazi. I recognise her from some photos, too.

  Looking around, I realise that all the prisoners are in costume. The guy in the brown rags must be the Isis fighter. The woman in white is the KKK Queen.

  The Scammer’s body is still here, in the early stages of decomposition. He would still be edible, but not for much longer. Now that I’m paying more attention, I realise his dirty jacket is a lab coat. I can see his bare chest underneath it, covered with scars—some from sharp implements, some blunt, some hot. None older than two months or newer than two days. There’s a tattoo, hard to read against his dark skin. It’s a jagged line, like an ECG, and some heavily stylised text which I think says RECYCLE ME.

  I’ve seen similar tatts on bodies in the FBI morgue. Those bodies were usually missing hearts, kidneys, livers—people acquire the tattoo to make sure doctors know that they’re organ donors. Or to get themselves laid. Apparently generosity is sexy.

  If he’s an organ donor, surely he wouldn’t mind if—

  ‘We don’t deserve this,’ Gerald is saying. ‘No one deserves this.’

  The Nazi holds out a hand for a bowl of dog food. I know what she did, too. She walked up to the tall spiked fence surrounding a Jewish school in Minnesota during recess, dropped a lit cigarette into a milk bottle filled with gasoline and flung it over. No one died, but three children and a teacher were hospitalised with severe burns. In her photos alongside the news coverage, she was smiling. Even before I got here, I knew about this attack. The TV news couldn’t use any footage of the children, but they made the most of the screaming teacher being loaded into the ambulance.

  I give her the dog food and move along to the Terrorist, who flew to Syria and fought for Isis, taking several wives and trying to bring about the end of the world. He takes his bowl with long, almost skeletal fingers. These people are like the living dead, their tastiest assets starved away to nothing.

  I move on to the Abuser. She’s Latina, forties, wearing the torn remains of an evening gown. She looks better fed than the others, and has fewer obvious signs of injury, yet she looks more afraid of me than they do. I wonder how the Guards have punished her. I know from her file that she tied up her husband during a sex game and then burned him over and over with a cigarette lighter before skipping town with all his possessions.