Hideout

by Jack Heath

  The attack at the school really happened—I knew about it before I got here. But she looks and sounds like she’s telling the truth. She’s not the perpetrator.

  I glance over at Ivy. ‘And you?’

  She just turns her face away. Maybe she’s still scared of me, and rightly so. I’m the only guilty person in here.

  I’ve been an idiot. Right after I fooled Cedric by adding a photograph of myself to a news article about Lux, I read profiles on all the prisoners, complete with photos and articles. I fell for my own trick.

  I’ve misunderstood the Guards’ business model. They lock up innocent people and blame them for real crimes, finding their victims via relevant social media posts to make the illusion more convincing. A right-wing podcaster becomes a Klansman, an anti-war type is turned into an Isis fighter, a shitposter is turned into a Nazi.

  Except …

  The Guards really seem to think these people are guilty.

  Donnie’s voice in my head, full of pride: We got a Naziback there. We got a paedophile. We got a rapist. We got a domestic abuser. We got a paid-up member of the KKK. We got a fucking Isis fighter. There’s nothing sleazy about giving these people what they deserve.

  Kyle told me that Druznetski, the private investigator, does background checks on all the inmates. Making sure they’re guilty. It sounds like Druznetski is lying to the rest of the Guards. Why?

  A loose thread tickles something in my brain, but I can’t quite catch it.

  ‘Now isn’t the time for this,’ Thistle says. ‘Amar—try to tighten the handcuff.’

  ‘Tighten it?’

  ‘Yeah. Just one notch.’

  Snick. ‘Ow.’

  ‘Okay, it’s a single-lock. That’s good news.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like good news,’ Amar grumbles.

  ‘It’s easier to pick. I’ve done it plenty of times. I’d do it right now if I had something sharp. Can you bend the nail?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Try. Bang the cuffs against it.’

  ‘I’m likely to stab myself in the wrist.’

  ‘Do you want to get out of here or not?’ Thistle’s voice is hard. ‘There’s a spring-loaded bar inside the mechanism. You need a bent nail to push it back. Or you could always chew your own thumb off instead. Worked for this asshole.’

  ‘Don’t,’ I advise Amar. ‘Not now that you’ve tightened the cuff. You’ll still be stuck, and you’ll bleed out.’

  Amar looks from me to Thistle and back, horrified. He’s no Isis fighter, that’s for sure.

  ‘What is wrong with you two?’ he demands.

  I open my mouth to defend Thistle—there’s nothing wrong with her—but she’s already talking: ‘Just try, okay? There’s a flat plate on the opposite side of the cuff from the keyhole. Bang that part on the tip of the nail. Gently.’

  Tap, tap.

  ‘It’s not bending.’

  ‘Harder,’ Thistle says.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  ‘Stop,’ I say.

  Because the lock outside is rattling. The big door creaks open.

  Kyle enters. He’s wearing dirty trainers, faded jeans and a ripped sweater. Under his baseball cap, I can tell that his hair is a mess. I resist the urge to tell him to comb it.

  He comes straight over to me, carrying a bottle of water and a steaming bowl of food. More of Samson’s stir-fry. A dead man’s leftovers now a week old.

  Kyle puts the bowl and the bottle on the floor. ‘Eat up.’

  I reach for the food with a hand that isn’t there, and then another one which turns out to be cuffed to the wall.

  Kyle smirks. Somehow, this hurts more than the look of betrayal he wore before. He’s learned the same lesson I did at about his age—people can’t hurt you if you don’t care about them.

  ‘I’m not a cop,’ I say. Technically true.

  ‘He is,’ Hailey says unhelpfully.

  ‘Zip it, bitch.’ Kyle picks up a spoonful of defrosted rice and beans and holds it out for me. My stomach growls. I lean forwards to take a bite, but he eats it instead.

  ‘So,’ he mumbles through the food, ‘who killed Samson?’

  I don’t know, and I won’t get far pretending I do. ‘Zara sent you, didn’t she?’

  His nostril twitches.

  ‘She stopped Donnie from killing me because she wanted to know what I knew,’ I continue. ‘But she didn’t want to come in here and ask. You know why?’

  Kyle scoops up another spoonful and holds it up. He’s made a mistake. The spoon is out of reach, but his foot isn’t. I could kick his ankle, snap it like a chicken bone. I can feel all the other prisoners waiting for me to do just that.

  I don’t.

  ‘Tell me who did it,’ he says.

  ‘One of the Guards.’ I rest my head against the wall. ‘Whoever it is, they want me dead: to hide their secret. So anyone who talks to me is a target, too. Zara didn’t want that to be her. She sacrificed you, instead. She’s like a coal-miner and you’re like her canary.’

  ‘I’m what?’ I’ve lost him.

  ‘She’s not the only one trying to throw you under the bus. Ever wonder why Fred makes you do all the trips to the post office? You’re on the cameras there. The staff know you. Your fingerprints are on the packages. Fred’s even used your real name on some paperwork. If the Guards ever get caught, you’re going to look like the mastermind.’

  Kyle refuses to be distracted. ‘Who killed Samson?’

  ‘Listen to me. You can’t trust the Guards. You should take one of the cars and get out of here. Go home to Ackerly before—’

  ‘You’re not ready to talk? Fine.’ Kyle turns to leave.

  The prisoners wait for me to kick him in the back of the leg. Knock him down, get his keys somehow. I don’t.

  ‘Samson’s killer.’ I raise my voice. ‘I’ve narrowed it down. It’s not Donnie or Zara, because they didn’t let me die. It’s not Fred, because I was with him when Samson got shot.’ I force myself to ask: ‘Was it you?’

  Kyle’s eyes widen. ‘Me?’

  He sounds so shocked that I feel a pang of guilt for suspecting him.

  ‘You haven’t got a clue,’ he says. ‘You’ve been bluffing this whole time.’

  ‘Kyle—’

  He kicks me in the face.

  My head snaps back and bangs against the wall. The slaughterhouse swings around me and suddenly I’m on the floor, one arm up in the air, still suspended from the cuff, like I want permission to ask a question.

  Sideways, I watch Kyle storm back out. He slams the door.

  He’s forgotten to lock it. It creaks back and forth in the cold breeze. A slice of freedom is visible, but none of us can get to it.

  Can’t get to the stir-fry, either. Kyle left the bowl just out of reach.

  ‘Hey, push that over here with your foot,’ Amar says.

  ‘Kyle’s a piece of shit,’ Hailey says, maybe trying to endear herself to me and get the food for herself.

  ‘Goddamn it, Blake.’ Thistle shifts on the floor, her chains jingling. ‘He was within range. You could have knocked him over. He had the keys.’

  I work my jaw from side to side. Kyle’s kick has loosened it. I think of the snake in the woods, opening wide to swallow a rat—and nevertheless starving to death.

  ‘He might be my son,’ I say.

  Thistle stares at me, baffled. ‘What?’

  I’m still dizzy. Blinking like I’m high. ‘I think I’m Kyle’s father.’

  Thistle’s mouth falls open. ‘I thought you were a virgin. Before.’

  ‘From a sperm donation. He’s about the right age, and he looks just like me. Acts like me, too.’ I spit some blood on the floor and look out the half-open door, where Kyle disappeared. Silence outside. ‘Is it possible to love someone you don’t even like?’

  Thistle doesn’t respond.

  ‘That’s deep,’ Amar says. ‘Now pass the fucking food already.’

  I stretch out with my foot, but I can’
t reach it. I try to prop myself up on my elbow, forgetting that my elbow is gone. For a split second my weight is on the bandaged stump. I collapse, groaning with agony.

  ‘Cry me a river,’ Hailey says. ‘You don’t know what hurting is.’

  ‘Your son.’ Thistle coughs, and then the cough turns into a laugh. A demented chuckle, bouncing around the walls in the gloom.

  I feel my stump. It’s bleeding again. The sharp edge of bone isn’t tender anymore. It’s like the nerves around it have died.

  The sharp edge of bone.

  The sharp edge.

  Sharp.

  Thistle gives up on me. ‘Amar? How are you going with that nail?’

  I rest my stump on the concrete, deliberately this time, and roll onto it. The pain is like lava, not just in the stump but everywhere, flowing up from my stomach towards my oesophagus. I stifle a sick moan.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ someone says. Could be Hailey, could be Amar. Could be me.

  ‘Grrargh!’ For a second, all my weight is on the stump. It’s agony. And then—

  Snap! The curved piece of bone splinters off. I gasp through chattering teeth. I’m suddenly freezing.

  ‘Jesus,’ someone says.

  Can’t black out. It’s all for nothing if I do.

  The broken shard of bone is in a puddle of blood on the floor. I can’t reach it with my cuffed hand. Instead I wriggle around on the floor like a fish, using my chest to push the shard up towards my head. It leaves deep scratches all over my torso. At least it’s sharp enough.

  I rest my face in the puddle of blood for a second, and pick up the bone shard with my lips.

  I’ll only get one shot at this. Don’t fuck up, Timothy.

  I take a deep breath and spit the bone towards Thistle. It lands right next to her hips.

  ‘Can you pick the lock with that?’ I wheeze.

  Maybe she says something back. Maybe not. The world goes grey and fluid, and I collapse back into the puddle.

  Some time later, I feel Thistle grabbing my four-fingered hand. Fiddling with the lock and finally popping it open with my homemade skeleton key. My arm flops to the floor. The blood pumps in and out of it. It feels like I’m holding a beating heart in my fist.

  ‘Leave me behind,’ I mumble. ‘You can come back and arrest me later.’

  ‘Shut up. Drink this.’ Thistle pushes something into my mouth. The water bottle. I slurp greedily at it, and choke.

  ‘Quiet,’ she says. ‘We don’t know how far away they are. We have to go—now.’

  I swallow. Some of the nausea eases. The dark fog recedes, leaving a moment of clarity. Just long enough for me to realise something.

  ‘Don’t unlock Ivy,’ I say.

  Thistle frowns. ‘What?’

  I turn my head and see that she’s already freed the others. All of them. Ivy looks at me, eyes wide.

  I meet her gaze. ‘She’s been spying on you all. For Fred.’

  CHAPTER 38

  Smoke us, play us, fill us with water—what are we?

  The other prisoners all just frown. No one believes me—until Ivy bolts towards the open door.

  ‘Grab her!’ Thistle hisses.

  Amar manages to snatch Ivy’s wrist. She trips, and they both hit the concrete floor. She screams, ‘Help!’

  Thistle slaps a hand over her mouth, muffling the sound. She and Amar keep Ivy pinned to the floor. Thistle’s knee is on her back.

  We all wait. The dogs moan and wail outside. No one comes out of the house. Hopefully the Guards didn’t hear us.

  Thistle looks at me. ‘Start talking.’

  ‘She didn’t have visible injuries like everyone else.’ I try to stand. My legs shake. It’s not just exhaustion, or blood loss—having only one arm has thrown off my balance. ‘Someone gave her thermal underwear. She looked like she had been eating better, too. Fred doesn’t let the other Guards touch her. And when I pretended to torture her, she played along too well. She was used to it.’

  Ivy makes angry noises, maybe objecting to the word pretended. She would still be sore from that final punch. I remember her screaming, Help me! Not to the other prisoners—to the Guards.

  ‘Druznetski didn’t tell Fred who I was.’ I stagger over to them. ‘That was bullshit. It was Ivy. Fred took her away for a shower and then came back knowing. You told Ivy, she told him. Look in the confessional, near where she was chained up. Dollars to doughnuts you’ll find something you didn’t know she had.’

  Emily is already opening the door. ‘Motherfucker!’ She holds up a tube of antiseptic lotion.

  Hailey aims a kick at Ivy, who shrinks back in terror. ‘You goddamn treacherous—’

  Thistle shoves Hailey away. ‘Back off.’

  ‘Leave her chained up here,’ I say.

  ‘No.’ Thistle is still holding Ivy against the floor. ‘We don’t know what the Guards will do to her.’

  ‘Who gives a shit?’ Emily demands. ‘She’s working with them.’

  ‘We’re not leaving her behind.’ Thistle takes her hand off Ivy’s mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ivy croaks. ‘I couldn’t take it anymore.’

  ‘Fucking bitch,’ Hailey says.

  Thistle ignores this. ‘Hey. Look at me.’

  Ivy does, with big, wet eyes.

  ‘You want to come with us?’ Thistle asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’ll be quiet?’

  Ivy nods desperately.

  ‘Okay. Let’s go, before that kid realises he forgot to lock the door.’

  ‘This is bullshit,’ Amar says.

  ‘We can’t just walk to the nearest town.’ I cough and wipe my mouth. ‘They could notice we’re missing any minute. They’ll catch us long before we get anywhere safe.’

  ‘We don’t have a choice,’ Thistle says.

  ‘We need the car keys,’ I say. ‘I’ll go get them.’

  ‘You can barely stand. I’ll get the keys.’

  ‘I know where Fred keeps them.’ I swallow, and stagger towards the door. ‘I know the layout of the house. Every squeaking floorboard. It has to be me.’

  ‘Blake, they’ll kill you—and not just you. If they see you in the house, the first thing they’ll do is check on the rest of us. We won’t get half a mile away.’

  ‘Then I’d better make sure they don’t see me.’

  Thistle doesn’t look convinced.

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘Go to the pick-up. Wait for me. Plan A is I come out of the house with the keys and we drive. We’ll be back in Houston before the Guards even realise we’re gone. But if I’m not at the pick-up within ten minutes, or if you hear yelling from inside, let the air out of the tyres and then run like hell. That’s plan B. Okay?’

  Thistle exhales through her teeth. ‘Okay. Just try to make plan A work.’

  ‘Yeah, no kidding.’

  The door is still open a crack. Hailey has her eye pressed to the gap. ‘All quiet out there,’ she says.

  ‘Can you take the same path through the forest we took last time?’ I ask Thistle. ‘To avoid the cameras?’

  Thistle nods. ‘I remember.’

  ‘Okay. Go.’

  Hailey pushes the door open. We all flood out into the night, like roaches fleeing when a box is lifted up. I head for the house while everyone else runs for the woods. Thistle tries to keep them in line, away from the cameras, but in their panic it doesn’t look like they’re paying much attention. I don’t know how much time I have.

  Halfway to the house, I can hear that howling on the breeze again. I look at the dogs, but they’re sleeping. The sound seems close but far away at the same time. Hopefully it’s nowhere near where Thistle and the others are.

  The windows on this side of the house are dark, but I can hear conversation. Too far away to tell who is talking, or what they are saying. It doesn’t matter. Sounds like they’re in the living area, which is a long way from Fred’s room.

  Miracle of miracles, Samson’s house key is still
in my pocket. The Guards must not have thought to search me, or maybe the key is so small that they missed it. I pinch the key between my knuckles and unlock the door as quietly as I can, then I push it open, fast enough that it doesn’t creak.

  The lights are off in the kitchen and dining area, but there’s a reflected glow from the living room around the corner. Donnie is at the stove, working in the semi-darkness. I’m looking at his back, at the apron tied around his waist and neck, as he fries something on a hissing skillet.

  The kitchen bench is between us. A large cleaver rests on a bamboo chopping board. How quietly could I snatch it up and dispose of Donnie?

  I tiptoe further into the room, willing him not to turn around.

  He turns—but not towards me. He faces the oven, leaning down to check something inside. He’s out of reach now. I’d have to go around the bench, or throw the cleaver.

  I do neither. I sneak past and slip into the corridor, heading towards the bedrooms. Once I’m out of sight I listen for a moment. Donnie is humming quietly, oblivious.

  I creep up the corridor towards Fred’s room, trying to work out how much time has passed since I left the slaughterhouse. One minute, maybe. Distracted, I nearly step on a squeaky board. At the last second I put my bare foot somewhere else, and reach for the wall to steady myself. But that hand doesn’t exist anymore, so I overbalance. Hit the wall with my shoulder, my bandage leaving a red smear.

  The humming in the kitchen stops.

  I hold my breath, heart racing.

  ‘Zara?’ Donnie calls. ‘That you?’

  ‘What?’ Zara calls, from the living area.

  I open Fred’s door, slip through and close it again, just in time. Donnie’s footsteps thump out of the kitchen, past the dining table and around the corner into the corridor.

  I scan Fred’s room for somewhere to hide. Under the bed might work. But crawling would make a noise. I stay frozen.

  Several agonising seconds tick past. I picture Thistle and the prisoners, picking their way through the woods towards the car. They’re taking the long way so they’re not visible through the windows. I’ll have to do that, too.

  Thump, thump, thump. Donnie goes back to the kitchen.