Secrets in the Dark

by Darcy Coates

  Her eyes were the worst part. The lids drooped. They were bloodshot. It was as though their colour had been drained. But they were still Marnie’s eyes. Broken, damaged, distorted, but still Marnie.

  “No.” The sound choked in Clare’s throat, along with her air. She felt dizzy. A ringing noise filled her ears. She couldn’t look away.

  Marnie shuffled towards them. Her body was swollen, skin stretched to bursting point, bright red and shiny. The clothes, half torn, clung to her and swung about her with every hobbling step.

  Her mouth opened. A deep, mournful bellow spilled out, shaking the skin around her throat. Her steps were uneven, lurching. A string of saliva fell over the lower lip, spilling onto the stains already coating her blouse. Engorged fingers reached forward, fumbling and grasping at air.

  Dorran was speaking to her in short, sharp phrases. She couldn’t catch any of them. Her legs felt like they were made of paper and ready to crumble under the weight of what she was seeing. Marnie’s slow, shuffling steps were growing faster. She spilled into the entryway, her shoulders knocking trinkets off the closest shelves. Then Dorran’s arm moved around Clare’s waist and dragged her back, through the door, into the outside. Marnie’s lips shivered as she released another bellow. It sounded mournful. Pained.

  Dorran slammed the door.

  “No, no, no.” Clare dropped her crowbar and clasped her head in both hands as hot tears spilled out.

  She’d known Marnie was likely dead. But she’d never properly been able to face the idea that her aunt might have become a hollow. It was worse than death. It was barbaric. Torture. She dropped to her knees, fingers digging into her scalp.

  “Clare.” Dorran’s voice was gentle but held an undercurrent of urgency. He crouched beside her, close enough for her to feel his warmth. “We have to go, Clare.”

  Marnie reached the door. Her fingers, painfully swollen, began to scrabble against it. Clare could hear the phlegmy, gasping breaths underneath.

  “We have to go.” Dorran tried to pull her up, but she staggered.

  Her mind felt like it was crumbling. Like a rock that had been squeezed too hard, fragments splintering off, cracks digging deeper, an insane idea entered. Maybe they could go back to that morning, just go to sleep, and when she woke up, she would be back to a point where there was still hope to look forward to. A world where Marnie was merely dead.

  Dorran half carried, half dragged her towards the car. She could feel the stress bleeding out of him as he eased her into the passenger seat. Her door shut with a firm snap, then he took his seat beside her. He didn’t try to start the car.

  Clare buckled over, palms pressed into her forehead, as she tried not to wail. That was my aunt. The thought swirled around in her mind, refusing to give her peace. That was my dear aunt. My aunt who loved her goats. My aunt who baked me cakes and sang out of tune to her favourite songs on the radio. My aunt who never had a harsh word to say about anyone.

  Dorran stroked her back but didn’t try to interrupt her grief. She could feel him watching the house, though. Being so close to a hollow was making him uneasy.

  That’s all she is now. A hollow.

  Before, Clare had been able to separate the creatures from who they had once been. It wasn’t hard. They barely looked human. They were like some kind of monster out of a video game. Something she could hate. Something she could kill.

  But this was Marnie. Not a hollow. Not a monster. Marnie. And she was in pain.

  Clare had seen it in her face, heard it in her bellows. Her skin was bulging, filled with fluid, ready to burst. It was agony for her. And she no longer had a human mind to comprehend what was happening. She didn’t understand it. But she was trapped there and would remain trapped there, suffering. For how long?

  “We have to kill her.” Clare lifted her head. Her voice was hoarse. She thought she might have been screaming, but she couldn’t remember the noise, only feel the rawness in her throat. “I—I have to. She’s in so much pain—”

  Dorran looked back towards the door. Beneath the radio’s crackles, beneath Clare’s ragged gasps, she thought she could still hear the sad digging of fingers at the door.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Dorran said, “I’ll do it.”

  “I can’t ask that of you.” Clare shook her head, but at the same time, a voice in the back of her mind whispered, If he doesn’t do it, can you?

  She tried to imagine lifting her weapon over her aunt, looking into Marie’s eyes as she brought it down again and again. She retched and threw the door open just in time to be sick over the grass.

  Dorran moved around her silently. She slumped back in the chair, shaking, and a moment later, she felt a cup being pressed into her hands.

  “Drink,” Dorran whispered. “I will take care of it. Is there a back entry into the house?”

  “Yes.” Bile smarted on Clare’s tongue, and she tried to wash it down. Her hands shook, spilling water across her lap. She closed her eyes and tried to focus. “In the kitchen. It’s a straight line from the front entry to the back door.”

  “Stay here. Don’t try to follow. I will be back within five minutes.”

  He pressed her hand gently then stepped towards the house. Tremors ran through Clare, and she couldn’t stop them. Dorran paused at the front door to retrieve the weapons they had dropped there, then he disappeared around the side of the house.

  Marnie. You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve any of this.

  The cup tipped in her hands, and cold water ran across the seat and into the still-damp carpet. Clare barely noticed.

  What she’d asked of Dorran was more than should be expected of anyone. But she couldn’t leave Marnie there, trapped, in pain, and not understanding why, imprisoned until she starved or died from her injuries.

  A muffled thwack echoed from the house. Clare dropped the cup and pressed her hands over her face as she moaned. The thwack was followed by more. Quick and harsh. Metal hitting flesh. Clare moved her hands to her ears. It wasn’t enough to block out the noise.

  Marnie. Marnie. I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.

  Five more sharp, short beats were followed by silence.

  I’m sorry, Marnie. I’m so sorry.

  The house stayed still. Its windows were dark. Clare’s stomach ached, but there was nothing left to bring up. She kept her eyes fixed on the farmhouse door.

  A minute passed… then another. Dorran didn’t reappear.

  Clare tried to count the seconds, but time felt distorted. How far past midday are we now? Is it close to night? Have we been here five minutes or an hour?

  Perfect silence reigned over Marnie’s farm. Fear squeezed at Clare’s insides. She needed to look for Dorran. She didn’t think her legs would carry her. Her ears were ringing again, blending in with the radio’s static in a bleak, frightening song.

  Then Dorran stepped into view, coming around the house’s side. He carried his jacket over his arm. His hair was wet and slicked back.

  He washed up, Clare realised with a sickening jolt.

  Dorran’s expression stayed impassive as he neared the car. He opened the door and slid inside, throwing his jacket into the back seat. It was wet, too, Clare saw.

  “Everything is all right now.” His face might have been expressionless, but his voice was raw. “She is gone.”

  Clare nodded, and Dorran turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled. He eased the car around to face the driveway.

  Neither of them spoke or made any move to turn on the music. Dorran kept his eyes on the road. Clare glanced at him once, then leaned against the window, breathing deeply as she tried not to be sick again.

  Dorran had washed after killing Marnie so that Clare wouldn’t see her aunt’s blood. But he’d missed a spot. On the back of his shirt’s collar, tucked almost out of view, was a little drop of red.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Fields passed her window. They gradually transformed into bare, bleak hi
lls, and the ground was taken over by shrubs and struggling trees as their car moved into the valley. In another hour, the ground would start rising again, leading into the mountains that separated Marnie’s house from Beth’s.

  Clare huddled in the car’s corner, forehead pressed against the window. Every time she thought about Marnie, her insides ached. It felt like being punched repeatedly. The bruises had no chance to heal before they took another hit.

  Dorran didn’t try to disturb her, except for once, a few minutes after leaving the farm. He stopped the car to get the blanket out of the back seat and drape it across Clare and refilled the mug with water. The drink sat in the cupholder, ignored, but Clare held on to the blanket. She felt cold again. The car’s dampness continued to soak into her. The air conditioner didn’t work, and she thought the outside might be cooling as the clouds thickened.

  The clock on the dashboard slowly clicked onwards. Past four, approaching five. The later it grew, the less the thought of Marnie hurt. The memories weren’t becoming less painful, but Clare thought she was losing her ability to feel. She was glad for that. Feelings had no place in this new world. She simply had to do what was required to survive.

  The road began to snake as it led towards the river. Long before they could see the water, Clare heard it. Rushing, almost screaming. Dorran turned to her, seemingly about to say something, but changed his mind and remained silent. He slowed the car, though, as they navigated through a copse of birch to approach the stone bridge. What should have been a bridge, at least. Their passage was gone.

  No, Clare corrected herself. Not gone. It’s still there, just underwater.

  She shuffled up in her chair. He back muscles burned, but she barely felt them. She barely felt anything. She stared at the scene, understanding what it meant but not caring.

  The path sloped downwards. In the space between them and the opposite bank rushed a torrent of water. The snow that had blanketed the region was flooding towards lower ground, and a large part of it had taken the Burbank River as its path of choice.

  The water turned white as it surged over things that would normally be clear. Rocks. Signposts. The bridge. Even the Flood Water sign had disappeared. The river’s edge lapped over the road ahead of their car, as though beckoning them in.

  “This is unpassable,” Dorran said. “Are there any other ways across the river? Other roads, other bridges?”

  She struggled to unfold the map between them. The lines moved in a surreal pattern, and as she stared at them, she could have sworn they were wriggling. She blinked, waiting for them to straighten, but they wouldn’t.

  Dorran watched her for a second then leaned closer to read the map himself. “It looks as though there is another bridge upriver. Over here. We might have better luck with it. What do you think?”

  “Yes,” she said. The word was a croak without any conviction behind it. She rested back against the window.

  Dorran folded the map and placed it back on the dashboard. Then he adjusted the blanket around Clare’s shoulders before reversing up the road.

  The sun danced closer to the horizon. Hazy golds spread across the sky, painting the thickening clouds. It was too early for a sunset, Clare thought. Night wouldn’t claim them for another hour and a half. And yet, there it was, gradually tinting the world.

  She closed her eyes and visualised the area. They were barely any closer to Beth’s, but a few hundred kilometres away from their original path. They were moving perpendicular, not forward. There was no chance of reaching her sister before nightfall.

  Tyres crunching over loose flecks of asphalt. The car developed an odd, steady rocking rhythm as it bumped over the potholes. The radio remained muffled but ever present. The sounds and sensations seemed to go on forever. Dorran grew restless. He shifted, sometimes rolling his shoulders, sometimes tilting his neck to loosen tight muscles or letting go of the wheel to stretch his fingers. The red spot on his collar was darkening into brown as it dried.

  The sky darkened into dusk. Dorran tried turning on the headlights. One flickered to life, which, after the damage, was a small miracle. The second light must have failed after being used as a bumper to move cars on the freeway.

  That scene felt like it had occurred weeks ago. It was hard to believe it was still the same day.

  They drove along the edge of a camping site. The stillness had passed through during the off season, and the area was near empty. Eight caravans were spaced along the field, their silhouettes standing out of the ground like bleak rocks.

  Imagine that. You spend the entire year saving up and planning for a holiday, and when you finally escape the city and all of the stress that comes with your job, the world ends.

  Their single light shimmered over the road. The ground was low enough that trickles of water flowed over the asphalt and gathered in its dips, leaving it glittering and damp. As the last of daylight slipped away, a sign emerged from the gloom, pointing towards Jenola Bridge. The car slowed as they bumped over the uneven dirt trail. Within a minute, they came to a halt, facing a floor of rushing water extending as far as the headlight could show.

  Dorran released a held breath. He pulled the map over and unfolded it, then he ran his hand over his face. “Do you know any of these routes? Is there a bridge that will be high enough to cross?”

  Clare didn’t want to stir from her seat in the car’s corner, but she made herself sit up, letting the blanket drop into her lap, and stared at the paper. The lines of red and brown and blocks of green were still incomprehensible.

  Thirty hours since we last heard from Beth. A full day of radio silence. And we’re no closer to reaching her.

  “Let’s go home,” she said.

  Dorran held the map halfway between them. His face was unreadable. For a moment, the only sounds Clare could hear were the buzzing radio and the dull, angry water.

  Then he said, “Is that what you want? Is it what you truly want?”

  “Does it matter? This was pointless. She’s dead.”

  He slowly refolded the map, taking his time to line up the creases. When he was done, he rested it in his lap and stared ahead, through the windshield. His voice was soft. “I think you’re suffering from shock and grief. I don’t believe you are thinking clearly.”

  “I am.” She pulled the blanket up around her chin again. “We’re not going to reach Beth today. Probably not tomorrow, either. And even if we did, there would be nothing left to save. Let’s go home. We never should have left.”

  He faced the river. The headlights caught the fine mist floating up from where the water thrashed. His eyes were red-rimmed, she noticed for the first time. He looked gaunter than he had that morning, as though the day had drained years off his life.

  He never wanted to come. You were the one who pushed him to fight for a cause he didn’t believe in. And in the end, we get nothing. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

  “I saw caravans a few minutes back,” Dorran said. “If they are empty, we can sleep in one of them. It will be more comfortable than this car, and I cannot drive much farther today. It is too dark to be safe on the road. Tomorrow, we can look at the map again and find a way over the river.”

  She scowled. “Didn’t you hear me? We’re going home. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “No.” He put the car in reverse. “And I don’t believe it’s what you want, either. Maybe it is at this moment. But in a week’s time, I think you would regret it if you gave up now.”

  You think you know me. The venomous words boiled inside her, looking for a way out. You’re wrong. You don’t know what’s best for me. You don’t even know what’s best for yourself.

  A painful silence surrounded them as they drove back towards higher ground. Clare felt it acutely, like a black cloud had filled their car, poisoning the air and turning her stomach with every inhalation. She wondered if Dorran felt it, as well. His face was empty of emotion. She had learned that meant there were emotions under the surface that he was fiercely trying t
o hide.

  His eyes were tired, and his lips pressed together. He was unhappy; that was for certain. Unhappy with Clare, maybe. Unhappy that he had to struggle to take the high road, even though he didn’t want to.

  We never should have left Winterbourne. Things were better back there. We were safe. We were a team. Back there, I loved him.

  Her throat tightened.

  Don’t I love him now?

  She wasn’t sure. She didn’t think so. Her heart felt raw, as though every emotion that had once lived there had been scraped out. There was no love for anything.

  He reached the sign for the caravan park and turned into it. Poles poked out of the ground, indicating where campers could park and—once upon a time—access water and electricity. Wooded areas surrounded the field. A month ago, Clare would have relished parking in such a picturesque location. Now, she eyed the trees with nothing but wariness. Woods could hide hollows. Woods were unsafe.

  “Wait here,” Dorran said. The car’s internal lights blinked on as he opened his door. She watched in a daze as he walked between the eight caravans, stopping at each one to tap on its door with his hatchet. He was listening for noises inside, she guessed, but it was hard to see him in the fresh dark of night. The space felt still, though—almost eerily so. Faint mist ghosted across the dead grass and swirled around Dorran’s legs as he paced between the dark structures.

  It took several minutes for Dorran to return. When he opened Clare’s door, he smiled, despite the stress and tiredness weighing on his features. “We’re in luck. They are all empty, so we may have our pick. That one there is the largest.”

  “It’s fine.” She didn’t mind where they slept. Only that she would be allowed to slip into a world where she couldn’t feel the aches bruising her insides or remember the look on Marnie’s face as she shambled towards them.