by Gary McMahon
“No, not just that. Things are spinning out of control. It feels like being at the centre of a whirlwind and watching the edges come apart.” He turned and looked directly at her for the first time since they’d got in the car. “Know what I mean?”
Lana took her hand off his knee. “Yes. Yes, I do. I know exactly what you mean. It’s happening to me, too – there are things I haven’t told you yet but really should. Other stuff that’s happened to me and Hailey.” She took a deep breath. “Come up to the flat and we’ll talk.”
Tom opened the door and got out of the car. He still looked slightly dazed, as if he hadn’t slept for days, but he was a lot calmer than before. He went round to the passenger side and opened the door for her, stepping back onto the kerb. “Madam,” he said, and this time his smile looked natural.
“Thanks,” said Lana, stepping out of the car. She took her keys from her purse and walked towards the flat, certain that he would follow.
Once they were inside, with the door locked, Lana began to relax.
“New TV?” Tom was standing beside the set Hailey had been given, reaching out to touch the screen.
“No. The mother of one of Hailey’s friends brought it round. A drunken act of charity.” She put down her bag and headed for the kitchen, craving a drink. “Wine okay?”
“I’m driving, but why the hell not? I mean, after all the shit that’s been raining down on us lately I doubt a drink’s going to kill me.” Again he smiled, and again it was a normal expression, completely unforced, if a little stiff and weary. “So you weren’t here when this woman brought the TV?”
“I was out. At Monty Bright’s gym.” She took the stopper from a half-finished bottle of cheap white Zinfandel and poured the wine into two glasses. Her movements were forceful and exaggerated; she felt angry that he kept talking about the stupid television.
“Sorry.” Tom walked over to where she was standing. He stopped on the other side of the partition shelves and reached for one of the glasses. “I’m babbling. I feel like I’m already drunk.”
“Well,” said Lana, “maybe a couple of glasses of this crap will sober you up.” She raised her glass and tilted it. “Chin-chin.”
They both drank in silence, not lowering their glasses until they were almost empty.
“I think we needed that,” said Tom. “Okay. I’m assuming you have a plan.” He didn’t say the word, but it stood between them like a third presence in the room: Murder.
“Yes, I have a plan. There’s something you need to know – to see, actually. I can’t explain it to you without showing you, and even then you need to look sidelong.” She went to the fridge and took out a fresh bottle of wine. Her hands shook as she opened it.
“I’m struggling to keep up with you here.” Tom took the bottle from her and finished the job, then poured the wine into their glasses. He kept drifting away from her: one minute he was there, in the moment, and the next his eyes seemed to fog over and he was elsewhere.
“I need you with me, Tom.” She moved closer to him, placing a hand on his elbow. “You have to be right here beside me, not thinking about anything else.”
Tom smiled, and she didn’t like the look of his face: sickly, feverish. For a moment he looked like a crazy man, standing there in her kitchen with a big shit-eating grin on his face and a bottle in one hand. Right then, he looked like a killer. Lana was torn between feelings of gratitude and fear.
“Are you here? Are you with me, or are you off somewhere else?”
The smile vanished. His eyes regained their focus. “Yes. Sorry. I keep doing that… drifting off inside myself. My mind’s wandering. There’s too much… too much going on.”
She walked into the lounge area, clutching her glass. Her steps felt light, as if she were floating an inch above the carpet. This whole conversation felt like one she’d dreamed before, or maybe it was a premonition of a dream she’d not yet had. Even these thoughts were dreamlike; as vague and elusive as handfuls of dust.
She walked to the hallway, stopping and turning around to face Tom. “Listen, this is really fucked up. Okay? What I’m about to show you – you’ve never seen anything like this before.” She put down her glass on the floor, standing it next to the skirting board.
“Do you ever get that feeling?” said Tom, his shoulders slumping. “You know the one, where everything feels like its slipping out of your control. Like that dream, where you’re running on sand, moving your legs as fast as you can, but you’re getting nowhere. You’re just running on the spot while the world flows by, quick as a flash.” He looked like he might faint; his face was pale and his pupils were tiny black pinpoints at the centre of his eyes.
“Come on. Stay with me. I need you.” Lana was beginning to doubt that he was capable of what she had in mind – something had happened; he had changed too much. Was it something he’d experienced last night, back at his cosy little semi in suburbia? “What’s gone on? Why are you being like this? It’s like you’re on drugs or something.” Was that it? Had he turned to chemicals to try and tune out the madness around them?
His head snapped forward and he looked directly at her, his pupils returning to their natural size. “She’s not the person she used to be. Helen… she’s become someone else. Something else.” There was such a look of imploring in his face that it made her feel sick.
“Stop feeling so guilty about betraying your wife. We didn’t set out to hurt her.”
Tom shook his head. “No, that’s not what I mean.”
“I know what you mean. We all change. Every one of us, and sometimes we have to leave people behind. You and me, we’ve changed, too. We’ve come together, changing from individuals to become a team.” She believed approximately half of this – the rest was said just to put him at ease, to make him less self-pitying. “Everybody changes. People get hurt. That’s just how life is for the likes of us.”
Tom leaned against her. She could feel his erection pressing against her thigh.
“We’re all victims. Every one of us. None of us gets out of this unscathed.” She kissed him, and he responded with force, pushing her backwards so that she slammed into the wall. She lifted one leg, wrapping it around his thighs, and pulled at his hair with her right hand while the left hand rubbed at his back, his arse. “We’re all hurting,” she whispered, between kisses. “We all get hurt.”
She fumbled with his trousers, tugging them loose and pulling them down as far as she could. She slid one arm down between their bodies and grabbed his cock, pulling that, too, so that he moaned in a mixture of pain and anticipation.
“Are you sure?” His voice was shaky.
Lana nodded. “It won’t hurt, not if we’re careful.”
He bit at her throat, licking under her chin, and slammed his body against her. His hands grabbed at her clothing, ripping her T-shirt and rolling her leggings down past her waist.
When the telephone rang she didn’t even hear it, not until he stepped back, blinking, looking like a man who had just been rudely awakened from a dream. Lana’s hand was damp. He had peaked before they’d even begun…
“What?” then she heard the sound of the telephone. “Just ignore it.” She kicked off her shoes and leggings and stood there in her torn T-shirt and knickers. Her legs were shaking; adrenalin coursed through her body, putting her on edge and ridding her body of the aches and pains. This was a fight-or-fuck moment, and her flesh knew exactly which of the two acts it had chosen.
“No,” he said, tucking in his shirt and buttoning up his trousers. His cheeks were flushing a bright shade of red. “You should get that.” He looked ashamed, as if he’d been caught in the act of something terrible.
She walked across the room, her bare legs growing cold now that the heat of the moment was gone. She was still wearing her black socks. She felt vaguely ridiculous. Her hand was sticky, so she wiped it on her T-shirt.
Lana picked up the phone and tried to ignore Tom, who was shuffling about near the hallway. “What.�
�� The coldness in her voice made her feel better.
“What kind of welcome is that for an old friend?” Bright’s voice was even colder than her own.
Lana felt as if her guts had just dropped into her uterus. Everything between her legs tightened like a fist at the sound of his voice. Memories of the night before came flooding back: the rubbery feel of his wetsuit against her skin, the groping hands, the hard dicks, the brutal invasion of her private self that she could never put right, the emotional damage she could not ever repair. If Tom was different today, then so was she – and this person, this monster, was the reason why.
“What do you want?” Her voice was an octave higher than she would have liked, and she hated herself for showing fear in that way. Fear was exactly what he wanted, what he thrived upon.
“Oh, Lana… Lana, Lana, Lana: you always want to get right down to business, don’t you? No small talk, no chit-chat. A man could quite easily get offended, you know.” His laughter was horrible. There was no other word for it. The sound provoked such a sense of horror within her that for a moment she felt like weeping.
“Tell me what you want or I’ll hang up the phone.” Her voice wavered again.
The laughter stopped abruptly. “I have her.”
Lana had no idea what he meant. “Listen, Bright, I don’t have time for your bullshit.”
“Time… ah, yes. Do you realise what time it is?”
Angry, afraid, baffled, she glanced at her wristwatch. It was 4:30 PM.
I have her.
Hailey should be home by now. Her High School was only a short walk away, in Far Grove.
I have her.
Even if she’d dawdled back from school, walking slowly and daydreaming in that way of hers… even then, she should be home by this time.
“Where is she… where?” Her hand gripped the receiver. Tom walked up beside her and raised his eyebrows: What is it?
“She’s safe,” said Bright. All trace of humour had left his voice. It was his turn to be ‘all business’. “Don’t worry about that. She hasn’t been harmed. Not yet.”
Lana’s stomach clenched; knots tightened inside her body.
“She isn’t here, with me, but she’s safe. One of my associates has her. He called me earlier to say that he had everything in hand. You remember Francis, don’t you? The big lad?”
The giant. Boater. Francis Boater. He was the one who’d spoken out – albeit briefly and ineffectually – when they’d all been down there in Bright’s basement room. It was a slim hope, but at least it was something: he’d shown signs of regret, remorse and doubt. Maybe he was keeping her safe, and hadn’t laid a hand on her young body. Perhaps this giant was in fact her best chance for safety?
“So what do you want?” This time her voice was steady. Quiet, but resolute.
Tom grabbed her wrist but she shook him off. She couldn’t deal with him now.
“I want you to come and see me, Lana. I know that’s what you had planned anyway, there’s not much I don’t know right now. I’m in a special position, with access to all kinds of information.” He chuckled softly. It felt like his breath was right in her ear. “I have friends in low places, you see. Very low places.”
“When?”
“Tonight. Midnight. The witching hour. It’s so appropriate, isn’t it? I’ll be here alone… well, apart from Terry and some friends that can’t really be classed as being here, not really. I suppose you could say they’re partway here, and partway somewhere else.”
“What will you do when I get there?” It couldn’t be sex, not this time. There was no reason for such extreme methods. Last time, she had gone too willingly. The friends he mentioned were not the ones from before. She suspected that he was talking about another kind of friend entirely.
“I think you and me need to have a proper chat. A wee talk about things. It’s about time we put our heads together and discovered all our common concerns.” He was almost whispering now.
“Common concerns?”
“Well, your daughter for one. She seems to have gained access to somewhere I’d like to go – a place I’ve been trying to find for a long time. I don’t know how she’s done it, or what she’s used as a key, but a door has opened to let her in. And I want her to do the same for me: to open it up and escort me inside so I don’t get hurt or killed or changed into a fucking werewolf.”
“I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.” She closed her eyes. The dream that had become her life was taking another violent twist, leading her down a road she wasn’t keen to follow.
“Oh, you will. Once we have our talk, Lana, you’ll understand everything.” He cleared his throat: a small cough, dry and delicate. “Until midnight, then. Then we can get this show on the road.”
Lana was about to speak again, but the line went dead.
“What did he want?” Tom stood there with his hands crossed over his belly, unsure whether to touch her or keep his distance.
“I don’t know what he wants, but I do know what he’s going to get.”
Tom backed away. Just a single step, but it was enough to tell her everything she needed to know about the balance of power in this relationship. Tom’s help was limited now; his strength was finite, and he had almost reached the end of his reserves. He was merely a helper, an assistant.
It was up to Lana now. She had to take charge.
“Come on, Tom. There’s something I need to show you.”
“Is it the thing you were going to show me earlier, before?” He looked away, embarrassed by his premature reaction before the phone had interrupted them.
Lana didn’t care. Not now. All that was over; there was something else to be done. “Yes, that’s right. I’m going to show you how we’ll kill that bastard and get my daughter back.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“I WON’T LET anyone hurt you.” Boater stared at the girl, wondering if she’d ever wake again. “I promise…” She wasn’t moving. She hadn’t moved for what seemed like hours. He was pretty sure it was late – it certainly felt as if they’d been there all night, maybe even a lot longer than that. But the windows were covered with curtains of foliage and very little light was able to get through the dense green drapery.
When he’d followed her into the Needle everything he’d been feeling for the past few days had come into sharp focus. The vague yearning, the newly developed sense of shame, the fact that he no longer felt the urge towards violence… it all coalesced into a big ball of hurt inside him, at his core, and he had realised that he never wanted to hurt anyone again.
Somewhere deep inside the spirit of Francis Boater, a trigger had been pulled. Now all that remained was a delayed detonation: the single gunshot that would signal the completion of his redemption.
He’d had a long time to think about things, here in the seething darkness. He remembered his countless childhood agonies: his mother, the whore, who had made him watch while she entertained her clients; the constant struggle with his weight, and the fights he’d been in because of hurtful schoolmates. Then, after leaving school, there was the amateur boxing and the weight training that made him feel so alive and full of self-worth; the many emotionally-damaged women who’d been drawn to him because of his physical bulk and his capacity for violence, and then been repelled and ran from him for exactly those same reasons. And finally there was his time with Monty Bright, when he’d become a hired hand, a lump of muscle-for-sale: a Bad Man.
His entire life had been a tapestry of pain, an intricate pattern composed of interlinked traumas. Only now could he stand back and take in the full scarred picture. The girl had enabled him to see what had been so fucking obvious all along.
When he’d walked into the building she had slowed down until he was level with her, and then she’d taken his hand, encouraging him. They’d walked deeper inside, hand in hand, and Boater had felt a connection deeper than any other he’d experienced in his life. This girl, this small, vulnerable victim he had been sent to
abduct, was his saviour.
They’d come into this room, and she had lain down on the floor, curling up her legs into a position that made her resemble a resting infant. Then, just as the shadows began to crawl across the walls and the sound of unseen trees creaking and leaves whispering in a wind he couldn’t feel started up all around them, she’d spoken to him:
“Keep me safe,” she said, her small eyes watching him in the darkness. “Watch over me and make sure I’m not harmed.”
“Of course I will,” he replied, his body growing cold but his spirit starting to rise. “I promise.”
“I’m tired.” Then the girl had closed her eyes. And she had not opened them again since.
“I promise,” he said now, hours later. The room had changed around him, becoming outside rather than in, taking on a quality of the external.
Thick fingers of creeping vines had sprouted from the walls, covering them like some kind of blight. The concrete floor had erupted in places, and thick roots had burst through, snaking in loops to return underground. The ceiling was now a dense canopy of leaves. When he looked up, Boater could see distant starlight through the heavy matting. The moon was full, even though outside, in the old world he had left behind, the moon had been a mere crescent.
Boater wasn’t afraid. None of this felt threatening. The real threat came from out there, back in the urban wasteland he’d turned his back on. The feral kids, the clamouring debtors, and Monty Bright’s lust for whatever power lay at the heart of the estate. But in here, sitting under the whispering canopy and held tight within an enclave of ancient trees, there was nothing to fear but the badness inside him – and that was something he was now abandoning, like so much unwanted rubbish.
“I was lost before, Hailey.” He knew that she wouldn’t respond, but had faith that she could at least hear him. “I was stumbling around out there, not even knowing who I was or what I could be if I really tried. But now that you’ve found me, I can see the potential I’ve always had. I can sense another man locked up inside my skin, and he’s fighting to get out.” Tears poured down his cheeks but he didn’t wipe them away. They were good and clean and pure; a baptism in this new world he’d found. Or had the place in fact found him? “He isn’t a Bad Man. Oh, no. He’s a good ’un, this one. He’s the good Francis Boater.” He was smiling. It felt strange, as if he’d never been able to smile before. He supposed that he hadn’t, not really. Not like this.