Pretty Little Things

by T. M. E. Walsh

  ‘You seen this, here?’ she said to Charis.

  Charis looked over her shoulder. ‘“Wild Garden”,’ she read out loud.

  *

  The ground in this part of the site seemed extra damp compared to the rest of the woodland soil. In some places Madeleine slipped on the mud. She tried to grip with her toes for more support.

  Charis followed her over a dip in the ground, a steep incline to negotiate, and came up beside her. Her hands on her hips, she sucked in large lungfuls of fresh air.

  A film of sweat coated Madeleine’s forehead, sticking loose strands of hair to her skin. The air was beginning to warm up, but the mist of rain stayed with them and dampened their clothes.

  ‘We’ve passed four cabins so far,’ Charis said. ‘Nothing but damp and rot in them all.’ She took slow breaths as she looked around at the seemingly endless trees and bushes. A sadness took hold of her then. ‘What a place to spend your final hours.’

  Madeleine’s eyes were sad as she scanned the way ahead. Off to their right she caught a glimpse of pink.

  She didn’t need to speak; Charis had seen it too.

  Madeleine’s pace quickened to a jog the closer she got to the next clearing. She stopped when she saw what looked like a pink-red carpet covering the woodland floor.

  Silene dioica.

  Red campion.

  Madeleine stepped forward into the open space and her feet disappeared between the shiny flowers on tall stalks. Some had started to wilt, and that image couldn’t have been more apt given what Madeleine knew must be close between the trees ahead.

  She pressed on ahead in silence with Charis.

  A weathered fence ringed off another section of the woodland and, immediately beyond it, they saw a single swing hanging from a rusted stand, a wooden rocking horse on a rusted coil mere feet away.

  It made a lonely children’s playground.

  A layer of rotten woodchip carpeted the play area and chips of it lodged in Madeleine’s shoes but she didn’t stop to remove them.

  She knew what lay beyond the bend in the makeshift path.

  Madeleine turned the corner and the cabin loomed in front of her. It was the worst of the cabins they had seen so far, its condition decrepit. Damp-rotted wooden steps led up to the porch, where it was missing wooden planks.

  An eerie silence surrounded the place and Madeleine felt fearful with each step.

  Charis came up beside her, her breathing heavy. She pointed to the far side of the cabin and Madeleine saw the tyre marks in the freshly churned-up soil.

  ‘This is where Charlotte must’ve driven up here, from the wider track on the other side of the site,’ Charis said.

  Madeleine looked at the map again. ‘Joe . . . where Joseph drove up here.’

  She caught the look Charis gave her. She chose to ignore it.

  ‘Some of the paths interlink,’ Madeleine said. Her attention returned to the cabin.

  She could smell it.

  What Charlotte had described in so much detail came to the forefront of her mind; what Joe had let her see.

  She felt Charis’s hand on her arm then, gently holding her back. ‘We need to wait,’ she said, reaching for her police radio.

  Madeleine shook her head and droplets of water fell from the tendrils of dark hair that poked out from underneath her hood.

  ‘Time’s running out for Elle,’ she said and walked up the steps to the cabin.

  ‘Guv,’ Charis hissed.

  Madeleine slowly pushed the door to the cabin open, recoiling with the scent of death that flooded out to greet her.

  ‘Jesus . . .’ Charis said, covering her mouth.

  Madeleine leaned her head in, but made no attempt to enter the cabin. She saw the bloodstained plastic sheets hung up and on the floor. She saw the blood-stained knife on the floor.

  ‘Joe didn’t bother to clear up this time.’ She tried not to think about the smell. ‘Elle?’ she said into the gloom.

  Silence.

  ‘She might be with Kenzie,’ Charis said, remembering that Madeleine had told her how Charlotte confessed she’d left the girl where she fell, head split, left to bleed out on the woodland floor.

  Madeleine turned and headed off around behind the cabin, into the thick of the undergrowth, as Charis radioed for help and redirected the SOCOs to the wildflower garden.

  ‘Cabin number five,’ Madeleine heard her say.

  Behind the cabin, Madeleine could see more pink flowers. Some were intact but some had been trodden on, squashed down to the earth.

  ‘Someone came this way,’ she said, and carefully walked through them, following the fallen petals and stumps.

  It didn’t take long to find Kenzie.

  Madeleine looked away when she saw the state of the body.

  Charis swallowed hard, looked to Madeleine. ‘Where’s Elle?’

  Madeleine looked around where they stood.

  ‘Charlotte didn’t bother to bury Kenzie,’ Charis said. ‘Maybe Elle’s not buried either?’

  ‘Kenzie Dalton was never part of the plan.’ Madeleine looked to the ground. ‘There are more signs of movement this way,’ she said and wandered off to the right. She studied the soil and squashed flowers. ‘Looks like someone dragged something along the ground here.’

  She pointed ahead.

  It didn’t take long to find the makeshift grave. Hastily and crudely dug, it was more of a trough in the earth than a grave.

  In the trough and buried up to her neck, they saw Elle from where they stood.

  Madeleine ran to her.

  Elle’s face was uncovered, deathly pale skin like bright patches underneath smudges of dried blood and soil.

  Madeleine felt for a pulse as Charis radioed for help.

  ‘Elle?’ she said.

  Her fingers felt at the girl’s neck then moved away, feeling sticky with dirt and smeared with blood.

  Charis stared at the body and let out a deep sigh. She shook her head. ‘We’re too late.’

  Madeleine looked back at her. She shut her eyes.

  Then she felt a cold hand reach up, breaking through the loose soil to grab her own. She shrieked and fell back, landing hard on the ground.

  The sound of dogs barking could be heard then, followed by voices, officers being led to the cabin.

  ‘Over here!’ Charis shouted.

  Madeleine stared open-mouthed at the image of Elle Monroe, face blackened with earth. Even through the grime and dried blood, Madeleine could still see the piercing blue eyes that now stared back at her.

  Pale, cracked lips parted and something escaped that mouth, a rasping voice that struggled to form words.

  Madeleine stared at her, a mix of terror and relief that somehow, against all odds and reason, Elle was still alive.

  AFTER . . .

  CHARLOTTE

  Hear me. Hear my voice and know this…

  I mourn the daylight. I mourn the life I had. I mourn the time that is now lost to me, time with my daughter, the only true constant in my life.

  He rattles around inside my head, and it’s like I’m constantly aware of Him now. Part of me wants to go back to when I didn’t know He existed inside me.

  We fight for control.

  I fight for the light.

  I will fight until I either win or am exiled to a bleak, empty nothing.

  He calls it The Cage.

  A prison without bars.

  Once there, there’s no chance of parole.

  I call it my mind, and it is a most beautiful yet terrifying thing.

  I am Charlotte Monroe, and as long as there is good in this world, and breath in this wretched body of mine, I will fight.

  I will not be lost to the darkness.

  I will not let Him win.

  EPILOGUE

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  Heath Lodge NHS Trust Secure Mental Health Unit – Hertfordshire

  Dr Seaward watched as they came through from reception. He noticed how they appeared subd
ued, which he reasoned was to be expected.

  Their complexions were almost colourless: grey and tired. Iain’s face appeared more lined than he remembered.

  Elle, he’d only ever seen photographs of. In them she’d looked bright-eyed, her hair nourished. Her complexion was smooth at a glance, but a closer look had revealed the telltale signs of foundation used to cover a few teenage blemishes.

  He looked at her now.

  Her hair was dull, unwashed, scuffed back into a low ponytail. He saw the patchy skin she’d tried to conceal with makeup. Her eyes had lost some light. They had a sad look in them now.

  He extended his hand towards Iain as he approached from the corridor that led into reception.

  ‘Iain, it’s good to see you.’

  Iain accepted his hand reluctantly. He didn’t want to be here. It was only because Elle had insisted he come, because she said it was the right thing to do, that he’d given in.

  Seaward turned his attention to Elle, who was standing beside her father looking anxious.

  ‘You must be Elle?’ he said, and shook her hand too. He pressed his other hand on top of hers. ‘I can see you’re nervous, but really there’s no need to be.’

  Elle saw his eyes lower to look at her throat, then quickly look away. She’d grown used to this. People looked, then looked away, avoided asking what they really wanted to know.

  Did it hurt?

  It’s a miracle you survived that, you must really be living life to the full now.

  All such insensitive nonsense she’d prefer not to hear.

  Somehow she’d survived being in that trough in the ground, scattered with soil. Soil turned darker still with her own blood.

  Her mother – no – not her mother . . . It was something inside her called Joseph that was responsible. Joseph hadn’t cut her deep at all.

  The wound was superficial.

  A fraction to the left, with more pressure, and the outcome would’ve been so different.

  She wouldn’t be here right now, about to see her mother for the first time in four months.

  She’d always wanted to come, face her mother, see if she was still the same person. Locked in that body somewhere. But now she was here, she wasn’t so sure.

  Her reluctance was obvious.

  ‘It’s normal to be nervous,’ Seaward said, smiling at her. ‘It’s normal to be scared, even.’

  ‘I’m not scared of her,’ Elle said. ‘I’m scared of Him.’

  Seaward looked at Iain, who offered a shrug in response and then looked away, his face solemn.

  ‘Let me take you to her room,’ Seaward said, lightly placing his hand on Elle’s elbow to steer her down the corridor.

  As Seaward walked alongside them, Elle looked to her father and he reached out his hand and took hold of hers.

  He squeezed it, gave her a sideways glance and the hint of a smile.

  Seaward was talking now, telling them what the plan was for today and the long term. He mentioned what they should do when they went into the room to see Charlotte, warned them that Joe, as he called him, might come through, although he hadn’t been ‘seen’ for a few days.

  Seaward was confident Charlotte was making good progress.

  Elle blocked out the rest.

  They turned into another corridor, and Seaward used his security card to swipe them through two heavy doors that led to the resident rooms.

  They stopped just out of view of what she took to be her mother’s.

  Then she saw her mother’s name on a board to the right of the door.

  She noticed that the door had a window in it. She saw the small writing.

  Safety glass.

  ‘We can go at your pace, Elle,’ Seaward said, regaining her attention for a split second before she drowned him out again.

  She’d waited four long months to see her mother. She wanted to see if she looked any different from how she remembered that day in the cabin. Elle wasn’t sure if she believed in the whole idea of Dissociative Identity Disorder. She wasn’t completely sure she even understood the concept. But what she did believe, what she’d trusted was true after witnessing it with her own two eyes, was that there had been something inside the shell that looked like her mother.

  It was in the eyes.

  Her mother’s were always kind, if somewhat sad at times.

  The day by the roadside, through the whole journey to the cabin . . . the person who had bound her and Kenzie, the one who wielded the knife; those eyes had looked like bottomless pits.

  That thing hadn’t been her mother.

  That much she did believe was true.

  She told herself to be brave as she swung into view through the glass in the window of the door.

  Seaward went to utter words of protest but it was too late by then.

  They’d seen each other.

  Elle pressed her hand to the glass.

  Charlotte, from the other side of the door, turned her head a fraction, gave Elle the ghost of a smile and waved.

  Elle released a deep breath, misting the glass, and let her tears come, and they came fast: fat drops rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘Mum . . .’

  JOSEPH

  So now everyone knows about me. I’m laid bare for all to see except when I choose to hide behind Charlotte. Sometimes she takes over without my consent, telling that psychiatrist she still feels my presence, that I’m not sorry.

  ‘Let me out, and he’ll make me kill again,’ she’ll say.

  True, but I don’t need to be out in the world to do it. I can work around this blip, being locked in the nut house, psycho-analysed every single day.

  When I lock Charlotte away, black her out, I make sure she remembers her accident – reliving it over and over again. She wakes up screaming, drenched in a cold sweat. It’s different from before, more intense. Before, when I took over, I kept her mind blank. She had no memory of the gaps in time. She’d find things odd, wonder if she’d strayed into a daydream to escape her crumbling life. She always put it down to post-traumatic stress but never revealed her fears to anyone.

  Sometimes Charlotte wakes in the night, screaming for Elle. She was one of my favourites, and actually, on reflection, I’m glad I didn’t cut her too deep.

  She’s special now. She will always be the one people talk about.

  Yes, she’s alive, although Charlotte hasn’t been allowed to see her yet. But today is different. Today is special.

  They – Doc and the others – they want to erase me, as if I’m some demon that can be forced from the body in an exorcism.

  Ha!

  If only it were so simple. All they’ll end up erasing is Charlotte, my little Lottie, if I have my way. That’s the thing with them – the doctors – what they don’t understand. I’m always here. Always listening even if Charlotte’s got me bound and gagged, not letting me speak, take control.

  They keep asking Charlotte if I’ve told her where I put Ruby Tate.

  I won’t let them have that part of me. They’ve taken too much as it is.

  I won’t give up the exact location but I will say this: Charlotte may be scared of water but I’m not. The brilliance of water is it can move, transport and wash away a multitude of sins – and, most importantly, evidence.

  I relinquished far too much control to Charlotte, and to them, the doctors who continue to study me, pick apart at the damaged psyche, trying to find answers.

  I find it almost sad in some small way that, if I am to survive, to have a life after all this, I have to shut Charlotte down completely, banish her to some dark recess of her mind, The Cage. And although it’s been a struggle, I can feel her will draining away a little more each day.

  It can’t be much longer.

  Soon, I will be the primary identity, the core of the system.

  I’ve had to pretend to be Charlotte, to talk like her, get her mannerisms just right.

  For example, I asked about Paul Selby. I asked if he’d been found guilty. That’s som
ething Charlotte would want to know, right? Apparently, the trial’s been pushed back, given the revelations about Charlotte and I. Personally, I couldn’t give a fuck, but I had to feign upset, disappointment . . .

  Behave like Charlotte. Be like Charlotte. God, it’s tiring, but needs must. She has to be seen to be getting better. It’s the only chance I have to get out of here. Erase the other identity – me – and she’ll be cured, or so the theory goes.

  Soon I’ll banish Charlotte completely, sending her back to sleep, an endless, dreamless sleep. Curled up in her little box.

  Oh . . . look at that. That pretty nurse has come back again.

  Her name is Abbie according to her name badge. She never speaks to me if she can help it. She’s too horrified by what Charlotte did to her own daughter, let alone those other girls. I’m not sure she buys into this whole multiple-personality thing.

  It exists, dear reader.

  I exist.

  Rather reviling me, they should revere me.

  Abbie is fussing at my dinner tray, knocking over the plastic drinking cup – we’re not allowed glass. I should pretend to be Charlotte right now, make her feel at ease, and yes, I can feel Charlotte back here, trying to break out.

  Now feels as good a time as any to turn that key, lock her away.

  I stare at Abbie’s body, force my eyes to raise to hers. Charlotte wouldn’t leer at some twenty-something now, would she?

  ‘Has it stopped raining yet?’ I ask her.

  Although there are no windows in my room, I could hear the rain lashing down earlier. My – our – room is on the ground floor.

  They consider us a suicide risk. They had visions of us breaking out, heading up to the roof and taking a swan-dive off it.

  I’m too selfish for that. I love myself too much for self-sacrifice.

  Charlotte however? She’d do it in a heartbeat if she got the chance. End it for both of us, and I can’t have that.

  Abbie’s looking at me now, tray in hand. I think she’s just given me the first hint of a smile.

  Maybe I have this Charlotte act down to a fine art.

  A pain twinges in my head and I flinch.

  Leave her alone.

  Ah, there’s Charlotte.

  ‘Your husband and daughter are coming today, they’ll be here soon,’ Abbie says now. She must be feeling brave.