Cruel Minds

by Malcolm Richards

  “What are you doing?”

  “It wasn’t Ben and Sylvia,” she said. “That’s Oscar’s room.”

  Jerome sat up. “As usual, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Last night, I was lying in bed trying to get to sleep when I heard voices coming through the wall. A man and a woman arguing. I’d assumed it was Ben and Sylvia.”

  “God, they’re detestable,” Jerome said, his nose wrinkling. “And what a massive racist. Did you hear what he called Daniel? I’m surprised he didn’t want us sitting at separate dinner tables.”

  “They’re not the most pleasant of people. But if it wasn’t them I heard arguing, then who was it?”

  Jerome shrugged his shoulders, stood up, and crossed over to the window.

  “Janelle’s right, you know. It’s weird to think Oscar’s still out there, dangling from a rope. Did you see his face? How am I ever going to get that image out of my head?”

  “It had to be one of the other women here at Meadow Pines.”

  “What?”

  “I hear an argument coming from Oscar’s room. The next morning, he’s dead.” Emily moved away from the wall and paced across the floor. “Why would he come here to do it? I mean, he must have specifically chosen Meadow Pines”

  “Maybe he wanted some nice scenery?”

  “And what about the robbery?” She frowned, deep lines of worry creasing her brow. “Something’s not adding up here.”

  Jerome stared down at her, his eyes narrowing. “Oh no, don’t you even dare think about it!”

  “What?”

  “You’ve already got yourself into enough trouble this year without courting any more. The police will be here soon. Do yourself a favour and stay out of it.”

  “But don’t you think something’s going on?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know. But the only thing I’ll be concerning myself with is how the hell I’m going to afford to replace my phone. I suggest you do the same.”

  Annoyed, Emily slumped down on the bed.

  “Why isn’t the landline working?” she thought aloud.

  “Why are we still having this conversation?”

  “Last night when Melody and I were at the lake, we heard something. I think someone was watching us.”

  “In fact, I think I’ll just go to my room.” Muttering under his breath, Jerome headed for the door.

  Emily felt a surge of annoyance. Sometimes Jerome could be so churlish. “You know, you’re being ridiculous.”

  Eyebrows arched, Jerome said, “I’m being ridiculous? The last time you got involved in something that wasn’t your business, you ended up getting kidnapped and held in a mental hospital for three months.”

  “It wasn’t a mental hospital. It was a rehab centre.”

  “You know what I mean! You just can’t help yourself, can you? It’s not your business, Emily. You’re not the police, you’re not a P.I. Why can’t you just be like everybody else? Why can’t you just be normal?”

  The words pierced her skin like needles. Emily sat on the bed, skin flushing scarlet. Jerome pulled open the door.

  “Last time, you almost died,” he said, suddenly defeated. The door slammed shut behind him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Resentment boiled in Emily’s stomach. Jerome was right, of course. After her treatment at the hands of Doctor Chelmsford, she was lucky to be alive and to have her mind intact. Unpleasant memories came to her. Hands holding her down. Needles piercing her skin. Bodies, starved and withered, decaying on beds.

  She shook her head, sweeping the images from her mind. She had lived her entire life being normal, right up until her mother had gotten sick, until Phillip had thrown himself from the school roof. All normal had ever done was pull a naïve veil over her eyes, blinding her to how cruel life could be. No wonder she had broken so easily—normal had made her weak.

  Angry tears stung Emily’s eyes as unwanted memories forced their way into her mind. She spied her toiletry bag on the dresser. One pill would smother the memories in a blanket of numbness. The trouble was they’d still be there, waiting to torment her again once the chemicals had worn off. Temptation pulled at her. She shrugged it off and sat back on the bed. The coolness of the wall seeped into her skin. One day, she would be free of all of these conflicting feelings, she told herself. One day, all of those terrible thoughts would leave her in peace. She just hoped that day would come soon.

  Closing her eyes, she focused on her breathing, trying to empty her mind. Her thoughts were always so untamed, like stampeding wild horses. She tried to reign them in, to acknowledge each thought, then let it go. Minutes passed, but her thoughts would not let her go. What had happened to Oscar to drive him to suicide? Why here? The question presented itself over and over. Had Oscar really selected Meadow Pines at random as a place to end his life? Or did Meadow Pines have some sort of significance? Emily sat up, another question presenting itself. Had Oscar been here before?

  A noise that sounded like furniture scraping over floorboards interrupted her thoughts. Emily looked up. The noise had come through Oscar’s wall. Hopping off the bed, she crossed the room and pressed her ear against the plaster. Silence greeted her. Was she losing her mind now? She was beginning to worry that she had when the sound came again. Emily straightened her body as she heard other sounds. Things were being moved and replaced, opened and closed.

  Tip-toeing across her room, she opened the door and crept out into the hallway. She hovered for a moment, hearing only silence. Moving closer, she pressed her ear to Oscar’s door. Someone was in there, moving about.

  Without hesitating, Emily opened the door and peered inside. The woman had her back to her. Emily watched her lean over the bed and delve through the contents of what was presumably Oscar’s suitcase.

  “What are you doing?”

  Startled by Emily’s voice, she immediately pulled out her hands and spun around to face the door.

  “Jesus, you scared me!” Helen said, sounding more irritated than startled. She glanced down at the suitcase, then back at Emily. “Come inside and close the door.”

  Emily moved into the room, shutting the door behind her.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” she said.

  “Neither should you.” Helen eyed her suspiciously.

  Emily looked at the mess that the journalist had made. “What are you looking for?”

  “Evidence.”

  “Of what?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” Helen returned to the suitcase and rifled through its contents. She spoke as she worked. “Don’t you think it’s strange that this guy kills himself at the exact same time there’s a robbery?”

  Emily nodded. “And the landline goes down.”

  “Exactly.”

  Helen pulled out a shirt, shook it, and threw it to one side. Emily remained where she was, a mixture of disapproval and curiosity stealing over her.

  “The police will be here soon,” she said. “I don’t think they’ll be happy that you’re going through Oscar’s belongings.”

  “Can’t help it. Journalistic instinct.” Helen threw everything back inside the suitcase, tossed it to one side, then moved over to the wardrobe. “You’re Emily, right? We didn’t get a chance to talk yet.”

  “Yes.” Emily nodded, an uncomfortable feeling crawling up the back of her neck. “You’re a journalist? Who do you write for?”

  “Modern Living magazine. Do you read it?”

  “No.”

  Reaching into the wardrobe, Helen stuffed her hands into the pockets of Oscar’s jacket. “You’re not missing much. I was supposed to be writing a review of this place for a feature on UK getaways, but now we have a dead body and a robbery on our hands, they can suck it up—this story’s getting me into the nationals.”

  “A suicide isn’t exactly front page news.”

  “No, but with the right angle I could make page four.”

  “And what would be the right angle?”

  �
�I’ll tell you when I find it.”

  Emily folded her arms, watching Helen’s every move. For a second, she caught herself admiring the journalist’s bravado. Ambition was never a bad thing, she supposed. But the way Helen was sifting through a dead man’s belongings without a second thought quickly turned that admiration into disgust.

  “The last journalist I knew who went chasing a story is still missing,” she said.

  “Really, who was that?”

  Emily thought about Reina Tammerworth. She had been investigating the mysterious death of her sister, Carmilla, who had died while under the care of Doctor Chelmsford. Reina had vanished a week after Alina Engel. The police suspected that Alina’s husband, Karl Henry, had murdered her. But with Karl currently in a prison cell, refusing to answer any questions while he awaited trial, the chances of recovering her body were becoming remote.

  Helen closed the wardrobe door and waited for Emily’s reply.

  “Just someone.”

  “Well maybe someone should have been more careful. Here, help me.”

  She lifted the bottom end of the mattress with one hand and felt underneath with the other. Emily stayed by the door.

  “Do you think it was someone here that took the phones?” she asked, watching Helen struggle.

  “Let’s look at the possibilities,” the journalist said. “One, a member of staff did it.”

  “But there are only three of them. Two of which would run the risk of destroying their business if they were caught.”

  “True. But who was the only person missing when we found Oscar’s body?”

  “Sam, the chef. But he and Marcia are clearly in a relationship. It doesn’t make sense that he’d risk losing her and his job.”

  Helen dropped the mattress and looked up. “Good thinking. We could make a journalist out of you yet, Emily. So if the staff didn’t do it, then that leaves us with option two—that one of the guests is responsible.”

  Emily thought about it. “Pamela keeps the office unlocked. That cabinet didn’t look so hard to break into. But where would they hide their haul without the rest of us or the police finding out? And if it is one of the guests, then why are they still hanging around?”

  “All good points. But option two remains viable. What about option three—that we have an intruder in our midst?”

  This was the idea that Emily liked the least. A stranger stalking through the forest and entering the house was the kind of mental image that ended in terrible nightmares.

  “Well, we’re kind of in the middle of nowhere,” she said. “The nearest town has to be at least five or six miles away by road. But you have to get to the road first. Plus, it’s a bit of a stretch to think someone might happen to be wandering through the depths of the New Forest on the off-chance of scoring some valuables.”

  “Unless they already know this place exists,” Helen said, slipping her hands underneath Oscar’s pillows. “Which would mean the suspect would have to be local.”

  “It’s a possibility, I suppose. But all three options are ignoring something.”

  “Don’t you mean, someone?” Helen said. She replaced the pillows, then threw her hands into the air. “People who commit suicide leave notes. Where’s Oscar’s?”

  Emily stared at the floor. Phillip hadn’t left a note. But Phillip had been eleven years old and his suicide had almost certainly been a spontaneous action.

  “Perhaps it’s on his body,” she said. “Folded in his pocket or something.” Emily thought of him still hanging there, then shuddered as she pushed the image from her head.

  “Perhaps you’re right. But we can’t know for sure while he’s still hanging there.”

  “I guess we’ll have to wait until the police take him down.”

  Helen brushed hair from her eyes and looked around at the mess she’d created. “What do you think, Emily? Oscar’s death, the robbery ... coincidence or connected?”

  Emily thought about the argument she’d heard last night through the wall. She debated whether or not to tell Helen, and took a second to decide to keep the information to herself. Regardless of her own curiosity, she wasn’t about to trust a journalist.

  Emily heaved her shoulders. “How would I know?”

  She waited for Helen to tidy up Oscar’s room, then followed her out into the hall. As soon as they had closed the door behind them, the dull tone of the lunch bell resounded through the house. Lifting a finger to her lips, Helen winked, then scuttled away towards the stairs.

  Jerome’s door was the first to open.

  “Someone’s hungry,” he said, seeing Emily. His smile faded. “Listen, I didn’t mean to snap at you before. It’s just—well, you’re still recovering. The last thing you need right now is to get mixed up in more trouble.”

  Emily stared at him.

  “I just want you to be okay, that’s all.”

  “I am okay,” she said, her voice hard and cold.

  Doors opened. The other guests emerged from their rooms, eyeing each other as they headed for the stairs.

  Guilt welled up in her chest. “Look, I know you’re worried about me and I appreciate it. I really do.”

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Deciding now was not the best time to tell Jerome of her encounter with Helen, Emily hooked her arm in his, and together, they made their way down to the dining hall.

  ***

  The others were already sat down, waiting as Sam dished up hot lentil soup.

  In an apparent bid to keep the peace, Janelle had wedged herself between Ben and Daniel. Helen sat opposite. She looked up, catching Emily’s eye. The emptiness of Oscar’s seat pervaded the room like an uninvited dinner guest. Emily slipped into the adjacent chair, letting Jerome sit next to Daniel. Helen passed a bowl of soup across the empty space and Emily took it.

  At the end of the table, some colour had returned to Melody’s complexion. She leaned over towards Emily. “Are you all right? You look funny.”

  “I’m fine.” Marcia still wasn’t here. How long had it been since she’d set off to Lyndhurst? The absence of time was beginning to feel more like a trap than a release.

  Once everyone was seated and had bowls of soup in front of them, Pamela stood up. “I think you’ll agree that our present circumstances are deeply upsetting and made all the more confusing by Oscar being a stranger to us all,” she said. “Nevertheless, I’d like to ask everyone here to take a moment to think of Oscar’s family. They no doubt have an extremely difficult time ahead of them, so for a few minutes, let’s try to focus on sending positive thoughts and—”

  “Why aren’t the police here yet?” Pamela looked down the table at Helen. “I mean, how long does it take to drive to Lyndhurst. Ten, fifteen minutes?”

  All eyes turned towards Pamela.

  “We’re not easy to get to,” she said. “You’ve experienced that for yourself. And it’s a small station manned by a handful of officers. It may take some time to organise themselves.”

  “Hicksville,” muttered Sylvia, not quite under her breath.

  Helen persisted. “Still, it has to have been over an hour. Hasn’t it? Does anyone actually know what time it is?”

  Murmurs travelled along the table.

  “She has a point,” Janelle said, her usual warmth waning. “Even if the emergency services are busy organising themselves, wouldn’t Marcia have headed back to let us know what’s going on? She knows we have no means of communication.”

  “That’s right,” Ben said. His lip had grown even fatter, like a ripe plum. “Where is she? And what is the time? I’ve had enough of this digital detox bullshit. You have a computer in your office. Computers tell the time.”

  Pamela looked around the table. She hesitated before sliding a hand into her pocket and pulling out a wrist watch.

  “It’s a little after two-thirty.”

  Sylvia’s eyes narrowed. “And where did you get that from?”

  “It stays in my pocket. We need to ha
ve some kind of way to time meals and the yoga sessions. Look, might I suggest that we eat the lunch Sam has kindly prepared for us and give Marcia a little more time. This isn’t the city. Things can take a little longer. Besides, I think it’s best we keep ourselves—”

  “What about the computer?” Sylvia interrupted. “Can’t we just jump online and get help that way?”

  “No phone line, no internet,” Sam explained.

  “Has anyone tried the phone again?” Helen said. “Perhaps there’s some sort of fault that can be fixed. Like a disconnected wire or something.”

  Frustration crept into Pamela’s voice. “Of course we’ve tried. You’re more than welcome to check for yourself. The junction box is on the outside wall to the left of the porch.”

  Helen was on her feet and moving out of the room before Pamela could say another word.

  “And what about compensation?” Ben pushed his bowl of soup away and folded his arms. “Not just for the things we’ve had stolen but for this whole sorry weekend.”

  Emily watched Pamela’s calm demeanour fracturing like a broken eggshell. She wasn’t envious of her having to manage the chaos. “As I clearly mentioned before, everyone will be compensated.”

  “And how about getting out of here?” Sylvia cut in.

  “We’ll have to deal with that once Sergeant Wells has arrived. I’m sure there’s a simple solution. If your vehicle is insured perhaps you can get replacement keys.”

  “Perhaps isn’t going to get me home, is it?”

  Ben and Sylvia sat back in their chairs, glaring at Pamela.

  “This will all be over very soon,” she said, holding up her hands once more. “I’m sure by the time we’ve finished eating, Marcia will be on her way.”

  “Yeah, on her way to the nearest pawn shop,” Sylvia snorted.

  Spent, Pamela slumped onto her chair. Quiet descended over the table. Emily stared into her soup. She had no appetite. In fact, apart from Jerome, no one had even lifted their spoons. Pamela was probably right; rural police forces lacked both the resources and manpower that city constabularies possessed. It was understandable, then, that it would take longer to organise themselves. But that knowledge did nothing to quell the doubt that had taken hold of Emily’s mind.