by SJI Holliday
The sounds of the fairground drift across the expanse of grass towards them. Davie feels a small flutter of excitement. He’s glad to be walking here, hand in hand with Marie, but he’s thinking about something else too. He’s waiting for Malkie to get back to him on his theory about the drugs being transported from town to town by someone connected to the fair, but while he’s here he’s hoping to have a good snout about.
As they cut through between the Waltzer and the Dodgems, a teenage boy and girl come barrelling towards them from under the flap of a tent. They’re giggling, grabbing at each other. Davie vaguely recognises the girl. He’s seen her with Laura once or twice. Heidi or Hannah. Something like that.
‘Having fun, Hayley?’ Marie calls as they run off round the back of the stalls. The girl turns and waves. She has a pink streak in her hair that Davie quite likes. The boy turns and gives them a sneering grin. ‘She hangs about with Laura sometimes,’ Marie explains. ‘Did you see who she was with?’
Davie shakes his head. ‘No, didn’t recognise him.’
‘He was in the pub the other day. He’s one of the fairground lads. I’m not one to judge, but he’s a dodgy-looking sort. That girl wants to be careful.’
Davie watches as the couple disappear in behind another of the rides. Interesting, he thinks. Clearly a charmer, if he’s picked up one of Laura’s friends after only being here a few days.
Marie has dropped Davie’s hand and she now has both hands shoved into her pockets. They’ve stopped walking and they lean against a pole in the middle of the fair. All Davie can hear are the sounds of the slot machines in the tent nearby. The music is so loud he’s tuned it out. He watches Marie and sees that she’s staring at the rifle range.
‘Fancy a go? Come on, I’ll win you something,’ he says.
She turns to look at him and, for a second, the expression on her face is confusion – as if she doesn’t know who he is. She blinks. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. Actually, can we go on the Big Wheel?’
The Big Wheel isn’t particularly big, not compared to those huge things like the London Eye or even those big old ones he’s seen on TV, like the Wonder Wheel in Coney Island. He’d love to go to Coney Island, but he wouldn’t go anywhere near that wheel. He’d watched a documentary on it once. About the guy who built it. No accidents since 1900, apparently. Statistics dictated that it had to happen eventually, and the older it got, the odds were shortening. Davie wasn’t a gambling man, but he could imagine a disaster was imminent. It would be one of the moving carriages. The ones that slide along a rail inside as well as going round the circumference. Was it not frightening enough to be up so high, never mind in a carriage that made it look like you were going to slide off the rails and drop to the floor? Davie was terrified of heights. He managed to get away with most things in life without ever having to deal with that fear.
‘Er, how about the Dodgems instead?’ he says.
‘You’re not a scaredy-cat, are you, Davie? Big strong man like you.’ Marie laughs and drags him by the elbow towards the ride. He feels his heart start to beat faster. His palms have gone clammy and he wipes them on his shorts. He can’t get out of this without looking like a wimp. But he’s terrified.
Marie runs off towards the ticket booth. Davie waits, watches her. Takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself down. Get a grip, Davie. He decides that he will do it, but he’ll shut his eyes. She comes back waving a roll of paper tickets.
‘Come on . . .’
He was hoping for a queue, a final reprieve. But there is none.
The wheel creaks and lurches as they sit on the seats. It’s one of those with the swing seat and a bar. It couldn’t really be worse, in Davie’s opinion. He sits on the far side and Marie climbs up next to him. A skinny kid in a greasy T-shirt pulls the bar down in front, clicks it into place. He smacks a button next to the small control booth and the seat lifts up. It’s faster than he expected and the seat swings precariously. He grips onto the bar and closes his eyes.
‘Davie, I . . . Oh God, you’re actually scared, aren’t you? I thought you were joking. I wouldn’t have made you come on if I’d realised—’
‘It’s fine,’ he says, through gritted teeth. ‘Keep talking, though. Take my mind off it.’
‘It’ll be easier if you open your eyes.’
His stomach lurches as the carriage loops over the top of the circle, swings forwards as it starts to descend down the other side. He opens his eyes and sees the fairground sprawled out beneath them. He can see the hidden parts that you don’t see from the ground. The backs of the tents, the inner workings of things. The overflowing bins and stacks of empty boxes behind the burger vans. It starts on the second loop, and he realises Marie has fallen silent. He turns and sees that she is staring out towards the entrance of the fair.
‘What do you see?’ he says, sensing her bristle beside him.
Silence.
The ride descends for its third and final time, and Davie is glad to feel it slowing to a stop. The seat swings again as it pulls in to the exit point, before stopping. The skinny greaser lifts the bar and smirks. Marie still hasn’t said anything.
They walk away from the ride, not heading in any particular direction. He senses a change in her. It makes him feel uncomfortable.
‘Marie?’
She turns to face him, looks up. She’s been crying again, or trying hard at least to hold back her tears.
‘Marie. You’re scaring me. What is it?’
She takes his hand and presses something into his palm.
‘I want you to keep this. Please. I’ll explain later. Just keep it for me. Just in case.’
He looks down at what she has placed in his hand. Two brass keys attached to a cheap plastic photo-keyring, two young faces. He barely glances at it. Drops it into his pocket.
‘Marie—’
He whirls round, searching the crowd. The music sounds like it’s been turned up suddenly, the pounding beats crushing his skull. There is too much laughter. The air is filled with the stench of cheap meat, onions. Candyfloss. Children are shrieking. Rifles are being fired – pop pop pop – against the backboard. He turns the other way, panicked. Confused. She has disappeared.
Marie is gone.
He takes his phone out of his pocket. There is a small metallic chink as it rattles against the keys. He clicks on his call list, finds her number. Presses ‘dial’. It goes straight to voicemail.
‘Fuck,’ he says, too loudly. A young girl walking past with candyfloss stuffed in her face flinches, and her dad, walking hand in hand with her, throws him a filthy look.
He presses ‘call’ again. Voicemail.
He marches out of the fair, pushing his way through the crowds. He passes the girl with the pink streak in her hair. She’s laughing again. The boy she’s with stares at him. Smirks. Davie stares back. He wants to say something, but he can’t. He’s no reason to. He doesn’t want to make a fuss. He just wants to get the hell out of this place and find out what’s got into Marie.
21
It was a mistake to meet Davie. She’d tried, she really had. She knew she was pushing him away, but her mind was spinning. She’d tried to relax on the Big Wheel. She’d been about to tell Davie about what had been going on. Get his advice. She’d never told anyone about Graeme, but there were too many coincidences now. The Lego . . . the letters . . . the Twitter account with the photos of her window box. The photo of her and him.
She’d seen him standing at the entrance to the fairground. There was no mistake. It might’ve been over two decades since she’d seen him, but he hadn’t really changed. She could tell by the way he stood. The shape of his body. Tall, skinny: so unlike her own. She knew she looked like him, facially at least, but he seemed to have gained a height and a build that was more like their father’s than their mother’s. Long and rangy. Narrow face with a strong chin. She was shorter, prone to putting on weight if she didn’t watch what she ate. She’d lost weight recently too, could feel it in
her clothes. The waistband just a bit looser.
Most of all, she could sense him. They’d always had the twin thing that people talk about. The feeling of knowing he was near, knowing what he was thinking. Even when they were apart and she didn’t know where he was, she could sense he’d never been far away.
They’d moved house after it had all happened. Moved to the other side of Scotland, wanting distance, the chance of a new start. She’d taken her mum’s maiden name, and her dad had changed his name by deed poll so they were all the same. The Bloomfields. She’d quite liked it. Assumed it meant she was safe. Part of the conditions of him being sent away was that he was never allowed to contact her again. At first she’d been confused. Didn’t want to be apart from him. He’d managed to condition her over their sixteen years together. Managed to convince her that they had a bond that was like no other. Tried to convince her that the things they’d done together were OK. She’d wanted it at first, felt the same as him. That childlike closeness that had turned into something more. But by the time she was fourteen, nearly fifteen, she’d started to realise how wrong it was. They were brother and sister. It wasn’t right.
Had he seen her on the wheel? Seen her with Davie? She knew that Davie could handle himself, but Graeme was unpredictable. Who knew what he might do. Davie was in danger just by being near her. That’s why she’d tried to push him away. The instinct had kicked in as soon as she’d seen the letter. The one that she’d never have known about had she not seen the postman that day.
She shudders, thinking about that.
It was the first warning sign. Then there were others. She hadn’t wanted to believe it. Hadn’t wanted to accept it. But it was obvious now.
Graeme was out.
How he’d got out, she didn’t know. She knew she had to read the letters. She had to find out where he was – or where he was meant to be, at least. He’d been sent to a hospital near their old town. But that doesn’t mean he hadn’t been moved. She knew that they would have her details, her parents’ too. But they were lucky enough to be out of the country. Moving to Spain hadn’t just been about starting a new life in the sun. They’d been scared.
Marie had been scared too, but she’d thought he was never getting out. Thought she was safe. Why had no one contacted her to say he was out?
The worst part was, she actually missed him. She’d never really managed to move on. She missed their childhood, and the carefree times. She conveniently blocked out all the bad stuff. It hadn’t always been bad. She’d enjoyed it as much as he had, at first. Encouraged him, even. It had felt right, special – giving herself to him. She often regretted pushing him away. She loved him.
He was her brother after all.
She drops the keys on the table. The spare set are on a plain silver ring. They look bare, with no keyring. It’d been a last-minute decision to take the spare set out with her. She’d planned to explain things to Davie. Give him the keys, tell him he was welcome any time. But then it’d all gone to shit. She’d panicked. Given him her own keys instead. She wondered if he’d bring them round. Try to get some sense out of her. Half of her wanted him to do exactly that, so she could tell him everything. Get his support. Stop feeling so damn scared and paranoid.
A horrible thought begins to mushroom inside her head. What if they hadn’t let Graeme out? What if he’d escaped? Shit. Shit! He’d end up in so much trouble. Even after everything he’d done, she didn’t want that for him. She wanted to see him again. Just once. Talk to him. Try to understand. The other part of her brain said, Don’t be so bloody stupid, Marie. Call the police. Get Graeme back where he belongs. Don’t react. It’s what he wants. He hurt you, Marie. He ruined your life. You need to forget about him. You need to move on.
She is torn.
Cadbury is sitting in her basket next to the TV, snoozing. Purring quietly. Clearly the cat has decided to forgive her for the recent lack of attention. She needs to feel warmth now – of something that didn’t expect anything back. She picks up the sleeping cat and it stirs, turns to look at her. She sits down at the kitchen table and the cat stays on her lap. Marie strokes it; the rhythmic movement is soothing and the soft fur feels nice under her hand.
She opens the laptop. She hadn’t switched it off, so after a moment it opens up the windows she’d left there. The browser. Twitter. She refreshes the screen. After a moment, the timeline she’d been looking at spews out a series of tweets. MarieBloomfield’s account is unlocked. Her request has been accepted. With a shaking hand, she scrolls down as far as they go. They refresh as she scrolls.
The first tweet was written nearly a month ago.
Hello World! Thought I’d come and see what all the fuss is about
She starts to read them, bottom up. The first few are dull, as innocuous as the first. Nothing of interest. Someone finding her feet. There are no retweets, no replies. Just one person, typing into the void. Updating no one on things of no interest. The account has only one follower: her. The account isn’t following anyone. Just spewing out a stream of consciousness, not even caring if it will be read.
Because there is only one person who is meant to read this.
She wonders how Scott had seen the tweets. Assumes that maybe they haven’t always been protected. Maybe that’s a new thing. Maybe whoever set up the account didn’t expect anyone to contact them. Maybe Scott had sent tweets to the account, got no reply. Maybe that was why he’d seemed miffed about it at the party. Maybe that’s why the others had been staring at her. Were they on Twitter? Or was she just paranoid?
It doesn’t matter.
There are several pages. But it’s the first page that sends a shiver down her spine. The recent messages are frantic. Someone on the edge.
What’s the point of this? Why is no one talking to me?
I don’t understand this thing.
It’s a bit creepy, isn’t it . . . talking about followers . . . #stalkeralert LOL. Luckily no one is actually following me. I’m too dull.
Anyone going to the shows this weekend? Looks like fun. I used to go there with my brother when we were kids #midgets
Maybe I should start following people. Is that what you’re meant to do? Maybe I should stick to Facebook . . . anyone??
I’m going to delete this account #fucking #boring
Ha! That got me some new followers. Dirty whores with their tits out. I spose I need to protect my tweets. What’s the point of that though?
I wish my brother was here. I miss him so much #bond #siblings
I skived off work today #naughtygirl
Thinking about dumping my bloke. Not sure it’s working out. Lucky he can’t see this!
I heard from my brother #amazing
And the final, most recent tweet. Sent at 12:00 today:
Seeing my brother today. Can’t wait. So much to catch up on #siblings #love #missyou
The cat yelps. She feels its claws dig into her leg before it jumps off her lap. She’s barely aware that she’s been stroking it harder and harder, pressing it into her legs. Feeling the bones beneath its soft fur. She touches her leg where the cat has clawed it. She rubs at her cheek, feels an itchy tear slide down her face. Tastes salt on her lips.
He’s done this.
He’s set up this account. He’s been playing with her, wondering when she would notice. He must’ve added the photograph of her window box very recently.
She wonders how long he’s been out.
It was only a few days ago that she sensed someone in the pub. Found the piece of Lego. The day Cadbury was sick in the hallway.
A thought hits her. She stands up, banging her knees on the table. The bin is still under the sink. She pulls out the liner and tips the contents into the sink, frantically searching through the random crap in there. Finds it. The tissue with the hard ball inside that Cadbury coughed up. She peels back the tissue, wincing at the smell. Cat sick is never a pleasant aroma, but there isn’t that much in there, thankfully. A ball of hair, bits of food
. She prises it apart and finds what she’s looking for. A small yellow brick.
The cat has eaten Lego.
Realisation dawns, and she walks over to the window, opens it wide. This is the way the cat always comes in and out. This is the place where the stupid cat might see something new and interesting to play with. She often finds a dead bird or a mouse in there, next to the daisies. A little present for her that she has to bury in the garden.
She leans out across the window box, looking up and down the ledge. Nothing. She leans further, until she can see the patch of grass beneath the window. A black bucket sits there, upturned. She leaves it there as a step for Cadbury, and she often uses it to transport the dead animals that are left in the soil.
She feels her heart stop.
Scattered down by the sides of the bucket is an array of different pieces of Lego. Various shapes and sizes. A small structure has been built, and knocked over. Even half smashed, she can see what it once was. A castle. Just like the one she built that day. A small flag pokes out from underneath.
Call the police, she thinks. Call Davie. That’s the right thing to do. The sensible thing.
She slides back inside the window, barely noticing the pain in her chest from where she’s been leaning down over the ledge, the frame pressing in to her. She slams the window shut.
She picks up the phone, still shaking. Takes a deep breath. They answer on the third ring.
‘Marie? Is that you? Is everything all right?’
She tries to stop her voice from shaking. ‘Hi Mum. Yeah, it’s me. And no. It’s not. I was just wondering . . . have you heard from Graeme?’
Silence. Breathing.
‘Mum?’
‘I’ll get your father. Hang on.’
‘No, wait. I want to talk to you. Mum—’
‘Marie? It’s Dad. We got a phone call today. We were trying to work out what to do. We should’ve called sooner . . . Graeme has been in a hospital not far from you. We didn’t know. They sent a letter about the move, apparently, but it went to the old address. They’ve got our updated details now. I don’t know how. Systems, or something.’