by Kirsty McKay
The driver’s door is locked. I try it again, looking at it as if I’m doing something wrong. I cough, moving round to the passenger side, and then the two back doors, but the car will not let me back in. I feel the vomit begin to move in my stomach, sweep my arm across my face, trying somehow to shield the air that goes into my lungs. I stagger across to the garage door again, thump it, but it’s not moving. I look around, wildly – the crowbar! It feels heavy and unfamiliar in my hands, but I thrust it into the bottom of the garage door and lean on one side. A gap to the outside appears, big enough to get an arm through, big enough to put my face down there and gulp clean, cold air, but not big enough to squeeze through.
‘Mr Flynn!’ I scream, through the gap. ‘Help me!’
But he doesn’t come. Why not? As I lie there trying to prise the gap open further, a crazy thought pops into my head.
Maybe Mr Flynn doesn’t want me to make it out of here alive.
Could he be involved in all of this, somehow? Mr Flynn, hanging around the cliffs at the dead of night during Vaughan’s initiation. Mr Flynn, first to the stage when Emily collapsed, right there on hand when Rick was poisoned. I don’t want to believe it, but maybe he despises us, the privileged superkids, when he was denied his own chance to make his mark on the world?
Wooziness moves over me like a large hand clamped over my face. I suck in some more air, fighting it. Could it be Ms Lasillo’s the one? She’s jealous of me, the attention I get from Flynny. She’s clever, she could have easily made that robot. She was with us when Rick ate the cupcake, she could have poisoned it, intending it for me. She’s as uptight and annoying as hell, but is she really a killer?
Maybe the two of them are in it together?
I breathe deep, trying to chase the fumes from my head. Whatever. It’s up to me to help myself. I lie there, head wedging the garage door open, gulping air. This is not a sustainable situation. It’s not an attractive prospect, to give up my fresh air and go back in, but it’s the only way I’m going to free myself. I take, one, two, three gulps more, then wiggle back and let the door seal me in again. Grabbing the crowbar, I head for Mr Flynn’s car. He’s not going to be very pleased. Funnily enough, I couldn’t give a monkey’s about that right now. Wielding the crowbar like a battering ram, I get angry and take it out on the driver’s-side window, hammering the sharp end of the crowbar into the glass. The first time I swing, the glass just frosts over into a thousand little sugary pieces, but the pane stays intact. I pull the crowbar back again, and yell as I smash it again, this time the glass shatters and falls out of the window. My hand moves in to release the door lock, and I feel a swoon of fumes start to overtake my body again. It will not be enough to simply turn off the engine; I have to get out of here.
I launch myself into the driver’s seat, and grab the gear stick. I’ve never driven in my life, and unless I can figure this out now, I never will. I crank the stick to the number one, and there’s a grinding sound – oh crap, clutch. My feet stomp around, first finding the accelerator, making the engine roar. I find the clutch, and try the gear change again, and the car bunny-hops forwards.
‘Handbrake,’ I mutter, yanking the thing. It releases with a shudder. I press both pedals and the car makes an unholy screaming sound; this is a hell of a time to try and find the biting point. Oh holy greased lightning, please let me figure this out. I rev the engine again, easing off slowly, slowly, slowly . . . the wheels spin and the car leaps forward. I’m quick with stepping on the gas. No guts, no glory. Too late I remember my seatbelt. The front of the car smacks into the garage door and I jerk forward, my mouth smashing against the steering wheel. Despite the exploding pain and the taste of blood, I keep my foot down, and the car pushes the door, pushes, pushes . . . and stops.
But it’s enough. Daylight – or what’s left of it – is visible through the side of the door, enough for me to escape. On foot, but hey, I was never going to be able to drive this thing to the causeway. One hand carrying a torch and the other across my bloody mouth, I slide out of the car and stagger into the delicious cold air, my head spinning with carbon monoxide and the agony of smashed teeth. Once across the garden, I glance up at the cottage. What’s going on in there? I’m not going to wait to find out. I don’t know how that door got locked, but more fool me if it was Flynn or Lasillo who locked it.
As I set off across the field in the direction of the causeway, there’s a high whine. Ducking behind a hedgerow, I see it; a police car, lights flashing, coming down the road. I haven’t got much time. I run, keeping low and out of sight, and then I hit the woods, straighten up and make a dash for it, leaping over undergrowth, swallowing blood and snot and tears and probably teeth too, but I don’t care, I just have to get there. The woods give way to playing fields, and once I’m beyond the pavilion there’s nothing between me and the causeway except undulating dunes. Sometimes Mr Churley makes us run up them, and it’s ridiculously hard work, even on the days I’m not beaten-up and half-poisoned.
Reaching Vaughan is the strongest motivator. I can’t see him yet, because the causeway is hidden by the rise of the dunes, but even if I had a clear view of the road, it’s getting very dark, very quickly. This time the dark may be my friend; I cut across the dunes and risk the road.
Salt breezes blow my hair across my face. As my feet hit tarmac, I can hear the sea, somewhere out there in the darkness, and as my beam flashes into the gloom, it catches a large, yellow sign:
DANGER
DO NOT PROCEED
WHEN WATER REACHES
THE CAUSEWAY
I run up to the sign, and lean on it, panting. Where is he?
There is a line of poles, maybe four, five metres high, on either side of the road, which itself is slightly raised out of the sand. When the tide is in, those poles disappear. The road across the seabed is a little over three miles long, and it dips in the middle, because, you know, it’s the seabed. There’s a refuge – a tiny little shack on high stilts – about a third of the way across, for those crazy enough to attempt to cross when the waves are lapping at the roadside.
Which is what they are doing now.
‘Oh, bloody hell, Vaughan!’ I sigh, looking around at the dunes, and a small rocky outcrop along the waterline. There is nothing here, nowhere to hide, nowhere to skulk. ‘Where are you?’
It hurts to speak. I gingerly feel my broken lip, and my front teeth, for the first time. One is extremely wobbly, and I have a beard of crusty blood. I glance back up the road. I don’t have much time before the police get here. I walk out on to the road; the tarmac is littered with sand and shingle deposited by the last tide. I can see a little way off along the causeway, and there is certainly no obvious place on the road that Vaughan could be hiding.
‘Vaughan!’ I risk the shout out across the causeway. I flash my torch around – could he be in a boat?
Nothing. I click my torch off.
I’ve missed him. Or he was never here, he never made it down from the caves. Maybe the police caught him. Oh, no. I hunker down into a crouch. I’m so stupid. Mr Flynn left me in the garage because he wanted to call the police, tell them Vaughan was online at the caves and would be making his way to the causeway. They’ve caught him, and they’ll be coming after me next.
Or Skulk has him.
I have to go and look. Get to the caves. I straighten up, click my torch on again.
And then I see it. A flash, out on the causeway. And another. And another. Someone is signalling with a torch, far out on the road, so far that the torch is just a little pin-prick of light, dancing, feebly.
The light disappears.
I fumble my torch, suddenly heavy with importance in my hand. I wave it, then flick it on and off, on and off.
A pause. And then the dancing light flashes again, seemingly this time with more excitement, more urgency.
‘Vaughan!’ I shout, but it’s way too far away for him to hear me, and for him to answer me. Instead I flash my torch back, and it takes m
e a moment to realize what I’m doing, but I’m running down the slippery causeway, away from the safety of dry land and out into the unknown. The light is still dancing, ahead, pulling me to it. Myths of wreckers, evil souls luring boats to certain death on the rocks, jump into my head. Only this light is pulling me out to sea. The water is not over the road yet, but the further I go, the more I risk being cut off. The tide turns suddenly here, and even in a car you can get stuck.
And it might not be him. Between the devil, and the deep blue sea . . .
But still I keep running. Because otherwise, I’ll never know.
I run, and I run. The light is maybe a mile away, or at least it feels that way, I run on and on and it never gets closer. My face throbs with each thud of my feet on the road. The light disappears, suddenly. I flash my torch again as I run, shout some more, but there’s nothing but the dull road ahead, the black sea on either side, threatening to spill over and consume me. Did I imagine the light? Did I imagine Vaughan? I stop, suddenly, skidding to a halt, and look back the way I’ve come. Will I be stranded out here? I turn out to the causeway once more. My head spins, pain and light-headedness threatening to overtake me. Maybe I died, back there in Mr Flynn’s garage, and all of this is my journey to the afterlife. Follow the light, follow the light . . .
It flashes again, and I cry out in relief, both at its reappearance and the fact that I’m almost there. I’m not sodding dead, I’m too achy and cold and miserable for that. I push myself on, running again, and as I get closer, I see exactly where the light is coming from. The refuge – the small hut, perched precariously high up on stilts. I can make out the shape of it now, painted white against the dark-grey of the sky. The light is flicking on and off at the bottom of the stilts; that must be where he is. And as I run, I think I can see him, a shadow sheltered against the ladder that leads up to the hut. It makes me run faster, forgetting the torch, just pelting down that road as fast as I can, the cold salt air blurring my eyes with tears.
‘Vaughan!’
Splash, splash, splash. There’s suddenly water underfoot, the sea has started to swallow up the causeway. I don’t care, he’s there, he’s sitting, the mop of curly hair shaking as he waves the torch. And he’s shouting.
‘. . . turn back!’
My lungs are burning, but I’m there. His face is crumpled, frightened – but his eyes shine and I fling myself at him, down there where he sits, throwing my arms around his neck and toppling over on to him.
‘Oh God, Vaughan, they told me you were dead, you idiot!’ I cry into his neck, hugging him, my hands moving over his back, his long, black wool coat, wet with salt water. ‘Are you OK? What are you doing here? Why are you sitting on the ground, aren’t you soaked?’ I realize his arms are not reciprocating, and back off. He holds his hands up in front of him; they’re tied. I glance down and see his ankles are tied too.
‘Did Skulk do this to you?’ I crouch down, pulling at the plastic ties, but they are too tight and strong to undo. ‘Vaughan, it’s Daniel isn’t it?’ I stand up. ‘I’m so sorry, I should have worked it out days ago. Did he hurt you? Where is he?’
Vaughan shakes his head. ‘What happened to you, Cate?’
‘What?’ I bend down, and try to pull him to his feet. ‘Oh, the face? Little car accident, but no sweat, Dad can pay the dentist bills.’ I heave at him. ‘Can you get up?’
‘Broken my ankle,’ he mutters. ‘So pathetic. Tried to climb the ladder, trussed up like this. Fell off.’
‘And your head?’ I gasp, shining my torch at the matted blood at his hairline.
‘I didn’t think he was going to hit me,’ Vaughan groans, pulling himself up on the ladder, carefully.
‘He hit you?’ I help him to stand. ‘What with?’
‘A plank? I dunno, it was kind of quick, so bloody quick I didn’t see it coming,’ he groans. ‘So much for my plan to lure him out here and trap the sucker.’ He puts a hand on my arm. ‘But Cate, it wasn’t Daniel.’
‘What?’ I search his eyes. ‘But he was sending me the messages. He was Skulk – the sticker on his violin case, the fox. He must have gone off the rails when he saw that we were, you know, together. Emily embarrassed him by posting the video, so he wanted to hurt her with that spider. I’m not sure he intended to actually kill anyone, but probably just to lash out, humiliate!’
Vaughan lets me finish. ‘You’re wonderful, Cate. But you’re a rubbish detective. It wasn’t Daniel that hit me over the head, and it wasn’t Daniel who was Skulk, and it wasn’t Daniel who tried to kill Emily and Rick.’ He looks behind me. ‘Oh, no.’
‘What is it?’ I twist around. There’s a car moving towards us, down the causeway, spraying up the shallow water that is gathering on the road. It doesn’t have its headlights on, and the front of it looks very strange, very beaten up. And very familiar. ‘Vaughan, it’s Mr Flynn. You know that car accident I mentioned?’ I clutch at his arm. ‘I got locked in his garage, engine on, keys locked in the car. Nearly suffocated. Had to bash my way out. Thought I’d written off the car, but . . . apparently not.’
‘He’s . . . here?’ Vaughan sags against me.
‘Is it Mr Flynn?’ I stare at Vaughan, suddenly. ‘The killer?’
Vaughan blinks at me, like he’s going to faint, as the car draws up to us. The one remaining headlight flicks on, dazzling. The door opens, and we watch as someone steps out.
‘Hello, Alex,’ says Vaughan. His eyes roll back in his head, and he sways, dangerously.
Alex stands there, in his Grand Master’s cape, hood pulled up.
‘Alex!’ I feel a rush of relief run through me, as I stagger, trying to support Vaughan’s weight. I lose the battle, and fall to my knees, the water soaking my legs, and Vaughan lolls on top of me. ‘Thank God you’re here! Vaughan is tied up and he’s injured, you’ve got to help us!’
Vaughan leans against me, his head flopping back. He’s looking up at me, a strange expression on his face. ‘Alex.’
‘Yes, he’s going to help us, it’s going to be all right!’ I reassure him.
‘Cate,’ he looks at me, and suddenly we’re eight again and he’s breaking it to me gently that he dropped my Barbie doll down the gutter. ‘It’s Alex.’
I look up at Alex. We both look up at Alex. Alex moves an arm out from under his cloak; he’s holding something.
‘Hmm,’ Vaughan says. ‘And I was right. It was a plank.’
Alex walks towards us, slowly, through the shallow water, swinging the plank. A chill, more vicious than the freezing sea, moves through me. I stagger to my feet, pulling Vaughan up, and half depositing him against the ladder, stepping between him and Alex.
Alex smiles at me. ‘Very sweet, Cate, very protective.’ He stops just in front of me. ‘But oh, nasty face you’ve got there, you could be ruined for life.’
‘What’s going on, Alex?’ I say, my eyes watering with the dazzle of the headlight.
‘Come on, Cate.’ He takes a step towards me. ‘You know what’s going on. Vaughan did an excellent job, luring you here. I think he wanted to use you as bait for me, but I turned it around a little, and used him to bait you. That’s the beauty of the Game.’ He holds one end of the plank and points it at me, dragging the other end down my body. I knock it away with my hand.
‘Get off me!’
‘Paging Dr Freud,’ Vaughan mutters.
‘You, quiet!’ Alex points the plank at Vaughan.
‘Oh, Alex.’ Vaughan says. ‘What an appropriate choice of weapon. You’re such a plank.’
‘Alex.’ Fear drenches my body as I walk between the two of them again. ‘What are you doing? Is it you? Are you Skulk? Did you do those things?’
‘God!’ Vaughan groans, at me. ‘Finally!’
‘Cate, you’re really into denial, aren’t you?’ Alex laughs, nastily. ‘Denying what’s right in front of your face. Denying you’re anything other than nouveau riche trash. Denying what happened between us.’
‘Us?’ I stare a
t him. ‘Is that what this is about?’
Alex sighs. ‘And I thought you were special, Cate. Special like me. But it turns out you’re oh so very ordinary. Basic. Bland. Forgettable. And do you know what? Around here, that’s the biggest crime of all.’
I just stare at him for a moment, the undulating waves in my peripheral vision making me feel seasick. Am I hearing this? Is this real, or are the fumes I inhaled in Mr Flynn’s garage making me hallucinate? Alex is the one who hurt Emily, Alex is the one who nearly killed his best friend and now he’s come to get Vaughan and me? It makes no sense.
‘Let me get this straight,’ my voice sounds slurred, even to me. ‘I didn’t follow you around like a lovesick puppy after we got together,’ I splutter, ‘so now you want to kill me?’
‘Nobody humiliates me that way, Cate.’ Alex juts his head forward, and sways slightly from side to side, like a vulture eyeing a dead animal. ‘How dare you ignore me, reduce me to nothing.’ He spits. ‘No one says no to me, but you, you think you’re so much better than me. And then you jump on sad old Daniel?’ He throws his head back, and swears. ‘You shamed yourself, and me too. You’re crazy!’
‘Yep,’ Vaughan mutters. ‘She’s absolutely the one who’s crazy around here.’
‘Shut up!’ Alex makes as if to swing the plank at Vaughan, then stops. He gathers himself, breathes, turns to me again. ‘Emily posted that video of you with Danny-boy, twisting the knife in my side, so revolting I wanted to puke. Emily thought it was funny. Stupid girl; she actually came to me and apologized, afterwards. Thought that would be sufficient, but oh no. Not happening. Not during my Game.’ He shakes his head. ‘So Emily got the honour of being my first victim.’