The Life of Death

by Lucy Booth

  ‘Let me out! Let me out! I want to go home! I want my mummy!’ She’s starting to cry, wiping a snotty nose on a grubby sleeve and pulling and pushing at the door. ‘I want my mummy!’

  ‘SIT DOWN! You stupid little bitch. SIT DOWN!’ His foot jabs on the accelerator, the car leaps forward on the black tarmac. ‘Sit down and shut up.’ His voice is lower now, a growled threat held in the very back of his throat.

  She sits down. She shuts up. Only lets out the smallest of whimpers sneak out when she can’t keep them in any longer. Clings onto Bella’s warm fur, face buried into soft russet curls. Huge eyes turned to watch the face in the rear-view mirror. Breaths short, shuddering. ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy …’ A whisper. ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy …’

  *

  Ten minutes later and we pull off the main road. Twenty-five minutes from pulling up in that alley, from invented puppies and a quick getaway. Twenty-five minutes from a mother starting to wonder where her daughter’s got to. Twenty-five minutes from a local shopkeeper cursing the kids who just leave their bikes lying on the pavement to get under her customer’s feet. Twenty-five minutes from changing all of their lives for ever.

  Down a bumpy track, over an old red-brick bridge pebble-dashed with dried cow muck and rutted with mud. Headlights switched off to hide in the twilight. A derelict watermill off to the right, nestled into the trees. Windows bricked up with breeze blocks, heavy wooden door with the odd slat missing. Huge waterwheel decrepit and defunct, hanging from its axis, slats ground to a halt in thick mud, green with algae. He’s been using this place for a few months now to store his tools. Belongs to a friend who had no use for it and was happy to hand over the keys for a bit of beer money every month. And in all the times he’s been here to drop stuff off, all the times he’s let Bella out of the car to sniff at rabbit holes and crouch against rotting tree stumps, he’s never seen a soul.

  The car pulls to a stop, surrounded by trees whispering into the night. He gets out, opens the boot to lift out some boxes. Watches Ellie through the grille he had put in place to stop Bella leaping around from boot to back seat. Watches her in her back-seat prison, eyes wide, body curled as small as possible. Bella gripped for warmth and comfort.

  He heads in to check out the inside of this place. Eyes darting, blood pulsing. A fine sweat down his back and under his arms evaporates to chill him in the cold night air. What’s he doing? What’s he thinking? Too late now, got to get her in there, get her out of the way and then figure it out. He can’t just take her home now. Oh God, oh God.

  It’s pitch black in there. The torch he carries sweeps a lighthouse beam across a sparse room. Couple of chairs. A chipped mug in a slime-stained sink. A few missing floorboards, bottomless black gaps. His tools piled in a corner. Out of harm’s way.

  He’s a carpenter by trade, our Ian, and he sets to on the door – hammering loose boards over the missing slats, fixing an extra deadbolt to the outside. All reclaimed stuff, nothing shiny and bright and new. Nothing that will draw unwanted attention from the occasional dog walker who might pass through.

  While he works he casts glances back at the car. Willing her silently to keep quiet. Praying that today isn’t the day one of the locals decides to take a different path. He’s never seen anyone, when he’s been up here, but … Finally, he tacks a heavy blanket to the inside. Don’t want any noise to get out. Muffle it. Muffle her. Better safe than sorry.

  Back to the car and she’s exactly where he left her. Good girl.

  ‘We’re getting out now, Ellie. Now you be a good girl. Stay quiet and it’ll all be OK. OK? You can be a good girl, can’t you?’ He’s back in control – his voice level, measured. Soothing a saddened girl. Why so sad, Ellie? Why so sad?

  She nods. Sniffs back tears. Shrinks back against the door on the far side of the car.

  ‘Come on, Ellie. Over here. Come on. Be a good girl, eh?’

  She shuffles across the back seat, holding Bella on her lap like a shield.

  ‘Up we go. Good girl.’ Slowly, slowly. Don’t scare her any more than you have already, Ian. He lifts her into his arms, feels her thin body tense at his touch. Knows she’s wondering whether to scream. Whether to just give up. He gathers her up, warm and solid in his arms, breathes in the dirty smell of hair and fear. Backs out of the car. ‘Good girl, that’s the way. Good girl.’

  She screams. Opens her mouth and really screams right into his ear, high-pitched and loud and ear-splitting in its clarity in the night air. Wriggles in his arms. Tries to bite him, kick him with skinny little legs.

  ‘You stupid little COW. What did I say? Be a GOOD GIRL. You fucking idiot.’ He’s shaking – furious with both himself and her. Why didn’t you take any precautions, Ian? Why not shut her up for good? Shoves her back into the car, feeling tenderly at his forearm where two perfectly perforated half-moon bite marks bloom against pale skin. Slams the door. Marches round to the boot for a roll of duct tape. Yanks the door open and climbs in beside her. Pulls her up out of the footwell to clamp her between his knees. Rips off a length of duct tape and smooths it down over her stupid, screaming, can’t-be-trusted mouth. She wriggles under him, trying to throw him off, but what hope does she have? A skinny little seven-year-old against fifteen stone and a lifetime lugging wood? Bella growls at him, snaps at his hands. In the space of half an hour, her allegiances lie with this kid. This stupid, screaming, can’t-be-trusted kid.

  ‘Now.’ He’s breathing heavily, head swimming. ‘Are you going to be a good girl?’

  She looks up, blue eyes welling with tears, snot running freely from her nose over the heavy silver of the tape. Nods, slowly. Deep breaths. Body rigid with fear.

  ‘Right. Come on then.’

  Tries again. Pulls her over to the door and out of the car. Over his shoulder like a rolled-up carpet. There’s no screaming this time is there, Ellie? In the place of a scream, a warm wetness seeps into the fabric of his shirt and the sharp tang of urine pricks the air.

  Into the house. The torch, resting on the edge of the sink, throws uncertain shadows over the room. He picks his way over the floor, testing floorboards under their combined weight. Drops her down into one of the chairs. They eye each other warily. She can’t scream now, but she can run. And she can kick. God, what is he doing?

  He pulls the roll of duct tape off his wrist. Holds a hand around her throat to pin her in position. Draws his face close to hers so she can feels the warmth of his breath on her cheek, the flecks of spit of his careful enunciation.

  ‘Don’t move, Ellie. I can trust you, can’t I? I can trust you to be a good girl? You want to be a good girl, don’t you?’

  She doesn’t move, frozen by fear and confusion. Her jeans are cold and itchy against her leg where the urine has soaked into the heavy twill.

  He backs off slowly. Don’t scare her, Ian. Don’t make any sudden movements. His head moves into shadow – she is alone in the torch beam. Solitary in the limelight.

  He slowly pulls off a length of tape. Holds it between his teeth. Reaches for her hands. First one, then the other. She resists, a stiffening of muscle to hold them tight by her sides and out of his way.

  ‘Ellie.’ A warning.

  She gives in. Sits still as both wrists are encased in a dull, sticky, silver shackle. Shaky breaths as leg is taped to chair leg, as head sags on shoulders and she stares dully at the floor. Exhausted.

  He steps back. Looks at this tiny frame in the spotlight. Crumpled and grubby and broken. This tiny frame in the pink T-shirt whose princesses still dance their waltz in their floating ballgowns of blue and green. Mouth covered, hands bound. And he is horrified. Stumbles back with hand pressed to mouth, fist clutching at hair. Stumbles back to distance himself from his actions. Stumbles back into the corner of the room, where he sinks to the floor, eyes wide in disbelief. And he starts to cry. Shoulders heave with sobs and dry retches. What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

  What have we done, Ian? What have we done?

&nb
sp; Back in town and the alarm bells are starting to ring. At almost exactly the same time, people are starting to wonder.

  Rebecca Morgan, heating through a bolognese on the hob shouts through to the kids ‘Ellie! Josh! Mason! Tea’s on the table!’

  Two boys come running through. Josh, nine, still a boy. Mason, twelve, showing the shadowy beginnings of the man he’ll become. Darkening hair on an upper lip, a voice that cracks and breaks beyond his control. Limbs all of a sudden too long for his body.

  Rebecca turns, puts plates down in front of them. Heads to the door through to the hallway, ‘Ellie! Ellieeee! Come on! Tea’s getting cold!’

  A beat.

  ‘Mason, run up and get your sister. I swear, that girl …’

  ‘She’s not upstairs. I don’t think she’s back from the shop yet.’ Head down, hand shovelling food to mouth. He sniggers at Josh who sits opposite, crossing his eyes while he slurps spaghetti strands through pursed lips.

  ‘What?’ A cold shiver creeps down her spine and makes the hairs on her arms stand to attention. ‘What do you mean she’s not back? She went about an hour ago.’ She’s never late for tea. Never late for Mum’s home-made bolognese.

  ‘Mu-um – it was, like, half an hour ago. Don’t overreact.’ Still shovelling, flecks of mince splashing onto the wipe-clean tablecloth, a riot of tropical flowers.

  ‘Oh my God. Stay here. Both of you. Do. Not. Move.’ She runs out of the back door, apron tied around her waist, slippers shuffle slapping on the paving slabs.

  ‘Ellie! ELLIE! Ellie! Come on, Els, it’s teatime!’

  Come on, Ellie – you must be somewhere right? Wrong.

  ‘Ellie! Richard, hi, have you see Ellie? She’s not come back for her tea.’

  Let’s not fear the worst. Not yet.

  A passing dog walker shakes his head. ‘Sorry, love … Have you tried the shop?’

  She carries on down the street to seek out her daughter in gardens, under cars, behind fences. It’s only two minutes’ walk to the shop – two minutes there and two minutes back and five million possibilities in between.

  She arrives at the shop to find Maureen Shipley holding up a small, pink bike. Tassels on the handlebars. Barbie bicycle bell. Ellie’s.

  ‘Rebecca, hello. I was just about to send Roger up to yours. This is Ellie’s, isn’t it? Left the thing right in my doorway – nearly tripped up old Fred Manning and he’s only just had his new hip. Must’ve gone home without it. Kids, eh? Don’t know the value of things nowadays. I tell you, if it were my boys they wouldn’t have heard the end of it. I don’t work all the hours God sends for you to leave your things lying about, I used to tell them. If you want something you’ve got to learn to take care of it, that’s what we used to tell them. Rebecca? Rebecca?’

  While Maureen’s rabbiting on, Rebecca’s in silence. Tears pouring down pale cheeks. Teeth biting blood from bottom lip. Where is she? Where IS SHE?

  ‘She’s not at home.’ A hoarse, strained whisper. ‘She came down here and she’s not come back.’

  ‘I’ve not seen her for a while. Oh, about three-quarters of an hour, I’d say. She came in for some sweets. Roger? ROGER! What did Ellie Morgan come in for?’

  I don’t care, I don’t care what she came in for. Where is my daughter?

  ‘Where did she go? Maureen? Maureen! Where did she go?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t see her after she left. Thought she’d gone home, then I went out about … oooh … half an hour ago. Had to help old Fred when he nearly tripped over that bike. She wasn’t there then. I just thought she must’ve gone home and forgotten it. Thought she’d be back for it by now. That’s what I was just saying to Roger. ROGER! Don’t worry about that bike – her mum’s here now.’

  ‘She didn’t come home, Maureen. I’ve not seen her.’ Fingers tightly pressed at anguished lips.

  ‘Oh well, dear. Let’s not worry. She’ll turn up. Why don’t you go and wait at home for her and I’ll make sure to send her your way if she comes back here.’

  ‘No! NO! She’s a seven-year-old girl! I cannot wait for her to “turn up”.’ She shouts out into the bruised dusk. ‘Ellie? ELLIE!’

  ‘Roger, I think you’d better call the police. Mrs Morgan’s daughter seems to have gone missing.’

  The police arrive with a sense of calm proficiency. When did you last see your daughter, Mrs Morgan? Rebecca? May I call you Rebecca? And Mrs Shipley, you say you last saw her at about half past six? Can you remember what she was wearing? And have you spoken to your husband, Rebecca? She’s not with him?

  Of course I’ve spoken to my bloody husband. A silent scream in the depths of her head. Among fervid imaginings and the throbbing, overwhelming, gutchurning fear.

  ‘Yes. He’s on his way home from work. He’s coming straight here.’

  They’re gathered, Rebecca, the Shipleys, the police officers, in the tiny kitchen out the back of the shop. A beige plastic kettle roars and spits as it boils, mugs lined up for tea to press into nervous hands.

  ‘Sir?’ Another police officer appears at the door. ‘Sir, could you come outside, please? I think we might’ve found something.’

  Out in the alley, dogs and police officers scouring every inch in the dark. Working lights erected either end to throw what light they can on the situation. Halfway down they stop. A clump of grass. A pink towelling hairband, baggy from overuse, attached to a plastic disc, scratched and fading – Cinderella going to the ball.

  Heads turn at a groan that turns into a scream. A drawn-out, anguished ‘No’ punched out from deep within. Heads turn as a father arrives at the scene of the last known sighting of his daughter and his wife collapses against him to confirm that yes, that belonged to Ellie. Yes, that was her favourite.

  Back at the watermill, Ellie and I sit in the darkness. Even now, in the middle of the day, it’s black as night. Not a chink of light through the armour of breeze-block windows and a curtained door.

  Ian went back to town last night to help with the search and to fill the gap left by one empty house on the street. Left us here, alone with each other in the dark. He had to get out. Had to get away from the madness he’s been driven to. To seek normality in the light and the fresh air. Everything looks better in the cold light of day, doesn’t it?

  A circuitous route home took him past the local garage on the far side of town. Thought he might hoover out the back seat while he was passing. Nothing to arouse suspicion there – bloody dog hair gets everywhere, doesn’t it, Ian? And if you clean up after yourself in full view, why should anyone think you have anything to hide? He arrived home late, but not unusually so. Nothing that would spur comments from neighbours. Always been a likeable chap, has our Ian. Always keen to help out at the local fete, to be pelted with sponges on a warm June afternoon in aid of school fundraising. Although not a father himself, he’s a pillar of the community. Salt of the earth. Who’d ever think he’d be salt in the wound?

  But I can’t get away. I have to sit there and think about what I’ve done. How I’ve taken this little girl, ripped her away from the family who love her. How I’ve left her alone in the dark, with the blunt ammonia stink of urine and not even a local man’s dog to keep her company. How I’ve done this for Him. For me. How I’ve done this for me.

  Her head lolls. It’s been twenty-four hours since her last meal and she sleeps to protect herself from what she sees when she wakes.

  What happens if I let her go? If Ian and I peel industrial tape from seven-year-old skin and turn her out from the boarded-up door? If we leave her to stumble over rutted mud tracks and fall into the road to flag down whatever passing car first stops? If we leave her to live? If we leave me to die?

  Outside Shipley’s, Ian is in the midst of the throng. Cameras point in every direction, their reporters rehashing the facts of the matter for a nation hanging on the hook of twenty-four-hour news and its flashing graphics. Not a single person bats an eyelid at dark-rimmed eyes and a slumped shoulder as he makes his way throug
h the crowd. Not much sleep was had last night in this little town, and another yawning, staring local rubbing the grit from his eyes does nothing to raise the alarm.

  He joins a search party – mainly local men who have appointed themselves saviours. All focused on a task, all thinking, hoping that they’re the one. The one that will pull her out from behind a bush. Cold and scared and alive. No one wants to think of the alternative. Cold. No longer scared. No longer alive.

  Down into the valley they go, a solemn column of men following the path of the river that churns through this area. A beauty spot at any other time, it now rings with one name: Ellie, Ellie, Ellie, Ellie. The water bubbles and boils with black-clad divers dredging the bottom, returning to the surface empty-handed again and again. Nothing down there so far. Nothing to see here.

  As night encroaches on in this changed town, the civilian search parties make their way home. The police have thanked everyone for their efforts but as the hours pass it is specialist teams cutting swathes of light through the darkness with their movie-scene equipment who must take the weight of the investigation. The town won’t sleep tonight. Ian won’t sleep tonight. He lies, eyes staring into the darkness, waiting for sleep to come, the usual voices in his head replaced with just one. Just Ellie.

  Five a.m. and he’s up and about. Breakfast for Bella, who has adopted a permanent look of reproach, not helped by an early wake-up call from a warm bed. What time can he leave without arousing suspicion? What was it the police said yesterday? Everyone should continue with their routine? Seven – that seems like an acceptable time. An acceptable time to be heading out of town for a job.

  To be a normal man, heading out for a normal day’s work.

  The two hours yawn and stretch as he waits. Sitting on the brown leather sofa in a sparse living room. Foot nervously tapping on a patterned carpet, thumbnail chewed to the quick. Television switched to the news – the street right outside his front door brought inside for the world’s front rooms to see. What if she’s found? What if, while he’s sitting here, wasting time, she’s found?