Cass scrambled down the hillside, out of control, her feet twisting, never stopping to see if the hurt would flare into something worse. When she fell she pushed herself back to her feet and pressed on. Cold numbed her face and she couldn’t feel anything any more, only the time passing, both slower and faster than she would have liked. She didn’t look back.
Ben. She imagined him small and pale, spitting into her face, and his words of hate: You’re his whore.
Cass stumbled to a halt.
They were trying to take him from her.
That was it: the visits to Sally’s, the circle of boys with their blank, cold eyes, sitting in a half-circle and staring up at her. We shared.
What did they share? Did they tell him things, lies, about her, about Pete? She closed her eyes.
I want him back. How’s he going to find us now? He won’t know where to look.
What had they said to him?
It didn’t matter. Whatever they’d said, she could undo it, once they were away from here. Once she had him safe. Cass made her legs take another step, and another, before her muscles loosened up and she was once again careering down the hillside.
TWENTY-NINE
The school was locked. Cass stared at the door, rattled the handle, kicked it until it creaked on its hinges. Then she stood back – and that was when she saw the notice taped to the glass: CLOSED, it said, HEATING BROKEN. That was all, no message for her, nothing to say where Ben had gone. Her throat hurt. Her heart hurt. Cass sagged and leaned against the door, put her cheek to the cold glass.
When she turned she noticed the quiet that had spread like a tangible thing through the schoolyard and into the lane. There was no one here.
She had asked Sally to watch Ben.
Cass hurried back to the road and through the village. For the first time she noticed places where the snow had thinned, revealing dark shadows of the tarmac beneath. The snow was melting. At last the snow was melting, but it was too late; Sally had her son – Sally, who had maybe killed Lucy, Bert, Mrs Cambrey.
But Sally hadn’t touched Jess – or had she? Cass swallowed, hard chips of ice tearing her throat, and went on.
WILLOWBANK CRESCENT. The sign was half-swathed in snow. Ordinary houses, built of brick, not stone, with their doors painted red or green or white. A bird trilled as though to underline the normality of the day. Cass stopped at the gate. The day was normal; she only had to look at the place. It was Cass who was out of touch with reality. She had had some sort of turn, had seen things that couldn’t be there.
But this woman had her son. Cass reminded herself of the way Ben had reacted when he first met Sally: The lady smelled. She smelled bad and I hate it here.
Cass threw open the gate. Sally’s curtains were drawn – why was that? It was still bright daylight.
Cass knocked on the door, paused only a moment and hammered again. She tried to call her son’s name – Ben – but it came out as a whisper. Her stomach roiled.
The door clicked and scraped and opened. Sally peered out, her eyes pouchy, hair damp. Her skin was shiny with face-cream. ‘You’re back,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect you so soon. They’re in the lounge.’ Her face withdrew; the door closed and opened again, wider this time. Sally clutched a dressing gown around herself. ‘I was just having a shower. Ben’s fine, he’s with Damon. Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a—’
Cass pushed past, calling her son’s name.
The lounge was dark. A curious half-light played on the seated figures.
‘Ben?’
Faces turned towards her. She couldn’t see which one of them was her son.
‘Cassandra, are you all right?’
‘I’m taking him.’ Cass looked around the circle and expressionless eyes looked back. Then she saw Ben’s pale hair. His hands were folded around something in his lap. Cass strode to the window, pulling back the curtains, letting in the view of the ordinary street.
‘I must say—’
‘I’ve seen them. I know what you did.’
‘I don’t know what—’
‘Ben.’ Cass bent and grabbed his arm, hauling him to his feet. Ben’s eyes were shadowed. He dropped the thing he held. Cass looked down and saw a games controller. There was movement in the corner of her eye. Damon, shifting on his haunches, picking up the console and cradling it.
‘We’re going, Ben. Now.’
Ben still didn’t speak. Cass’ fingers dug into his arm; she knew she was doing it but couldn’t stop, and he didn’t pull away. She looked down at him. His eyes were blank.
‘Ben,’ she repeated.
Slowly he turned to face her and his mouth twisted, with hatred, not anger or fear. His face was dead-white.
‘I think he might prefer to stay here,’ said Sally, ‘until you calm down, perhaps. Has something happened? Are you ill, Cassandra?’
‘Don’t call me that. I saw what you did to her.’ Cass remembered Lucy’s broken features, the rock forced into her flesh. She fought back a choking sound.
‘Ben, I think your mother’s ill,’ said Sally. ‘Remember, you can come here any time. We’re your family.’
Cass froze.
‘We share, remember? We share everything. We don’t hide from our family, do we? We don’t stop them coming to us when they need us most.’
Cass looked down at him to see a tear tracking down her son’s cheek. Cass’ grip on his arm was the only solid thing in the room.
‘Don’t you speak to my son,’ she said, and marched him out.
‘She’s gone a little crazy.’ Sally followed them just as though she was showing a guest from the house, but her voice was too loud. ‘She’s gone a bit mad, Ben. Don’t forget, you can always come to me.’
Ben hung back, a reluctant weight, and Cass’ fingers clutched harder. Behind her she heard the tap-crunch of footsteps, but she ignored them and dragged Ben along, fumbled with the gate, pushed him through it. When she looked back there were four of them, Sally and three boys; their dark eyes were fixed on her.
‘A bit crazy.’ Sally’s voice was laced with amusement. ‘Come back soon, Ben. We’ll miss you. Come back soon.’
Cass’ eyes went from one stony, unblinking face to the next, and they all met her look.
From the corner of her eye she caught sight of something moving in the window above their heads. It was a wide window with a white frame. A hand pressed against a pane and was gone.
Cass’ breath was trapped in the back of her throat. She tried to swallow. Ben squirmed in her grip, but she didn’t let him go as she took a step back towards the house. ‘You’ve got Jessica,’ she said.
Sally flicked damp hair over her shoulder, raised her hands to smooth it down. Her expression was solemn as she met Cass’ eyes. ‘You’re the maddest bitch I’ve ever known,’ she said.
Damon’s mouth twitched. He folded his arms. Another boy grinned and nudged his friend.
‘I’m going to get her back,’ Cass said. ‘You’re not going to hurt her. I’ll see to it.’
Damon spluttered derisively, raised his hand in a mock wave, displaying the red line bisecting his palm. The boys were laughing openly now, and another waved, showing a matching line across his hand.
Cass took hold of Ben’s shoulder. ‘Come on. We’re going.’ She pushed him ahead of her and he took automaton steps down the road, not hanging back, not going on ahead. Her hand fell from his shoulder, but he didn’t slow down or stop. Her fingers were shaking and her knees felt weak, and the feeling was spreading throughout her body. She began to shiver. She leaned against a wall and called, ‘Ben, wait for me. Wait a minute.’
His footsteps ceased, but he didn’t turn.
‘Ben, please. Come—’ Her voice faltered. She couldn’t explain, couldn’t tell him what she had seen on the moor.
He dragged himself back, scraping his shoes on the pavement, but he did not step into Cass’ outstretched arms. She realised he hadn’t spoken since they left Sally’s hous
e.
‘Sweetheart, please,’ she whispered, and he came to her then, burying his face in her chest. She wrapped her arms around him and held him there, feeling his shoulders shake. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. I’m here,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll look after you.’
He pulled back suddenly, the crown of his head bumping her chin, and Cass’ teeth knocked together. He held out his hand: Stop.
‘Ben, Sally and Damon are not your family. I’m your family, not them. They did something bad, so we need to go and tell someone, as soon as we can.’ Cass had a sudden hope that maybe the telephones were back on, that she could call someone.
Ben shook his head.
‘It’s okay, love. I won’t let anybody hurt you.’
He didn’t move, just stood there holding out his hand, and she saw it, the thing he was trying to show her: a red line bisecting his palm.
Cass reached out and took his hand, opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Ben looked away. His chest heaved.
‘What is it, Ben? What did they do?’
He was trying to speak.
Cass rubbed his fingers, warming them.
‘The book,’ he said at last, ‘the book. It’s the book.’
‘What do you mean, love?’
Ben looked up and the sky was in his eyes, cold and white. ‘It’s to write with,’ he said. ‘It was so I could write in the big book.’ And then he turned and ran, and the sound of his feet was loud in the empty street.
Cass caught up with him. His eyes were big with tears. ‘Ben, what do you mean? What book?’ All she could think of was her father, leaning over her, inspecting her dress to see if she was good enough, and behind him the church, looming tall.
Ben pulled away and marched wordlessly towards the lane that led to the mill.
The cross etched into the door had been obscured by deep scratches that furred the wood with splinters. Ben stood before the door and she saw his pale, pinched face reflected in the glass.
She punched in the code and pushed Ben before her into the dark interior. The light did not come on, but she didn’t stop to investigate. Ben was her priority, and he was cold and hungry and upset. For now he needed to be at home, then tomorrow – early – they would escape. Ben would make it this time; she’d carry him if she had to. She’d tell the police, and everything would be all right.
Ben allowed her to bathe him; he didn’t resist and he didn’t help. There were no other marks on him, just that livid cut in his hand. It made her think of blood pacts, of boys cutting their hands and pressing them together. Blood brothers. Family. That’s what Sally had called them: her family. Cass brought his palm to her lips and kissed it, but Ben didn’t smile.
‘Ben, what did you share?’ she asked.
He looked up. His eyes were flat.
‘You said you shared, when you were at Sally’s. What did you share?’ She stroked his hair and waited.
‘We ate the stuff,’ he said.
‘What stuff?’
He shook his head.
‘What did it look like?’
‘It was just stuff. Like bread, only it was black. And we had the drink. It tasted funny. I didn’t like it.’ He pulled a face.
‘What did that look like?’
He shrugged his skinny shoulders again, hugged his legs. ‘We played games,’ he said. ‘I liked the games.’
‘I know you do. Let’s get you out and then you can play now – anything you like.’
Cass dried him, led him to the television and put the controller in his hands. His cut hand didn’t seem to pain him as his fingers moved rapidly over the buttons, but he didn’t react to any of it, didn’t laugh or sigh or crow over the deaths on the screen. Only his fingers had life in them.
‘Ben?’
He stopped. Cass knelt by him, turned his face towards her. His eyes made her catch her breath. They were dark, rimmed with shadows: soulless. She forced herself to speak. ‘It’s time for bed, sweetheart.’
Cass thought she would lie awake, but instead she found herself slipping in and out of sleep. She floated on the surface, yet the dream pulled her under. Her dress wasn’t good enough. Her father looked down at her and his face was angry. She wasn’t sure what she had to do to make herself better. This is love, he kept saying, but when she looked into his eyes there was no love in them.
The book was lying open on the altar, a dusty black leather volume with yellowing parchment pages. Cass went over and looked at it. The writing was grey-brown, then dark brown, then rust-brown. The latest entries were brighter, reddish. Some of the ink had pooled as from an imperfect nib and dried into little crusts. She could smell the book. It smelled of age, dust, dry stone. There was spice there too: cinnamon, cloves, sharp pepper.
Written in the book was a list of names. Sally’s was there, signed with a flourish, with Damon’s printed beneath it. Cass could picture him forming the letters, tongue resting on his lip. There was Myra’s. Cass read on and she knew it was a dream then because she willed herself to stop, but still her eyes kept tracking down; she had no choice. She followed the names towards the blank space at the bottom of the page, left for others to sign – for her name. He would never have it. She would never cut a line across her palm and write her name on this blasphemous page. And yet she couldn’t stop herself reading the last name, almost the last, and then a bright streak of light cut across her vision as sun lit the windows, turning everything to day.
She looked up, expecting some vision, Christ, maybe, but it was only Pete, smiling down at her. The light faded and her husband held out his hands and they were heaped with stones the colour of sky. He spoke, but she couldn’t hear the words. He held out the stones for her to take, but she couldn’t hold them and they fell to the ground, and the ground took them. Pete frowned: he was telling her the thing she had to know, the thing she was supposed to see. She reached out, caught a stone. It shone in her hand and became the sky.
At last she heard his voice: Now you see, he said. Now you see.
Cass woke, clawing the covers from her throat, wiping stinging sweat from her face. She opened her hand, closed tight in a fist, looked for the stone, and remembered it was only a dream after all.
Now you see. She put her hands to her face. Whatever Pete wanted her to know, it was no use; she couldn’t understand. She wasn’t good enough. ‘I don’t see,’ she whispered. ‘Pete, I’m sorry, I don’t see at all.’
Someone knocked on the apartment door.
Cass was motionless. All she could think of was Lucy, coming to see her, a printout held in one hand: I brought you this. No – it could be Sally, coming to whisper her poison in her son’s ear, or the boys, knocking with their tainted palms.
It could be Remick. Theodore Remick, come to see how she was, holding out his offering of bread.
All at once she felt his hands running over her, the warmth of his breath on her night-cold skin, heat blossoming inside. Somehow she did not flinch from it. She closed her eyes, crossed her arms over her breasts, heard him whisper, You’ll come to me.
Cass’ lips parted; she suddenly wanted to feel his lips on her, wanted it more than anything—
She drew her lip between her teeth and bit down. The pain brought her back.
There was no one at the door. She had been dreaming, that was all. There was no Pete; there were no blue stones. Cass closed her eyes, wondering if she had fallen asleep up by the witch stones, whether she had really seen the white figures looking back at her.
You’re the maddest bitch I’ve ever known.
Maybe Sally was right.
The knocking came again, an ordinary domestic sound, but this time it didn’t come from the door; it came from the wall at her back. Cass got out of bed and looked into the dark. There was nothing, no one there.
Ben might have heard something; he might be frightened.
Cass took a deep breath and went to check on her son. As she reached the hall the knocking came again, louder this time
, coming from the door and from the wall and from the ceiling.
She looked up, saw nothing – of course she saw nothing; it was only the children, Damon and his friends. They had got into the mill somehow, crept into the flat next to hers and the one above and the one below, and they were waiting for her to show she was afraid. Well, she wasn’t.
She felt her pulse beating in her throat.
She went into Ben’s room. He was sitting up in bed, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open, a string of drool hanging from it.
There was banging on the ceiling, the walls, the floor.
Cass went and put her arms around him. ‘Shh,’ she said, although he hadn’t spoken. ‘It’s just children messing about. Naughty children, Ben. We won’t have to put up with them for long.’
‘They’ve come for me,’ he said.
‘No, no, they haven’t. It’s a game, that’s all: a silly game they’re playing.’
His skin was clammy against her arms. He squirmed and pulled away from her. ‘It’s not a game.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Ben. Whatever it is, we’re leaving tomorrow, you and me. Do you understand that?’
He shook his head.
‘Yes, Ben. We’re going away from here. We’re not coming back.’
‘It doesn’t matter. He got me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s in here.’
‘In here?’ Cass glanced towards the door.
Ben raised a finger and pointed to his chest. ‘Here – he’s in here. He told me.’
‘Who is, Ben?’
‘Daddy.’ He paused. ‘He’s my daddy now – they said so. They gave me the bread and the stuff and I wrote in the book.’
Cass had a sudden image of her father: This is love. ‘You mean like in church?’
Ben scowled.
‘What did they make you do?’
In answer he held out his hand, the dark line vicious against his pale skin.
‘You wrote your name in a book.’
He nodded.
‘What book, Ben? Where was it?’
‘Damon said it was okay,’ he said. ‘He said it was okay ’cos it was in the church. But it doesn’t feel okay.’
Alison Littlewood Page 20