Slipping out of bed, Anita limped to the light switch, and flooded the room with reassuring light. The wardrobe stood ajar, the white dresses pushed to one side, a void in the middle. A hidey-hole, for someone small.
The remnants of the gilt frame lay charred amidst the motionless ravens. Anita skirted the hearth. She couldn’t sleep with the wardrobe open. The idea, the possibility, that someone was hiding inside, haunted her at night. Closing wardrobe doors an obsessive compulsion; regardless of her location, the wardrobe door must be shut.
Before she reached the door, a scrap of paper at the edge of the hearth fluttered in the breeze she’d created. Barely more than a quiver but enough to catch her attention. Her fingers slid the newsprint from its resting place, the inky smell so reminiscent of a childhood spent pouring over the comic strips in the weekend newspaper. Of her father pontificating as he read the world news section. The newsprint’s scent as identifiable as cotton candy or buttered popcorn at the summer fair.
Her mind wasn’t playing fair. The words swam about, crashing across the narrow column with wavelike undulations. She couldn’t focus. A missing woman? Over the cliffs? A smudge of a photo accompanied the brief article — a man and a woman, arms around each other, standing on the front steps of this house. Regardless of the size and graininess of the printing, the woman was the woman from the portrait — the portrait now reduced to colourless ash in her fireplace.
Click. Click. Click
Anita slammed the wardrobe door shut. The clicking stopped. Beetles must be a problem in an old house like this. The flames started up her leg again and the room dimmed as her blood pressure plummeted. She made it to the bed before she blacked out, the newspaper article crumpling under her hand. A moment before she lost consciousness, her befuddled mind heard a voice, a child’s voice, a happy voice singing, “You’re next, you’re next, you’re next.”
Chapter 40
Callaghan rotated his shoulder. It was relatively pain free, aside from a dull ache which you’d expect after dislocating it and shunting it back into place. The numbing effects of the whisky had worn off and he needed more. This third glass he sipped at a more sedate pace. Standing at the window where only the night before they’d all enjoyed a post dinner drink, he felt a creeping sense of dread. The house was too quiet. Discounting Anita asleep upstairs, he hadn’t heard a toilet flush or the kettle whistle or the easy banter between Yvonne and Scott.
Carrying his drink out to the foyer, he listened. There was nothing. Scott’s ruined shoes lay on the tiles, damp mud leaking from the soles like a pool of blood congealing around a body. Stooping to pick them up, his fingers knocked a creamy white pearl, almost invisible against the tiles. Like a prize competition marble, it rolled in a straight line until the muddy puddle ensnared it.
Instead of picking up the shoes to dry them in front of the fire, Callaghan picked up the tiny bauble. The pearlescent white a stark contrast against his dark skin. Rolling it around in his fingers he tried to understand the significance of what he was seeing. It was on the edge of his consciousness, hiding behind a lifetime of memories and half remembered lives.
He brought the pearl to his mouth, and bit down on the tiny ball. Gritty like sand meant it was genuine. If it was smooth, then it was fake. His mouth filled with the grainy memory of summers at the beach. A real pearl then. Its perfect symmetry made it a cultured pearl, marred only by a tiny pinprick on one side. The hole a jeweller made to set the pearl into a brooch, or a ring. A ring like the seventies monstrosity Yvonne wore.
Then the penny dropped.
“Yvonne?” he yelled. “Scott?”
He cast about for… what, he wasn’t sure. His hands curled over the pearl, nails digging into his palm. There, another pearl, and another two. Each as symmetrical as the other, with the distinctive tiny holes for the posts. Mounting pearls was a tricky business, and in all honesty, it was only a matter of time before Yvonne’s ring disintegrated. She had no respect for the style of the ring; knocking about as if they were steel ball-bearings. Still, he would’ve expected her to have gathered them up for remounting.
“Yvonne?” he called out again. This wasn’t good. Had the two of them driven off? Reassured by the sight of three cars outside, two still blanketed with snow. One set of footprints led to the house, and away from it again. The old man’s footprints. He checked his cellphone. It was an old school model — phone calls and text messages. Didn’t even have a camera. He didn’t need to be distracted by social media or emails when he was working. That’s what his work computer was for. A phone was a communication tool — nothing more, nothing less. No signal. He closed the dimming world outside behind him and with the pearls in one hand, his whisky in the other, he walked upstairs, forcing each foot up behind the other. Counting the pearls in his palm as he mounted each step — like a ritual — one, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. At the top of the staircase he paused. Nothing.
Lifting the glass to his lips, he recoiled. The warm peat scent replaced with something unidentifiable, but vile. Old vinegar the closest approximation. He tipped the remnants into the nearest houseplant, a lush fairy fern, although he suspected this would kill it, and checked for a phone signal. No connection. He lifted his eyes in time to see the turret door swing open a few inches. It shuddered on its hinges as if it hadn’t decided whether staying open was an option.
Callaghan wasn’t sure if Scott was playing silly buggers now. He wasn’t sure of anything, so his walk towards the turret was as if each footfall was deliberate and considered. “Hey Scott,” he called out, volume turned halfway down. No need to wake Anita. The door swayed in an unseen breeze, hinges complaining at the movement. “Scott? Are you up there?”
Pushing the door all the way open, he placed one foot on the bottom step. His foot longer than the tread of the stairs. Midway to the second step he froze; bouncing down the stairs above him, almost in slow motion, were two more pearls. Like friendly competitors they crossed in front of each other, bouncing off the edges before chasing each other along the hall, rolling to a rest, their momentum spent.
He counted his pearls, one, two, three, four, and then there were the two on the floor. In his mind he conjured up an image of Yvonne’s ring. Six spherical balls, balanced precariously on and around each other. The most unwieldy ring ever designed. And Yvonne was somewhere without the pearls of which she was so fond.
Callaghan called out her name, but deep within himself, he knew she wouldn’t answer. Just like he knew Scott wouldn’t be upstairs, either. Thrusting the pearls into his pocket, and taking a deep breath, he climbed the stairs.
The turret was vacant. An empty coffee cup stood sentinel across the darkening landscape, accompanied by an artist’s easel and a stool. The room reeked of old oil paint and mineral turpentine as if the wood had absorbed the scents of every brush stroke ever applied. A wooden palette propped against the easel tipped forward as Callaghan’s tread made it past the top step. Within the confined space, the sound of the palette slapping the wooden floorboards reverberated like the ripples in a pond. Without thinking, Callaghan bent to return it to its original position. His fingers came away tacky with wet paint. In the twilight the colours were indiscernible, indistinct, a hundred different greys. Of course the palette would be wet. Hadn’t Anita claimed the portrait Yvonne had found in the study was of the lawyer? Where were the paints? The jumbled mess of metallic tubes, the pale cakes of watercolours?
He was loath to wipe his hands on his pants but his only alternative were the cushions on the window seats. Rubbing his hands smeared the sticky colour over both palms and he tried to wipe them on the thick wooden planes of the easel.
Twilight is the master of disguise. The champion of falsehoods and fiction. The eye wasn’t designed for twilight. At this time of last light and almost night, mankind should be settling down for the night, not stalking about badly lit houses where predators masquerade as shadows. Twilight distorts, and Callaghan held t
ight to that thought as the painting on the easel broke through his consciousness.
Yvonne’s face, in all its glory looked back at him. A face too used to wearing makeup, her well plucked eyebrows defining her face like a fingerprint. Even in mottled grey, the hair was Yvonne’s - a cotton candy cloud of twice dyed blonde. A dozen strings of pearls wrapped around her throat, their luminosity lost. No gentle wear could imbue these baubles with the glorious hue from being worn against skin.
Callaghan tested the paint. Wet. His touch left a dark stain on the image, fading to black as the twilight changed to night.
The chirping of a cellphone interrupted the stark silence. He’d all but forgotten about it, its digital screen illuminated the room, throwing light into corners where there wasn’t meant to be any and giving colour to things better off hidden by the night.
Callaghan’s hands stained red. His fingers had left crimson stains on the portrait on the easel. A portrait of Yvonne, eyes frozen, beseeching him to help. Pearl garlands tight around her papery neck.
His stomach turned. Bile thrusting its way up his throat. Callaghan tried to swallow, the bile chased by a primordial fear purging the acid from his stomach. He retched again and again. Sweat plastering his brow. His convulsing stomach had a life of its own, and he sunk to his knees. He could not tear his eyes away from those of his friend. As the glow of his cellphone dimmed, then disappeared, the image of Yvonne’s face tattooed on his mind.
The convulsions eased off as logic took over. He stood up, legs like a newborn colt, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He grabbed the portrait and stumbled down the stairs. He didn’t look back. If he’d looked back, he would have seen an unfinished painting still nestled on the wooden struts of the easel. A younger woman, another woman he knew.
Chapter 41
Emerging into the illuminated hallway, Callaghan stumbled like a drunk, the canvas clasped awkwardly in his good hand. His shoulder hurt, his stomach was spasming, and his throat burned. And his friend… he didn’t want to think about what had happened to her. He couldn’t. What he believed couldn’t be possible. Logic told him someone was playing them and for whatever reason that someone didn’t want them there.
Halfway down the hall he paused. Downstairs there was a thumping sound. Little sounds, but sounds which carried upstairs like debris on a wave. Lowering the canvas to the floor, he hugged the wall as he crept along the passage. Thump, thump, thump. The sound continuous, the spacing between each bang was consistent with the beating of his heart. Thump, thump, thump. Reaching the top of the staircase, Callaghan peered over the balustrade. The thumping stopped. There was no one there but paintings littered the floor. Knocked over, sharp corners piercing old canvases, the splintered wooden frames causing even more damage to the others they’d fallen on. Bodies lay upon bodies — a massacre of art.
Callaghan stood speechless at the carnage below him. Descending the stairs in a bewildered trance as he considered the cost of the damage. Depending on Anita’s appraisal, the visible damage alone would amount to tens of thousands of dollars. This was not good, not good at all. He picked up the first few pieces on the off chance that they were the only ones damaged. But no, whoever had done this had gone to town and every painting in every stack was ruined. It was as if each painting had been thrown down with vicious force and then stood on — as if they were part of a giant game of hopscotch. Callaghan was a large man. He’d never had much cause for worrying about his own physical safety, but now he turned around, taking in the dark corners, the unlit rooms, and the unnatural stillness of the house. Ignoring the damaged art, he backed up till his heel hit the bottom step, then spun around and ran up the stairs.
At Anita’s door, he didn’t pause; he flung open her door. Anita’s eyes opened and she screamed. Pure terror spewed from her mouth as she shot to the top of the bed, cowering in the corner, hair plastered to her forehead, sweat patches blooming under her arms and down her chest.
“Anita, stop it, it’s me, Callaghan,” he stepped up to the bed, his bulk looming over Anita. Her eyes wild, her screaming silent. He couldn’t be sure she could see him. He reached out to placate her, to reassure her it was okay. She bolted.
Chapter 42
He was back, to rape her again, to silence her, to stop her from ever being able to identify him. She had to run. She would escape.
Anita bit the hand grasping for her. The thick taste of blood in her mouth oh so familiar, except this time it wasn’t her blood, it was his. She pushed him away using a strength she didn’t know she had. She saw him wheel backwards. He tripped on the carpet and his bulk spilled onto the floor. She heard, rather than saw, his head hit the hearth. A crunch of skull against tiles gave her legs flight, and she tumbled from bed on legs weak from the fever ravaging her.
As if she were being pursued by wolves, she fled the room. She had no plan but her legs drove her down the stairs. She didn’t notice her precious artwork strewn across the floor, there was only one thought in her mind, and that was of escape.
Tripping, she landed on her knees. Somewhere above her someone was calling her name. How did he know her name? She ran on, oblivious to her whereabouts, she sought somewhere safe and familiar. She ducked into the nearest room.
Shutting the door softly behind her, she felt for a lock and found the satisfying shape of a key. She turned it and the lock fell into its chamber. She could breathe again, more afraid of the monster outside than she was of the dark pressing in around her. Sinking to the floor, she shoved her fist in her mouth to hide the scream threatening to erupt. The only sound in the room, the now familiar clicking. She didn't have time to worry about those beetles.
On hands and knees she blundered across to a rectangle of light on the other side of the room, escape still uppermost in her mind. She could climb out the window, run to the farmer, plead for help.
Click, click, click
The satin curtains pooled on the ground, the silken threads caressing Anita as she tried to find the opening. Thrashing against the fabric, it billowed around her. Fingers of icy air released from behind the luxurious folds stabbed at her, until she wrenched at the fabric, ripping it away from the clacking wooden curtain rings.
An avalanche of heavy satin fell onto Anita’s head and knocked over a chair standing at the side of the window. The chair crashed to the ground, the sound interminably loud. Anita clawed at the window, sure her attacker would have heard the chair falling. The stunted plink of metal against floorboards was lost in the crashing of the chair. A tiny diamond earring lay unnoticed on the floor.
Fingers numb, the old fashioned latch refused to budge. She hit it over and over with the heel of her palm, the sharp edge slicing through her pink skin.
In the thinly veiled dark, Anita cast about for anything to force the window. With the curtains in a pool on the floor, the moonlight leaked into the room, its pale light couldn’t penetrate the far corners or the wasteland in the middle of the room. It illuminated a hoard of tea chests stacked against the wall.
Pawing through the first chest like a child under the tree on Christmas Day, Anita seized upon the first item small enough and heavy enough to do what she needed. She bashed the small bronze sculpture against the metal latch. It sprung free, and she heaved the window open, ignorant of the cold swamping the room, swirling around her, darting towards her naked limbs. She had to get out.
She slid over the window ledge, pausing for the briefest of moments as she caught what she thought was a glimpse of a face just as she launched herself from the window into the snow fall. There’d been no one in the room with her, she’d locked it. It was just a storeroom — a repository for unwanted possessions. If only there were a place for undesirable memories. She’d been mad to agree to come here. She should have stayed at home, safe with her family. Safe in her daily ritual of commuting to work and from work on the bus; of smiling at the same familiar strangers, safe in her thrice weekly gym sessions — greeting the usual girl on reception, safe in the ro
utine of simple hellos to other women in her exercise class. Strangers she neither sought out for friendship, nor did she encourage. Head down. Work hard. Go home. She should have been satisfied with that. She had everything in her life she needed, so didn’t need more responsibility. She didn’t need glory in the workplace. What had she been thinking?
Her fevered mind took over the thinking, and the running. Anita had no idea where her bare feet were taking her. It was enough they were taking her away, away from him. She was headed pell-mell towards the pond, to the chilling depths which hid so many secrets.
Flailing through the shrubs, she slowed, cocking her head to one side. Someone was calling her. She stumbled to a stop. The moon couldn’t pass through the canopy of tangled vines above her, but sound traveled, and she’d heard her name.
Hair wild, she blended into the undergrowth. The nicks and tears on her skin sending threads of dark blood down her arms and legs, which served as camouflage amongst the trees. Could it be him, or maybe it was Scott or Callaghan? Where had they been when her attacker entered her room? Had he done something to them? She didn’t know what to do.
The fast running clouds obscured the light of the moon, and even to herself, she faded into nothing. Maybe she was nothing? By leaving her window ajar that summer, she’d all but left out a welcome mat for her attacker. It was her fault. It was nothing more than she deserved. She turned back. The decision made to check on her friends, on Yvonne. What if he attacked Yvonne? Her sense of direction was off. She’d turned herself around half a dozen times so whichever fevered direction she took now would be the wrong one.
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