For Rye

by Gavin Gardiner

  He’s no more responsible for the truck or your mother’s murder than I am for his god-awful books.

  ‘Your eyes, Miss Wakefield,’ spluttered Hector through a face-full of rain. ‘What happened to you?’

  Quentin’s a good man.

  Her grip tightened around the cane.

  ‘Cataracts,’ she said, ‘like my father’s. It came on so fast. This is just damage limitation until surgery. I still have some sight, but I’m effectively housebound.’

  She stared into his unseeing eyes.

  Old fool.

  ‘But…groceries? The care of your father? Can’t I help with—’

  ‘I’m sorry, but what’s the purpose of your visit, Detective?’

  ‘I was hoping to fill you in on the case.’ Hector cleared his throat, moving the pocket watch around in his newly-steadied hands. ‘There’s been some developments, Miss Wakefield. But if you’re busy…’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Renata, curling her toes. ‘So long as my father isn’t disturbed.’

  Hector stepped inside and gazed at the gleaming hallway. ‘The house,’ he said as he removed his coat, ‘it’s like stepping back in time. This is just how your mother kept the place when you were a girl.’ He turned his eyes to Renata’s glasses. ‘You can see well enough for housework?’

  ‘Just,’ she replied. ‘Thankfully, I can still administer my father’s medication and, yes, get the house back in order. But for the most part my vision’s a blur. I’m a bit of a sorry state, I’m afraid.’ She forced a smile, fiddling with her striped apron. ‘Not sure I’d be able to take anyone in a fight.’

  Especially the teenage girl reported missing, last seen four days ago with me. Get to it, Detective.

  Hector walked into the spotless lounge, overwhelmed by the transformation. It was like a showroom, immaculate in every regard. Despite the room’s return to its former glory, the burnished ornamental silver, polished wooden surfaces, and scrubbed walls all remained dim as a result of the wooden shutters covering every window. Renata glanced at the bookcase.

  ‘Jesus,’ Hector grumbled, the smell of bleach and bottled ammonia catching in his throat, ‘smells like a chemical plant in here.’ He barked a deep cough. ‘Haven’t smelt anything that strong since I quit the drink.’

  ‘I apologise. We’re having a problem with the drains, and, as you can see, we’re having a late spring clean, too. Or early, depending on how you look at it.’ She smiled nervously. ‘Please, come into the kitchen. The smell’s not as bad in there.’

  A moth fluttered past Hector as he approached the couch. ‘Here will be fine, thank you.’

  Sandie had been unconscious all evening, ground sleeping pills having featured in the bread stuffed between the girl’s vomit-stained lips. She’d been out like a light, hunched over silently as Renata wrote at the desk behind her. Had the detective banged on the door during feeding time, her screams may very well have reached him. She glanced at the bookcase again, a mental image forming of Sandie stirring and hearing the muffled tones of conversation. As for the stench of cleaning fluids, she knew she couldn’t trust its masking properties completely.

  ‘I insist,’ she said. ‘Father’s up to his eyes in sleeping pills, but I’d still like to avoid disturbing him.’

  He followed her into the kitchen and sat at the table. Renata closed the door and felt her way to the kettle.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Hector, swiping at his face. Another moth. ‘I won’t be here long.’

  ‘It’s no trouble, Detective,’ she said, slipping a serrated salad knife into her apron pocket.

  ‘I don’t want to take up more of your time than is necessary, Miss Wakefield.’ He ran a hand over his now-sweatless head. Renata sat opposite. ‘You’ve heard the news I assume?’

  ‘News?’

  Hector’s eyebrow twitched. ‘Sandie Rye, the girl whose charity auction you attended. She’s not been seen since leaving the event.’ He reached for his shirt pocket, then changed his mind. ‘You’ve heard nothing of this?’

  Her jaw dropped. ‘Sandie? What on earth… Detective, is she all right?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘I feel like this town has gone mad,’ she cut in, raising a rubber-gloved hand to her forehead. ‘Things have been unravelling since my mother’s—’

  ‘I know, Miss Wakefield.’ Hector sat back. He rubbed his eyes. ‘I feel the same. As you’re aware, I believe there’s a connection between everything that’s been happening. This can’t be coincidence. It has to be related.’ He looked into the tinted lenses. ‘Have you any idea what may have happened to Miss Rye? You understand, you’re a crucial component in locating her.’

  Renata had been awaiting a visit from the police. Sandie’s mouth had been taped shut near enough permanently, and in the case of an unexpected visitor, she’d planned to wrap even more tape around the bottom half of the girl’s face before answering, completely obscuring any muffling or moaning. She’d mastered the technique of replacing the bookcase to its usual spot having entered the cellar, allowing her to render the house empty whilst downstairs, but she thought again of feeding time and the risk of the teenager’s mouth being temporarily freed for food. Nevertheless, she’d always been ready to silence her in the event of a police visit, and the regular dose of sleeping pills proved a worthy precaution. Now she was finally being questioned, but by a recently retired, antique of a detective. This isn’t how she’d imagined it, and the absence of an official police visit still nagged her.

  ‘Me? Why would…’ She feigned abrupt realisation. ‘I see. She was last seen with me after the auction. No, I recall her mentioning nothing of note.’ She played with the string of her apron. ‘Detective O’Connell, you don’t think whoever’s responsible for everything that’s happened to poor Quentin is behind this too, do you?’

  Hector leant forward. ‘Miss Wakefield, I know you’ve been romantically involved with Mr Rye.’

  She straightened. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘It’s not my place to pry – at least not since retirement.’ He smiled. Renata stared. ‘Miss Wakefield, I’ve been considering the possibility that someone close to Mr Rye may be responsible for all this. They knew of the flammable film stock and on which truck it would be stored, not to mention where to find Miss Rye, despite her efforts to keep the event a secret.’ Hector rose and stepped to the window, popping open his pocket watch with the toothpick. He looked down at its face. ‘But there’s a greater concern on my mind.’ He turned to her as, in an instant, a shroud seemed to fall from his face. The cloak of stoic determination gave way to an expression of fear and disturbance. Suddenly, it was obvious to Renata the man was torn with worry.

  ‘You, Miss Wakefield.’

  They locked eyes.

  ‘I’m assuming you’re unaware of the other development,’ he continued. ‘An exhumed grave was discovered in the cemetery by your father’s old church. This grave lay next to your mother’s resting place.’ He stepped towards Renata. ‘I fear for your safety. I always did, but the focus of recent events aren’t just on Mr Rye. They’re also on you.’

  ‘Whose body was exhumed, Detective?’

  He turned back to the window. The pocket watch returned to his waistcoat, the toothpick to his mouth. ‘The grave was unmarked. I don’t—’

  Liar! Damned liar! You know exactly who it was!

  ‘—but I refuse to believe the grave being next to your mother’s was a coincidence—’

  Blind! You all pretended I’d never existed once I was sent away, now you’re too blind to see what’s right in front of you!

  Her hand clenched the handle of the knife in her apron pocket.

  ‘—there’s a possibility your mother’s murderer is, for reasons yet beyond me, responsible for this exhumation—’

  If you were less focussed on burying the truth you might see more you might see more you might see you might see

  She pulled the knife from her pocket under the table.

  ‘—bu
t I have work to do. I’ll leave you now, Miss Wakefield.’

  Work.

  She returned the blade to her pocket.

  Yes. I have work, too.

  ‘I know I’ve already made my feelings clear on this, but I’m going to say it again. Leave Millbury Peak.’ He paced the spotless linoleum floor. ‘There’s a connection between everything that’s happened, I know it. You are in danger, especially having had romantic involvement with Mr Rye, and this decline of your eyesight only makes you more vulnerable. I beg you,’ he pleaded, ‘let me see to your father’s care. You must get out. You’re in no condition to be taking care of anyone. More importantly, you’re in danger. Please consider the—’

  Renata stood. ‘You’re wrong.’ He dropped the toothpick. ‘I’ve been no closer to Mr Rye than that of an employee, and I know nothing of his daughter’s whereabouts. Being left alone to care for my father: that is all I care about.’ She opened the kitchen door, then stood to one side, picking the beige sleeve of her Aran knit. ‘I’m sorry, Detective, but I must ask you to leave.’

  He froze, mouth open. ‘I didn’t mean…I just—’

  ‘I know my duty, and I know what I have to do.’ Her eyes narrowed behind tinted lenses. ‘I have someone to take care of.’

  Renata watched the detective trudge down the steps back into the storm. She closed the front door, dropped the cane, and discarded the glasses.

  For the first time in her life, she could see.

  She went to the bookcase.

  I’ve been told to write about my days here. I don’t know why. I don’t get why any of this is happening but I’ll do whatever she says.

  I’m in a lot of pain. She stabbed me in the leg and it’s getting sorer. Maybe it’s infected. I dunno how to tell. Sometimes she gives me painkillers, but not today. There’s moths, loads of them. They’re big and they keep landing on me and fuck I think they’re feeding. She calls me a moth and I don’t know why. I’m so scared.

  The pain isn’t the worst thing, and it’s not being left alone in the dark and the cold for goddamn hours or days – I don’t know which cause it’s like there’s no time here. She sits there tapping all day. I think it’s a typewriter or something. I just cry and wait to pass out even though I know she’ll wake me when I do.

  I’m fed twice a day and given water. I’m not allowed to wash or go to the bathroom. I haven’t left this cellar and she even leaves me to piss and shit on the chair before she comes and cleans it up like I’m a fucking baby.

  But no, the worst part is that smell. Not even of my mess, but something worse. What the hell is it?! She’s actually trying to make it less bad for me by smearing something under my nose. She’s driving fucking scissors into my leg but going to the trouble to keep the smell away? What the fuck??? I can taste it, that menthol shit. I’ve seen stuff under people’s noses before but I can’t remember where. I don’t know what any of this means.

  Now she wants me to write about my ‘true self’. I told her I don’t know what the fuck that means but she just said I’d know with time and to write about my life. I have to do whatever she says or she might hurt me again.

  So I was fucking born in San Francisco, California, nineteen years ago to Quentin and Eleanor Rye FUCK! FUCK YOU THIS

  I was born in San Francisco, California, nineteen years ago to Quentin and Eleanor Rye. I was brought up in a Christian home. My parents separated after my 17th birthday. It was hard but God carried me through it like He’ll carry me through this. They separated because Daddy was sick of the religious stuff and Mom doesn’t like the books he writes and films he makes. I don’t get that because it’s his work and it got us nice houses and bought her all the shit she always wanted, although I guess he did have a gun stuck in my mouth one time. So anyway, I told her all that and we argued and I moved out when I turned 18. Now I live in an apartment Daddy bought me. I’m so grateful for everything he does. Grateful for Mom, too. I love them both so much. I hope they know that.

  I wish they were still together, especially now. Maybe what’s happening to me wouldn’t be as bad for them if they were. I think they split up because they didn’t understand each other. I’ll get out of here and I’ll marry someone who understands me. I’ve also been told to write about my tattoo, and that’s it. They’re roses spiralling around my ring finger. They symbolise my waiting for the right man, someone who will love me and never leave me. Someone who will understand me.

  I’m so grateful to both my parents, and even though me and Mom fell out, I still want her to know I love her and I’m grateful she showed me Jesus because He’ll get me through this and I’ll come out the other side even stronger. Jesus went through hell for me, and I’ll go through hell for Him. Mom, thank you for teaching me sex before marriage is bad and that drugs are evil and for showing me the right path. When I get out of here, I’ll be the best person I can be and I’ll work so hard at my acting career and you’ll be so proud of me. I love you both to the end of the world.

  You want me to write about myself? My ‘true self’? Sure. You got it.

  I LOVE myself. I LOVE everything about my life – my Daddy, my Mom, and all the opportunities I’ve been given. I WON’T be broken. Whether by my love for my parents or for God, I WON’T be broken. You hear me?! Whatever you do to me, I WILL find the strength to go on. I WILL make it out of here. LOVE will see me through.

  I won’t be broken, bitch.

  27

  Thomas Wakefield did not approve of television. Along with Sylvia’s romance novels, it held a high ranking on the list of sins forbidden in the Wakefield house – yet one sat in the attic.

  The huge wooden set had been purchased for the sole purpose of watching the Queen’s televised Christmas Day speech every year. The ritual would be foreshadowed by Thomas’s grunting as he heaved the Finlux out of the attic and down the stairs into the living room, where it would sit all morning. Its bulbous blank screen bulged like an eyeball until, finally, it would awaken at 3 p.m. Following the royal drawl, the television once again faced expulsion for another twelve months.

  Nearly thirty years later, it was the Wakefield daughter hauling the set downstairs. The next task would be the positioning of its aerial, those mystical metal antennae her father had manoeuvred with all the focus of a wizard performing an ancient ritual. Would the great, glass eye respond to her clumsy handling of the metal wands?

  The electronic snowstorm fizzled into…a boat? Yes, a fantastically affordable Mediterranean cruise. She flicked the channel, a burst of static transforming the ship into a reception desk. Three over-tanned, over-acting hotel receptionists had it out over who was in love with whom.

  She looked at the time. Six o’clock.

  She cycled through the channels until another desk appeared, this time belonging to a news anchor. Several stories were detailed, first regarding conflicts in lands of which she knew nothing, then relating to scandals involving names she knew even less of. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d watched a television. Her eyes were already aching when, finally, the anchor spoke the word she’d been waiting for.

  Rye.

  ‘The search for the missing daughter of horror novelist, filmmaker, and philanthropist Quentin C. Rye continues, as police urge anyone with information to come forward.’ Renata knelt in front of the six o’clock news, staring into the screen. ‘Miss Rye’s parents have reportedly taken full-time residency in Millbury Peak, where Sandie was last seen. Mr and Mrs Rye have just given a press conference from the town, where Mr Rye’s production company had been filming on location before cancelling all current projects to focus on the search for Sandie. Reporting from Millbury Peak earlier, here’s Natasha.’

  Renata endured Natasha’s introduction before the camera finally panned to a stage blasted by flashing cameras. Chief Inspector Blyth and two colleagues sat with a well-dressed blonde woman laden with jewellery whose red, unrested eyes betrayed her identity as Sandie’s mother, Eleanor.

  Next to her sa
t Rye.

  He would have been an image of perfect composure had it not been for the eyes behind his horn-rimmed frames, which, like his ex-wife’s, gave everything away. To the audience, his stare may have said anger, frustration, rage, but they said something else, too, something evident only to Renata: knowing. His eyes told her he knew. He knew who had his daughter, and he knew they were watching. Renata leant closer, her face inches from the screen.

  ‘I wuh-want my baby back,’ Eleanor Rye stammered, fighting back tears. Renata scowled at the cross around the woman’s neck being pawed at incessantly. ‘I know someone has her, and I just need to know what they want, what it is we can do for them. Our daughter means everything to us, everything…’ Blyth placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear. She shook him off as the tears won out. ‘We’ll give you anything, I swear. Just tell us – tell us, DAMN YOU.’ Her head fell onto Quentin’s shoulder. The cross hung limply.

  Save for the arm he placed around her, Eleanor’s tears barely registered with Rye. His eyes remained unwavering as they poured into the camera. Into Renata.

  ‘Obviously this is an emotional time for everyone,’ the chief inspector said. ‘Rest assured, my colleagues and I have made Sandie’s safe return our highest priority.’

  Renata’s nose touched the glass as Rye stared back. I know you have her. I know you have my girl, his eyes said. Hate swelled on both sides of the screen. Nails dug into her palms.

  He stood.

  ‘Furthermore, we want to assure the public that…uh…’ Inspector Blyth’s words trailed off as he saw the audience’s attention switch to the standing man. Rye filled the screen, the camera re-centring and closing in on his stony expression. Renata knelt face to face with him. Time ceased.