by Mark Morris
Then he fell over.
At once he started to convulse. Shocked beyond reason, shocked almost to the point of primitivism, I crawled across the carpet towards my brother. I didn’t notice Matt move towards me, was unaware of his presence until he grabbed my wrist and hauled me with frightening strength to my feet. I looked into his face and saw nothing there, just blank indifference, his eyes twin voids. I struggled, and I think I screeched at him to let me go, but I’m not sure; I felt so far distanced from my physical self. Matt’s grip, however, was like a metal clamp, and when he turned and dragged me behind him, I felt as though I were struggling against a machine, as though I was tied to the back of a slowly moving car, trying to get it to stop by digging in my heels.
I looked desperately back at Alex, whose life was flowing out of him with each pump of his weakening heart, and then beyond him to the telephone on its shelf. At once a wave of wrongness swept over me. I had a sudden mental picture of the telephone lying on the floor, its receiver detached and splotched with blood. This is how it should be, I thought.
Bizarrely, given the circumstances, the fact that the telephone was untouched made me feel more than anything else that something had gone badly awry here. Before I could reflect on this, however, I was hauled out of the room in which Alex lay dying, along the hallway and out of the house. A police car idled at the kerb. From the back seat, Rudding leered at me.
twenty-four
I was made to sit in the back between Matt and Rudding. The two policemen who had ordered me to strip were in the front. No one said anything during the drive, not even me. Rudding, his body overly warm and acrid-smelling, like a dog on heat, continually leered and tried to catch my eye, but I ignored him. For the most part I sat slumped, staring down at my clasped hands, trying both to conserve my energy and to work out what was happening. When, at one point, I did look up, I was not surprised to see I was back in Greenwell again.
I felt I was on one of a number of pre-ordained paths, and that if I didn’t choose carefully when my next opportunity came along, then this particular path might well lead to my own destruction. My thoughts were vague, largely unformed, almost instinctual, and yet I couldn’t help feeling that they were accurate too. I was a pawn in a complex game, pivotal, and yet a pawn nonetheless. So far I had played the game bravely, albeit recklessly at times, but the odds were stacked against me and each time it had seemed as though I was making headway I had been outmanoeuvred.
And now here we were at the endgame and I was losing badly and bereft of ideas. All I could hope for was guidance or else a flash of inspiration, but from what source would they come?
The car stopped. I looked up. I had not been aware of us bumping down the dirt track that led here, but I saw that we had come to a halt on the weed-blighted patch of rubble in front of the abandoned railway station. The last time I had been here I had found a dead man, a noose around his neck, a hood obscuring his features. Was I destined to be the next to be executed?
After the horror of Alex’s stabbing, I had felt numb, almost weary, as if my own life were draining away in tandem with my brother’s. Now, though, as Matt leaned forward to open the door, I felt an adrenalin surge kick-start my system into life once more.
‘What are we doing here?’ I demanded, feeling my body beginning to quiver with fear and suppressed energy.
When Matt didn’t reply, I twisted to confront Rudding. ‘Why are you doing this to me? What have I ever done to harm you?’
Even though he hadn’t answered my earlier question, it was Matt who spoke now. I used to love his voice. It was deep and rich, a good actor’s voice, one that carried even when he spoke softly. ‘They believe you’ve come to destroy their way of life,’ he said.
‘Why?’ I asked, bewildered.
‘Because you have,’ said Rudding, his voice sharp and full of spite. ‘You come here causing trouble, asking questions.’
‘I only wanted to find my brother,’ I protested.
Rudding snorted, and the policeman in the front passenger seat shook his head as if he had never heard such a story.
‘Why else do you think I would come to this poxy little shithole?’ I yelled at Rudding, suddenly furious.
Matt laughed and clapped his hands together. Incensed, I twisted and aimed a punch at his head. Still laughing, he caught my hand in his own before it could reach its target, the interception such a blur of movement that it made me think of Superman stopping a bullet in its tracks.
For a moment he held my hand in his considerably larger one. Then he let it go with a dismissive gesture and opened the car door. On the other side of me Rudding opened his door too. As he was climbing out of the car, Matt reached back almost casually, grabbed my arm and hauled me out into the sunshine.
I made a token attempt to shake myself free of his grip, but it was pointless. He began to walk towards the station entrance, and if I didn’t want to be dragged along like a child, I had no option but to fall into step beside him. Rudding walked on the other side of me and the two policemen brought up the rear. I desperately wanted to ask what was going to happen to me, but I was too afraid of what the answer might be.
We crossed the ticket office, the only sound the crackling of broken glass as our feet reduced it to powder. Rudding slid up behind me and took my arms to allow Matt to climb over the rusty turnstile. I had to make a real effort not to recoil from Rudding’s cold touch, from his reptilian breath on the nape of my neck. I felt almost relieved to be in Matt’s clutches again once he was on the platform side of the turnstile and, in what seemed an oddly chivalrous gesture, had reached back to help me climb over.
There was an instant, jumping down from astride the turnstile to land on the platform, Matt lightly holding the fingers of my right hand to aid my balance, when I could perhaps have made a break for it. An image flashed through my mind: me racing across the platform and jumping down on to the disused railway track, fleeing like an Olympic athlete whilst my pursuers floundered behind me. I glanced at Matt and saw that he was grinning at me as if I’d been plucked from the audience at a seafront cabaret. It was an expression that made me falter (and therefore caused my tiny window of opportunity to slam irrevocably shut), not only because of its unexpectedness, but also because it couldn’t help but make me wonder whether he could read my mind.
Even as I was thinking this, his grip closed tight on my arm once again and he began to steer me along the platform. I knew where we were headed, but that didn’t stop my stomach writhing like a skewered snake. When we stopped outside the waiting room, I concentrated on trying desperately not to tremble, so that Matt wouldn’t have the satisfaction of feeling my fear vibrating through my skin. Rudding stepped forward and opened the waiting-room door. As light crept in, revealing what was inside, I gasped.
Lying on their stomachs on the floor, hands and feet bound, were Keith and Liz. At first I wasn’t sure whether they were alive or dead, then Liz turned her head very slightly, perhaps not so much to look at us, but in reaction to the light. Keith had his eyes closed, and yet I had the impression he was not unconscious, but simply looking inward, perhaps attempting to distance himself from his current situation.
‘What have you done to them?’ I said.
My question was ignored. Instead Rudding sneered at me. ‘Get down on your knees.’
I twisted my head to look at him, felt anger flaring up inside me, and welcomed it. ‘Why should I?’ I snapped. ‘Why should I do anything you tell me, you revolting little man?’
I saw his eyes narrow, his lips tighten. I thought for a moment he was going to lash out at me, but the knowledge that I’d got to him gave me a brief, fierce surge of almost pure joy. Rudding glanced at Matt as if seeking tacit permission to retaliate to my insult. Though I was not aware of any response from Matt, permission, it seemed, was not forthcoming. Rudding pulled himself together with an obvious effort, then marched stiffly across the room to the back-to-back rows of bolted-down metal chairs in the centre. O
n one of the chairs was a petrol can. He picked it up. I heard its contents slosh.
‘If you don’t do exactly as we tell you,’ he said, ‘I’ll pour this on your friends and strike a match.’ He bared his slick yellow teeth at me. ‘Now, will you please get down on your knees?’
‘You fucker,’ I said, but I did as he asked. My arm smarted where Matt had been gripping it so tightly. I wondered whether this was it, whether one of the policemen was going to step up behind me and put a gun to the back of my head or a noose around my neck. I was shaking. I felt cold inside, cold with shock. I felt someone step up behind me.
Then my arms were pinioned behind my back and my wrists were lashed together. I winced as the knots were tightened, clenched my teeth to stop myself crying out. A hand encircled my neck and shoved me face forward on to the floor. Without my arms to break my fall, I banged my chin hard enough to send pain jagging up through my skull as my teeth clacked together. The floor was gritty and dry, but the urine stench which pervaded the room was stronger down here. I felt my feet being forced together so that my ankle bones grated one against the other, and twisted my upper body awkwardly to peer over my shoulder.
One of the two policemen – the younger, I think, though I could only see him in silhouette, framed by the light beyond the open door – was tying my feet together and being none too gentle about it. I felt panic flowing through me, cramping my stomach, and fought hard to remain calm, to keep my head as clear as I could. To be a captive of these men was bad enough, but to be incapacitated too was even worse, because it now meant I had no means to defend myself; I would simply have to take whatever they decided to do to me.
I closed my eyes, took long, deep breaths, and only looked again when I felt the bone-grinding jerking on my ankles stop, sensed the younger policeman rising to his feet, stepping away from me.
Whatever their plans, ideally I would have liked to have appeared defiant, contemptuous, but I was too terrified to carry it off. I knew if I tried to speak (which in itself was difficult as my saliva was so dry and thick in my mouth it seemed more solid than liquid), my voice would emerge as a wavering falsetto. And so I remained silent and waited to see what their next move would be.
I didn’t have to wait long. Rudding was still holding the petrol can and now he began to unscrew the lid. He looked at me as he was doing it, his eyes savage and gluttonous, his grinning mouth a rictus of warped glee.
I turned away from him, looked at Liz and Keith. Keith still had his eyes closed, but Liz was looking at me steadily. She didn’t look scared, she looked … I don’t know … calm, maybe. Assured. As if she had accepted her fate, or as if she believed that no matter how bad things seemed, everything would ultimately turn out OK.
The sound of liquid splashing on the floor drew my attention away from her. I twisted my head again, saw Rudding emptying out the contents of the can on to the splintered, detritus-strewn tiles, sloshing it up the walls. Now the smell of urine was superseded by the high chemical smell of petrol. Despite the circumstances, it took me momentarily back to my childhood, to long, sunny, holiday-bound car journeys punctuated by pub lunches, word games with Alex and my parents, raucous sing-songs, quieter periods engrossed in colouring books or Enid Blyton.
Matt stepped forward and I saw him take something out of his pocket. I didn’t realize what it was until I heard a scrape-click and saw a tulip of flame rise from his fist.
‘Cleansing by fire,’ he murmured, his face a cadaverous orange mask. ‘Burning the past away. Goodbye, Ruth.’
‘No, Matt!’ I screamed, my voice tearing up from my dry throat. But it was too late. I saw him bend, touch the flame to the petrol. Suddenly and silently a wall of fire separated the three of us, bound and helpless on the floor, from the four of them. Without another word the dark shapes shimmering on the other side of the fire turned and walked away, leaving us to burn.
‘No!’ I screeched again. ‘No, Matt, come back!’
Already the fire was taking hold, crawling up the walls and licking its way across the ceiling. Its heat caused blisters of sweat to spring out on my skin; its smoke snagged in my throat, making me cough. I began to thrash and writhe, fighting against my bonds, achieving nothing except pain as the ropes cut into my wrists and ankles.
‘Turn your back,’ I heard someone say, and twisted my head to see Liz wriggling towards me like a wounded snake.
‘Wha—’ I said, the word foreshortened by a coughing fit as smoke scratched my throat once again.
‘Turn your back,’ Liz repeated, and her voice was so calm and authoritative that I did as she asked.
I felt her doing something to the ropes that bound my wrists, something that made the rough hemp rub and chafe against my already raw and seeping skin. It was agony, like wearing hot, stinging bracelets; I screwed up my face and tried to detach myself from it. In some ways I was aided in this by the smoke, which was making my head swim. I tried not to make any sound – I didn’t want to discourage Liz if this was to be our only chance of escape – though couldn’t prevent the odd moan or whimper forcing its way out of my throat.
‘There,’ she said at last, by which time her voice was booming oddly in my ears. The fire was roaring all around us now. I felt as though we were on an island in its centre, drenched in sweat. I couldn’t breathe properly; every inhalation felt like sucking in soupy, smoke-poisoned heat which contained less and less oxygen.
‘You can move your hands apart,’ she said, her voice right next to my ear, and yet at the same time seeming very far away.
I tried it. My shoulders seemed to creak with pain. Exhausted, I rolled on to my back, held my hands up in front of my face. The ropes had been sawn and hacked through. There was blood on them where my chafed skin had given way. My hands looked bloodless, though moved like dying crabs when I willed them to. The pins-and-needles surging through them was horrendous enough to almost make me pass out, but I welcomed it.
‘Take this,’ Liz said, and I turned my head to see that she had her back to me and was holding something in her hands. I felt as though my brain wasn’t working properly, as though my thoughts were connecting incredibly slowly. I seemed to look at the object in Liz’s hand for an age before reaching down with my reviving but still-clumsy fingers and plucking it from her grasp. I stared at the object, unable to believe what I was seeing.
‘But I buried this,’ I croaked.
It was the rabbit brooch, its jewelled eye intact.
‘Nothing can stay buried for ever,’ said Liz.
I stared at the brooch in wonder. Its eye, reflecting the fire that was devouring the walls around us, winked redly at me.
‘Use it, Ruth,’ Keith said.
His voice broke the spell. I looked at him, and saw that his eyes were open now and he was staring intently at me.
For a moment I didn’t know what he meant, and then I realized. The rabbit brooch’s sharpest edge would not have been much use as a weapon, but it was all we had. I began to saw frantically at Liz’s bonds, fighting hard to breathe, to remain conscious. Several times the brooch slipped from my still-numbed fingers and clattered to the floor.
It seemed to take for ever to cut through the ropes, though it could have been no more than a minute or two. As soon as Liz’s hands sprang apart, she turned, took the brooch from me and began to slash at the ropes around my ankles. I lay back, feeling sick and spaced out, struggling for breath. I wondered vaguely how she could appear so unaffected by the heat and the smoke. The next thing I knew, she was pulling me to my feet, shouting, ‘Come on, Ruth, we’ve got to get out.’
My instinct was to protest, but I felt too drained of energy to argue. I’m not sure whether I rose to my feet unaided or whether I was hauled upright. Neither am I certain exactly how we got out. I remember seeing flames on all sides, then running on leaden legs and feeling incredible heat. The next thing I knew I was lying with my cheek pressed against cold stone and there was something roaring some distance away. And there was air,
piercing and plentiful; its freshness as I gulped it in made me realize how bruised and scoured my fight for air had made my throat and lungs feel. I wondered abstractedly whether any permanent damage had been done, though I couldn’t make myself care too much right now. I was simply grateful to be out, grateful to have avoided serious injury yet again.
‘Isn’t it time you put a stop to all this?’ Keith said.
I looked at him, or thought I did. My mind was slipping now; I was no longer certain what was real and what was thought or dream.
‘How?’ I asked, though I may have merely formed the word in my mind.
‘By going back,’ said Keith.
‘Back? To where?’
‘To where it all began.’
It sounded like a fairy-tale answer, mystical and meaningless. Liz came forward and pressed something into my hand.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘This belongs to you.’
It was the rabbit brooch. The flames surging from the open waiting-room door, veining the black smoke which boiled up from the building’s roof, made its red eye glow and flicker, made it pulse like a beating heart.
‘You have to set things back on the right path,’ said Keith. ‘It’ll destroy you if you don’t.’
‘What will?’ I asked, or perhaps I merely wanted to, but lost the words somewhere in the pulsing of the tiny heart in my fist. The heart drew me in, or perhaps flowed out towards me, extending crimson tendrils, making the world around me seem flat and unreal, like a photograph obliterated by spilled ink. I blinked, and all I saw was red, all I heard was red, all I tasted and touched and smelled was red. I was a blood cell, racing through the deep caverns of the body I was keeping alive, rushing towards the heart.
I blinked again, and suddenly I was hurtling backwards, or else I was still and the redness was rushing back from me. A solid world formed without warning around me, and I looked at the redness and saw that it was no longer a good thing, but a bad one. The redness was blood. Alex’s blood. Alex’s lifeblood, running out of him.