HOPE . . . because that's all there ever is.

by James Crow

  Carl was face down on the floor in a splatter of blood. When Elizabeth’s rotten corpse had followed Peter inside, Carl had uttered something in German, crossed himself, then fainted. Beth had heard the crack of his breaking nose as his face hit the floor. A satisfying sound that brought a smile to her face. And now, he stank of fear and cowardice, even though he was deathly still.

  Rose had cried out just before Carl fainted. She’d gasped at the sight of Peter – so emboldened was he – but it was the wood spirit dragging a mangled leg in behind her that made Rose scream. She’d taken a backward stumble and slumped to the sofa, where she was now sitting with her hands on her heart and her eyes wide.

  Rose also stunk of fear, a smell that made Beth’s heart beat faster. But Rose’s was a different fear from Carl’s. This was interesting. A blue line as thin as thread wrapped itself around Rose’s fear, and this line smelled of strength and . . . hope and . . . and what? The fragrance of . . . roses, maybe? Beth had sent Rose the words: Take my lead, over and over. Rose hadn’t replied. Probably a bit shocked right now. But Beth knew Rose was waiting.

  Beth had hope too, hope that her lead – her uber-zippy stocktaking – was as efficient as it seemed.

  Deafening thunder-cracks bring a fresh cascade of rain to pound the cabin’s roof. It’s louder than ever; the noise rattles through the cabin walls and Beth can feel it through the floor, as if the earth is moving. Cascade. That’s a nice word. It has a ring to it, just like Carousel does. Beth imagines hundreds of brightly-coloured carousel horses bouncing off the cabin roof. A cascade of carousels. Words can often be lovely. Is there a word for a horse that begins with a ‘c’, because if there is, it would bring lovely rhythm: a cascade of carousel . . . stallions, ponies, mares . . . mounts . . . steeds. No, there isn’t such a word that she knows of. She’d have to check her thesaurus.

  Where the bloody hell’s your lead, Bethy?

  Rose’s words are loud and clear inside her head. Beth startles back to reality. She looks to Rose. There’s tears in her eyes. Sorry, Rose, mind wandering, not good.

  Chargers!

  What?

  That fits. You could also use colts, but that doesn’t sound right.

  You’re clever, Rose. A cascade of carousel chargers. That’s lovely. Thank you.

  You’re welcome. Now, your lead? Please!

  Peter is saying something to the corpse. There’s a feeling inside Beth’s head, a feeling of two halves. On one side of her head the calculating intake builds and computes, on the other side the cascading carousel chargers want to write a poem. A poem, of all things, at a time like this.

  Bethy?

  Okay. Sorry.

  Beth tells herself to focus. This isn’t a fun do; the countless cascades of carousel chargers must wait until later. Beth feels the grin that just split her face. She added an extra ‘c’ word – countless. Imagine that. Countless cascades of carousel chargers bouncing off the cabin roof. She wonders, that if she thinks hard enough, the carousel chargers might materialise, come to life, and instead of bouncing off the roof, some of them would come crashing through, destroying the baddies in the process. Now that would be a fun do.

  Oh dear God save us. Rose’s thought snaps her to.

  Peter has beckoned to the corpse. Elizabeth is dragging herself to him; mangled legs and twisted flesh dripping with slime. Her blonde hair, wet with rain, shines bright, almost as bright as Peter’s. Beth’s nose twitches; the stench of bad meat mixed with Peter’s lust is a little disturbing.

  Peter lowers his flaming head to meet the corpse, whispers something in her wasted ear. The corpse giggles. Their lips meet in a gentle kiss.

  The corpse turns towards Beth with a toothy smile and drags herself over. Trembling bony fingers reach for Beth’s face.

  Oh shit, Bethy.

  I’ve got this, Rose . . . I think.

  You think?

  Beth keeps still, feels a sucking sensation as cold fingers touch to her cheek. A strange ripple runs right through Beth from the head down; she feels, for the time it takes to pass through her, like a hula dancer in slow motion. The corpse is also rippling, and as the ripple clears, Elizabeth is pretty again. Her yellow dress is good as new and her pout as conniving as ever.

  What in the holy fuck?

  Just go with the flow, Rose.

  ‘Oh, Bethany, I do wish you hadn’t got scared and run away. So many good things to look forward to. But never mind, we’re here now.’ Elizabeth looks to Peter, ‘Master, please may I bathe her?’

  ‘Soon, my child.’

  What?

  Shush Rose.

  He’s staring at the cup in Beth’s hands. He arrives in two big steps, ‘What’s that, sweetpea?’ His big hand flops out, bloodied fingers beckoning.

  ‘It’s a lucky cup,’ Beth says and sits the cup into his hand.

  Peter lifts it to his face and stares into the cup’s bowl, grins at it, and then flings the cup at the wall. The cup shatters into twelve pieces, and as they land on and around the unconscious Carl on the floor, the jagged base of the cup breaks into three. Now there are fourteen pieces, and the biggest piece is what’s left of the base, the eye looks at her. Beth winks at it.

  The words three hundred and sixty quid come whispering from Rose’s mind.

  For a moment, Beth expects to see those words trailing around the wall. But they don’t. She reminds herself to focus.

  Worth every penny, she thinks back to Rose.

  But Rose doesn’t reply.

  There’s a loud exhale of breath. It’s Rose, breathing too fast. Beth can hear her heart. It’s almost as fast as Peter’s. She takes a backward step and joins Rose on the sofa, places a calming hand on Rose’s knee and Rose grabs it and squeezes. It’s okay, Rose.

  Oh dear God, we’re going to die.

  Trust me, Rose.

  Another trembling squeeze of her hand. Rose has got the shakes.

  Go with the flow, Rose.

  Okay.

  And tell your heart to slow down please.

  Heart, yes, slow down.

  Calm.

  Yes.

  Beth hears and feels Rose’s heart slowing. Just a little.

  That’s good, Rose.

  Yes.

  Peter rights the chair Whittle had earlier kicked over, then sits on it back-to-front, arms resting over the back. Elizabeth kneels at his side with a stiff back and a bright smile. ‘Isn’t this wonderful,’ she says. Peter’s brick-flames billow with arrogance. Beth notes that arrogance smells like burning plastic.

  Peter looks from Beth to Rose, back to Beth, then to Carl on the floor, then to the carving of the man sitting on a spike, then back to Beth. Peter is taking stock.

  When he grins at her, he does so with only one side of his mouth. This has the effect of partially closing one eye. He also does a little double nod. Beth knows this is arrogance. ‘I’m your Saviour, sweetpea,’ he says, ‘but I think you know that, aye?’

  Elizabeth giggles and does an excited little clap.

  Beth squeezes Rose’s hand. Ready to follow my lead, Rose?

  Is there a choice?

  No.

  Then yes. Rose blows out a breath.

  The grin on Peter’s face really is magnificent now. So . . . cocky. Beth thinks if she popped a lightbulb in his mouth it might light up.

  ‘You must be so excited about giving me your will, sweet child, and, let me tell you,’ Peter wags a finger, ‘giving your will has never been easier, I mean, what’s not to love here, aye?’ He slaps a hand off his chest.

  A cannon-blast of thunder, another surging downpour of rain, and Peter’s next words are drowned out. Elizabeth obviously hears his instructions because she gets to her feet, skips over to Whittle and stamps on his outstretched left hand with her bare foot. Whittle groans. When she stamps again and grinds his fingers with her heel, he cries out and gasps awake. Elizabeth helps him to his knees. His nose is black and blue and thick with clotted blood, and his eyes are weir
dly red.

  ‘This one is a disgrace,’ Peter says to Beth, ‘Don’t know who’s worse, the pervert priest or your sick-in-the-head daddy. This one thought money could buy you, Bethany Black. This one has a bed made up for you in his cellar, complete with cuffs and chains. This one wants to taste your pretty flesh.’

  Sobs come from Whittle, ‘I’m sorry – so sorry.’ His sobs smell like sour meat.

  ‘Not only that,’ Peter goes on, ‘but this cunt, took a fucking midwifery course. Do you know why he did that, child?’

  Beth does know. She shakes her head No.

  ‘So he could turn you into a baby-maker. Deliver them himself in your cellar home. More sweet children for his pleasure.’

  Whittle looks to the ceiling and mutters a prayer. Tears run down his face. ‘I’m so sorry. I – please – I didn’t mean–’

  ‘The priest is sorry, folks.’ Peter slides the machete from his belt and holds it in both hands, his arms on the back of the chair, the blade pointing to the floor. ‘But sorry for what? For breathing? Sorry for his shitty ways? Sorry for wearing a fucking frock?’ Peter gets up off the chair, takes one stride towards Whittle, raises the machete and slices it through the air.

  Whittle cowers, screams, hands over his head to shield himself as the blade goes swishing by and connects with the carving’s neck. The model’s head falls to the floor with a thud. Another swish and the blade is embedded in the carving’s shoulder.

  Carl is now crying like a baby.

  With one big hand, Peter hauls Carl to his feet. ‘Carl likes raping children, boys mostly. Boys bring him the greatest thrill. He likes to own them, likes to torture them. Carl here likes to send his head boy into choir with a thumbscrew hanging from his pecker, don’t you, you sick fuck?’

  Oh dear God. Rose is swiping at her thumb.

  Beth sees her memory. Brandy. Carrot cake. Carl’s well-manicured fingers tightening the wingnut. Beth also feels Rose’s queasiness.

  Please don’t puke, Rose.

  Urgh, Rose thinks.

  I know, Beth thinks back.

  Whittle closes his eyes, clasps his hands in prayer, ‘Please, Lord above, forgive me my sins.’

  Peter laughs, he’s standing over Whittle now. ‘Carl likes to inflict pain and suffering, don’t you, Carl?’ He ruffles the man’s sweaty hair.

  Carl sobs. Tears stream down his face.

  I’m scared, Bethy. Rose’s legs are shaking. She jams them together to still them.

  It’s okay, Rose. We’ll get out of this soon.

  Will we?

  There’s always a way, Rose.

  Another squeeze of the hand.

  ‘I can forgive you, Carl . . . once you give me your will.’

  Whittle nods, chokes back a sob. ‘Yes, Master. My will is yours.’

  ‘And you will let me into your heart?’ Peter roars with laughter. Elizabeth shrieks and applauds.

  Rose is trembling worse than ever. This is absurd. Just let me wake up and I promise I’ll go to church tomorrow – no, every bastard day.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ Peter says to the room.

  Beth knows what he means . . . the rain has stopped.

  ‘A break in the storm. Perfect timing.’ Peter looks to Whittle’s carving, the headless body sitting on a spike; the rocks in cradles hanging by ropes tied to the ankles have already helped to partially split the wooden man in two. ‘Was that a premonition or a death wish?’

  Whittle glares at the headless model, does not reply.

  Oh God. He’s going to sit him on his own spike.

  Nope, it’s going to be a lot worse than that, Rose.

  Worse? What could be worse? No, don’t tell me.

  Focus, Rose. Our chance is coming soon.

  Oh God.

  Pete’s eyes turn to Rose. For a moment Beth thinks he might have heard their thoughts, but no, he’s staring at Rose’s chest.

  ‘Writer woman, you look blessed.’

  Blessed?

  Play along, Rose. We’ll get through this.

  Oh shit.

  Peter moves over to Rose, she flinches as his hand grabs for her coat, the sound of a zipper and her coat is open. ‘Your scars excite me, Rose writer.’ Rose’s blouse is ripped open. She lets go of Beth’s hand, tries to cover up. Peter smacks her hands away and once again Rose’s heartbeat is loud. Beth takes her hand back. Calm, Rose, calm.

  Peter traces a finger over the scar tissue on Rose’s chest. Rose is crying now.

  It’s okay, Rose.

  No it’s fucking not.

  ‘I love your scars,’ Peter says, ‘fascinating.’ He plants his hands on Rose’s shoulders and pins her to the back of the sofa, grins at her. ‘They make me fucking hard.’

  ‘Master?’ Elizabeth is at his side once more. ‘Can we take the girl soon? She really needs to be bathed. And I so need to see the worms.’

  Peter lets go of Rose and strokes Elizabeth’s hair.

  Rose glances at Beth. Worms?

  Beth gives a thin smile.

  Peter looks to Beth, their eyes lock and Peter sighs. ‘Soon, perfect child, soon. But first things first.’ Peter strides to the big window and bangs at the frame with his fist until the remaining jagged pieces of glass have all crashed and tinkled to the floor. Outside the storm has quietened down. Beth can hear whispers among the drips of rain, and the smell of death from across the loch is making her nose twitch.

  Peter beckons Carl and Carl hurries to him. Peter cups his bloodied face, kisses his forehead, a lingering kiss. Carl’s bricks are pulsating red, black and purple. He knows he’s going to die. More whispers, inside whispers, thoughts transferred from one to the other, fortunate, fortunate.

  He’s taking his will, Rose.

  Rose closes her blouse and clutches at it.

  Peter returns to the chair, this time sitting on it the right way, facing the window. Elizabeth sits on his knee. ‘You may leave now, Carl. Atonement is in your own grubby little paws.’

  ‘Danke, Master. I am so fortunate.’ Whittle crosses himself and leaves the cabin on shaky legs, muttering in German, his bathrobe flapping in the breeze.

  This isn’t going to be nice, Rose. Be ready to make a move.

  Okay.

  Whittle disappears from sight; it seems he has gone behind the cabin. Beth knows he’s fetching something but not what it is. While he’s gone, Beth relays three possible scenarios to Rose.

  The first scenario isn’t the best; its execution will probably result in Rose escaping, which is good, of course, but Beth could end up dead.

  The second scenario might see them both escape, but without the joint attack it could possibly see them both dead, and that isn’t at all cooly-dooly.

  So, the third scenario it is – a joint attack – this suggests the greatest chance of them both escaping and therefore surviving. But they had to get it just so.

  Bloody hell.

  Calm, Rose, calm.

  Rose sniffs back tears.

  Beth continues to run the imagined scenario three through her mind, over and over and across to Rose.

  Oh, bloody fuck. I am not a superhero, Beth.

  You’re reading my mind, aren’t you? That’s superhero-ish.

  Silence.

  Rose?

  I’m shitting myself.

  I know, Rose. I know.

  Whittle appears through the window. He drags a blue barrel towards the stricken silver birch and leaves it standing there. Twice more he disappears to the rear of the cabin; the first time, he returns with two coils of rope, the second time he brings another blue barrel. Johnstone’s Feed Co. in white lettering adorn each barrel.

  Whittle removes the bathrobe, throws it to the muddy floor. His vest and shorts follow. Now naked, he ties a rope around the rim of the first barrel, same again for the second barrel. The other ends of the rope he ties to his wrists. He drags the barrels close to the silver birch.

  Beth feels Rose’s sudden burst of anguish; it hits Beth sideways like
a blast of foul-smelling fish. Rose has just done the adding up.

  This is sick, Beth. Crazy mad sick. A stifled sob.

  Beth squeezes her hand once again. It’ll be okay, Rose, just pretend you’re scared.

  Pretend? Please let me wake up.

  Whittle is now climbing the tree, each step measured and slow, each foothold firm before moving on. He snaps away thin branches on his way up to clear a path for the barrels. The pine trees around him sway a little as the wind gusts. Beth notices for the first time at least a dozen crows among the branches.

  Whittle pauses on a branch just below where the tree was struck by lightning; its wet and blackened point gleams like dark metal. The whispers Beth heard earlier are louder now. Maybe that’s because the whispers are getting closer. Beth hopes they don’t interfere with scenario three.

  A grunt from Whittle and he hauls the first barrel upwards. It knocks off small branches on its way until finally he brings it to rest on a thicker branch below his feet. He removes the rope from his wrist and ties it round his ankle, leaving only a two-foot run to the barrel. He does the same with the second barrel, hauling it up until it rests on a branch, tying the rope round his other ankle. It all looks rather precarious, but Whittle is focused.

  ‘I’m so fortunate,’ Elizabeth says on Peter’s lap. Peter hugs her.

  Beth feels Rose clenching as Whittle climbs higher and carefully lowers himself onto the charred spike. He takes the rope from both barrels and gently lowers them from their branches, letting out a prolonged groan as his feet slip from their footholds and the barrels dangle. The crows in the pine trees caw and chatter and the rain starts up again.

  ‘This is bloody sick,’ Rose says.

  Peter glances over his shoulder at her, waves her to shush, turns back to the view outside.

  Not part of the plan, Rose. Best to keep quiet right now.

  I’m pretending to be scared, remember?

  Well, don’t pretend too hard.

  The rain turns to hail without any thunderous introduction. On his spiked perch, Whittle is looking to the sky, groaning loudly as the hail hits his face and surrounds his breaking body in a pearly-white veil. The branches of the pine trees closest to him sag under the weight of the downpour, and Beth can almost believe that those branches are twisting and turning themselves in the direction of the open barrels. Thuds and splashes as the barrels fill and Whittle’s groans turn to agonised screams. The ropes are taut, as are Whittle’s legs, the barrels filling by the second.