by Paula Wynne
Her heart pounded. Balancing out in front of her, her hands shook. ‘There were notes?’
‘Ja, that made hunting him more interesting, but your brother was clever at hiding stuff. We never found his notes. Mm, should I use the perfect murder weapon again? The one I used to kill your brother.’
Kelby froze.
Punch-bag inhaled deeply and flexed his right bicep. Looking at it, he sniggered, ‘But I may find another way to snuff you.’
132
A hot gush of hatred flooded into Kelby’s blood, pumping vengeance to every part of her. Punch-bag’s confession he’d killed Gary made her want to jump up and grab his throat and throttle him. The other half of her wished she had the strength to shake him and pound his head against the wall until it turned to pulp.
Instead, she decided to keep him talking until she could figure a way out of here. ‘W-w-what did you do to him?’ She didn’t want to know, but maybe it would be useful later.
‘You’d never believe … the perfect murder weapon is not really a weapon.’
Punch-bag pulled a lighter out of his pocket and flicked it on. He fanned the flame under her fingers and asked, ‘You been burnt before?’
Too stunned to answer, Kelby watched him lean over the desk and lit the bunsen burner. Transfixed, she watched the burner ignite into a blue flame at the bottom, and ranging in colour from orange to purple.
‘You know, most people don’t know that third degree burns cause the most damage. That’s because they burn through each layer of skin.’ He spoke as though they were friends having a coffee.
Kelby fixated her gaze on the end of the flame, stretching up, trying to lick at her fingertips.
‘The damage can even reach the bloodstream, fry the nerves and sizzle the bones. Makes an interesting death. Don’t you think?’
In Kelby’s mind’s eye, Stacie’s severed ear, blistered, leathered and charred, dangled in the breeze. She squeezed her eyes shut to get the horrific picture out of her mind.
Punch-bag slapped her hands into the flame. ‘Luisteren! Listen to me when I talk. Move your fingers away and I’ll burn them.’
As her eyes flew open, Kelby yelped at the flame biting into her skin.
‘You wouldn’t want the dragon spitting flames before he’s ready for you.’
Her stomach tightened as she glanced from Punch-bag to the hypnotic blue-purple flame.
Unperturbed, Punch-bag turned a few pages in the journal. His stubby finger tapped a page. ‘See here. Cerbera odollam. That’s how Gary died.’
With simmering hatred, Kelby kept her eyes on the bunsen burner.
‘When you went to Spain did you see that pretty bush many people have growing in their gardens, the oleander?’
In silence Kelby watched him reading from the journal.
‘Oleander’s seeds contain a toxin called cerberin, a potent compound capable of disrupting calcium ion channels in human heart muscles.’ His eyes checked on the position of her hands so she held them still. He continued reading, ‘This can lead to an irregular heartbeat. It’s fatal if the toxin is ingested in high enough quantities.’
The heat in Kelby’s scorched fingers made her arms rise higher above the flame. Punch-bag jolted his fist on them. The flames licked at Kelby’s fingers again, this time searing through the blistered tips and singeing the rest of her left hand.
As she bit down on the pain, Punch-bag continued reading from the journal. ‘Five hundred cases of fatal cerbera poisoning have been found between 1989 and 1999 in the south-west Indian state of Kerala alone.’ He glanced at her hands, ‘Mostly young wives who don’t wake up.’
A deep furrow ridged her brow.
‘You know, they don’t wake up and fit in with Indian culture.’
His eyes glanced at her hands again. The muscles in her upper arms strained to keep them still. ‘Don’t you think plants are amazing? All I had to do was cook a spicy meal for your brother to ingest enough cerberin. I even made him write his own suicide note. Pretty clever, hey?’
After a moment of watching him gloat, she forced out a whisper, ‘Where’s Stacie?’
‘Ahh. Think back to the time your mother forced castor oil down your throat.’
Kelby grimaced. How did he know? Maybe he forced it out of Gary before he died. Or maybe he assumed most parents did that.
‘Disgusting stuff! I bet you’d never have guessed it came from one of the most poisonous plants in the world.’
‘Castor oil?’
He nodded. ‘Willow showed me this toxin called ricin.’
For a moment, Kelby focused on one word: Willow. Gary had introduced her to the homeopathic doctor to help her conceive. And later she had entrusted Annie into his care. Roy was right. Willow must be involved. Her heart skipped a beat. Where was Roy?
Punch-bag smashed his fist onto the top of her hands again. ‘Listen!’
The searing pain of the flame forced her to look at him. ‘I’m listening.’ Her mind throbbed as much as her burning hands.
She had to find a way to escape.
133
María choked on the smell of burning flesh. A sour odour filled her nostrils. She had only ever smelt that dreadful odour once before when her mother had started roasting a piglet and had to rush off to deliver a baby. She had been a child at the time, and didn’t know how to cook, so she ended up burning the family roast. The sickening stench of her own rotting flesh reminded her of the smell when Padre tanned leather over a flame.
Thinking she was in the middle of a terrible nightmare, María squeezed her eyes tight. When she opened them again the horror remained: her hands and feet were tied to the chair with Madre beaten, bruised and bleeding nearby.
Her mother clawed her way to her. ‘María! María!’ Madre’s voice broke through the haze of pain.
María shook her head and tried to focus. The soldiers’ threat came back. The young soldier would not be gone long, and the others could be back at any time. She would have no chance against all four of them. María clenched her jaw against the searing pain in her arms. Beside her, Madre tore at the knotted rope. Straining to glance over her shoulder, María once again choked on the stink.
The ropes were burnt and tattered. Long streaks of raw flesh swelled and bubbled up her arms. Under the blackened ropes, her wrists were raw with large blisters. Her hands had swollen to double their size. It was the worst pain she had ever felt. This was much worse than the time she had burnt her palms when lifting a heated pot.
With precise fingers, Madre picked at the ropes as though plucking the last few fine feathers out of a slaughtered chicken.
‘What are you doing, Mama?’
‘The rope is nearly off, María, then you must … go.’ Her mother’s voice lifted and dropped in a breathless attempt to save her daughter. ‘Take the journal … hide it in the grotto … get Padre’s piedra and run as far away as you can. These soldiers will do terrible things to you.’
‘I will not leave you, Mama. I will take you with me.’
‘But I cannot walk.’
‘I will help you.’
‘I pray you!’ Madre’s gaze pointed to the back of her legs. ‘Look.’
Only now did María see several deep slashes in her mother’s calves. The soldier’s dagger had inflicted these wounds.
‘They severed my muscles so I would not walk again.’
134
Kelby glared at Punch-bag, nodding to show him she was listening, despite the searing agony of the bunsen burner flame biting into her palm.
‘Goed. Keep listening. The dragon gets angry when he’s not taken seriously. As I was saying, the ricin is concentrated in the beans which castor oil is made from. One raw seed is enough to kill a human in two days.’
Kelby wince
d as he shook the jar of seeds that looked like ticks. Punch-bag looked smug as he added, ‘Undetectable in autopsies, but it gives a long, agonising and unstoppable death.’
Kelby wanted to block her ears.
‘Within a few hours Stacie’s mouth and throat started burning. Then her guts would have ached. Bloody diarrhoea and vomiting made it entertaining. After she took the seeds, the rest was unstoppable.’ He shrugged, ‘So … I didn’t do anything.’
‘But her ear —’
‘Just a bit of fun. She died of dehydration.’ Punch-bag leaned over Kelby, stared into her eyes and muttered, ‘Hmm, I haven’t decided if I should burn you, poison you or strangle you while the dragon takes
his pleasure.’
Shivering from fear and the heat in her fingertips, Kelby held his steady gaze.
‘Which would you prefer?’
She remained silent.
‘Answer me!’ He slammed his fist onto her balancing hands. Again, the flames ate at her flesh. Too afraid to move, Kelby bit down on the grunt of pain.
Trying to stop her left hand trembling in agony, she gagged at the smell of charred flesh. It smelt like the fried beef pet mince she had sometimes cooked for Fat Cat.
She fixed her eyes on Punch-bag and whispered, ‘Do whatever you like to me, but don’t hurt my niece.’
Kelby glanced around the desk, noticing a jar had a label: Strychnine and brucine.
She tried to remember what the journal had said about strychnine poisoning. Something about a heart toxin. Now, she wished she had listened to those lessons in her biology and science classes.
‘Maybe I’ll try all three. Because you’re the third Wade.’ He ambled along the shelf, glancing at the row of bottled dead animals.
Kelby tried to zone out and think of other things, but she kept seeing horror images of her dead family.
Distracted by the hum of the fridge in the corner, Punch-bag opened the door and leaned in. ‘I have her other ear in here.’
Kelby took her chance. She ducked under the operating table and hurtled towards the door on the other side of the room.
In two long strides Punch-bag was behind her. His arm swung out and slammed into the back of her head. She reeled from the force of his bones crunching against her skull. Her head buzzed in agony.
A large sweaty hand caught her by the jaw. Gripping her, he yanked her backwards. The dragon arm snaked around her neck like a python. For a moment, it squeezed. A long, slow, deliberate constriction. Crushing her windpipe.
Choking, Kelby’s frantic gaze darted around the room. Nothing within her reach to stop him. She wished she had Zelda’s long red talons to dig into his arms. Instead, she sunk her teeth into the red dragon. Tasting his salty sweat in her mouth, she grimaced, but bit harder.
Punch-bag yelped and slapped his other hand across her cheek.
Kelby reeled from the blow.
As she jolted backwards, his hand darted out and yanked the blood-stained lab coat off the peg. Punch-bag tossed the coat over her head, gagging her. The stench of blood and decaying meat made her nauseous. Leaning backwards, he tugged it tighter and tighter.
Through the suffocating cotton, Kelby heard him mutter, ‘Right devil, time to face the dragon.’
135
Kelby coughed and spluttered, struggling to breathe. Instinctively, she shoved her elbows backwards, jabbing into his chest with all the strength she could muster.
His vice grip slackened. She hurtled forward, but his grip tightened again. The stinking coat slipped off her face. Still in his clutches, she twisted around. Facing him, she rammed her knee into his groin. Punch-bag’s grunt sounded like a thundering explosion in her ears. Caught off guard, he dropped his hands to clutch himself.
Kelby scrambled up onto the operating table. From her elevated position, she leapt over the cabinet, hoping she wouldn’t hit the glass jars. Both feet crash landed on the mad scientist’s desk, right beside the bunsen burner’s flames.
A bottle rattled, pens scuttled across the top and rolled off onto the floor and the lamp toppled over. The test tubes crashed to the floor, scattering splintered glass.
Punch-bag advanced towards her, one hand still clutching his groin. She lifted a powder bottle that read: Strychnine and brucine. ‘Get out!’ She lifted the glass jar and aimed it at him.
He continued to move towards her.
Kelby hurled the glass jar at him, but Punch-bag ducked. The bottle sailed through the air, struck the light bulb above him and shattered.
Punch-bag looked up and gasped. ‘Kijk uit! Look out!’
A fine spray of dusty powder drifted over him. He spat out a mouthful. ‘Urrgghh! Bliksem. That’s vile!’
Ignoring the pain in her burnt hand, she lifted two more jars, arming herself with one in each hand. Punch-bag sneezed.
Kelby noticed that one had no lid. It had been labelled: Na+C=N. She bellowed at him, ‘Get out! Or I’ll drop this deadly powder over you.’
He sniggered. ‘You don’t know what deadly is.’
Kelby threw the bottle at him, striking him on the side of his head and scattering more toxins over him. He leaned back as some of it drifted towards him, using his hand to wave the dust away. She reached to grab the last glass jar. It felt powdery in her clammy palm.
Punch-bag used the moment to lunge at her. He grabbed her ankles, yanking her off the desk and into his open arms. ‘Ah, now we can get friendly.’
Without looking down, Kelby stomped her heel on his instep. He grunted and momentarily lightened his grip. Kelby bent her leg, pulled her knee towards her torso and kicked his shin.
Punch-bag staggered and loosened his grip, but fumbled to get her back into his clutches. ‘Nee, little devil, that’s not nice.’
With a powerful arm, he shoved her into the wall of dead animal jars. His sweating hands held her shoulders as he stared at her. ‘I didn’t think you’d fight back, but I have to admit … I like it.’
Desperate to claw her nails across his face, but without any nails, Kelby’s gaze darted to the door. A few feet too far.
‘Wait till you see what I mean by friendly.’ The dragon arm crossed her chest, pinning her to the shelf of bottled monsters. His other hand crept around her trousers.
Kelby winced and tried to distract him. ‘What did you do to Stacie?’
‘The same as I’m going to do to you.’ He spluttered as though short of breath.
She jumped as his fingers clenched her buttocks. One stubby finger jabbed into her arse.
‘In my old job, women used to crawl all over me for a back-ender.’
Kelby cringed.
‘I miss them, so I take every opportunity I get.’
From the corner of her eyes, she spotted the cat’s tongue rammed inside a glass jar. Beside it, the rabbit’s teeth mocked her. With her back lined against dead things, she knew she would be joining them soon.
He noticed her eyes darting sideways and said, ‘Nice touch, don’t you think.’
Kelby followed his gaze to the cat’s head. Her mouth went dry.
‘Although you wouldn’t recognise him now.’
She inhaled sharply. Was it really Fat Cat? Tears threatened, but she refused to let him see her anguish. A sudden, bone-aching tiredness overwhelmed her.
Kelby sagged against the shelf.
136
María suppressed a deep sob along with the desire to lie in her mother’s arms and weep. Despite the terrible dagger cuts on her mother’s legs, she couldn’t give up now; she had to survive. To save them.
After sniffing, she inhaled deeply to clear the weakness rising in her chest. ‘You will walk. We have the rizado to heal those wounds. I will read the journal to find your remedy and we will get you walking again.’
M
adre’s hand shot out and cupped María’s cheek. ‘Sweet little mi querida, always the strong one with so much faith.’
‘I learnt that from you, Mama.’ She glanced over her shoulder again. The tangle of burnt rope was almost off her wrists. ‘Hurry, Mama, hurry.’
Her mother picked for a few more minutes and the last strand broke, freeing María’s singed arms. She stared at the scarred mess for a moment. It would be an annoyance to do many things with crippled hands. Worse than all, she wouldn’t be able to write. Once again, that feeble maiden’s weakness threatened to consume her. María swallowed hard.
The deep lust for life, gained on her journeys with Padre, filled her with renewed determination. Never would she live in bounds. Never would she assign limits to the desires she had always strived after. No, she would write, even if every word filled her with pain.
María joined her mother, picking the ropes at her ankles. She ignored her raw fingertips and crunched on the inflamed agony. Every movement shot flashes of torment up her arms. After a few minutes they finally got her legs free.
‘Wait here, Mama. Let me check outside.’ María jumped up and raced to the door. Cautiously, she pulled it ajar with her fingertips and peered out. The young soldier was nowhere to be seen.
Just then the sun burst over the hills in an orange fireball, lighting the garden. María stepped out and raced around the house. Everything outside was as it should be. In the early dawn, the birds chirped and flapped in the nearby trees, while the animals brayed their impatience to be let out of their pens.
Today she could not attend their calls.
María ran back inside. With careful, precise movements to avoid knocking her wounded hands, María reached into her stone hole and retrieved a wad of notes. The completed herbal manuscrito lay hidden in the underground cellar inside one of Madre’s clay pots, but this was other rizado notes.
Flinching in pain, she stuffed the notes into her breeches. Everything she touched scraped her raw skin, magnifying the torment. It had to be ignored.