by Mark Tilbury
King had learned at an early age, thanks to his father’s terrible example, to mix pain and pleasure in a deadly cocktail of sexual desire. King could only achieve orgasm through inflicting extreme suffering on others. It proved to be a difficult combination to satisfy, but Big Al seemed more than willing to be tortured to within an inch of his life. Not that King was excited by having pain inflicted upon him; that street was strictly one-way with a no entry sign strategically placed to thwart any ideas of two-way traffic.
Sadly for this fledgling relationship, King had brought a permanent end to proceedings by handcuffing Big Al to the bed, stuffing a sock down his throat, hacking lumps out of his naked body with a razor blade, and throttling him with his bare hands to achieve orgasm without penetration. This fantasy had proved reliable. King had ejaculated as Big Al had breathed his last.
By then, King’s mother wasn’t in the best of health. She mostly stayed in her own room, attended to her by her dutiful son. Keeping Big Al’s corpse in his room had posed little risk. He’d bathed him daily, tended to him as only a lover could, and read Shakespeare to him every night.
He’d had to move Al to the basement when the stench of his decaying body had proved too much for Dettol and deodorant. After much deliberation, King had hired a concrete cutter and fashioned Big Al a coffin beneath the basement floor. After saying his goodbyes, he’d filled in the hole with cement. It had taken him the best part of a week to complete the task after electing to mix the blessed stuff himself. He’d sworn from that moment on to never embark on manual labour again. Cement dust had all but destroyed his lungs, and a pulled muscle in his back had forced him to walk with a stoop for days.
Comfortable, and at peace in the familiar surroundings of the theatre, he leaned back in the chair and folded his hands behind his head. Life hadn’t turned out too bad, all things considered. He had an understanding lover, a beautiful home, the theatre, and enough money in the bank to indulge his taste for the finer things in life.
It was true to say he would have swapped everything he owned for just one night on the stage playing Macbeth or Hamlet, but life was as fate had seen fit to arrange it. Peter King was not one to look to the heavens and curse his rotten luck.
Quite the contrary.
13
Chloe went to bed at just past eight o’clock on Christmas Eve. There had been no further incidents. It was as if the real Chloe had come back for Christmas, and Mel wasn’t about to upset the apple cart by asking questions about the events of the past few days. Hopefully, this was the end of it.
So, you’re just going to let your marriage crumble because of something Chloe says?
Mel sipped her first glass of wine that evening and tucked her feet up beneath her on the sofa. She lit a cigarette. On the face of it, it was insane. Absurd. But then, so was what Chloe had said about Megan and Grandma Audrey, along with the picture she’d drawn.
Mel wanted to rip the damn thing off the fridge, burn it, scatter the ashes from the top of Beaconsdale Hill. Cast them to the wind. Give them back to the universe, or whatever the hell it was all those New Age hippies believed in.
But why now? Everything had been fine until the trip to Feelham Theatre. Not one hint her daughter was anything other than a normal, bright, happy little girl.
The Tall Man’s coming, Mummy. The Tall Man’s going to kill us.
Mel shivered as she remembered Chloe’s haunting prophecy. Who the hell was the Tall Man? Mel racked her brains. The only tall man she knew was a teacher who’d taught at Feelham Primary School about five years ago. John Hardy. Nice guy. About as threatening as a blackboard. Apart from him, zip. No one at school. None of her friends had tall partners. Tony was five-eight in his shoes.
Maybe the Tall Man’s not really tall. He just looks tall to Chloe because she’s little.
Of course! All men would look tall to a child.
The doorbell chimed making her jump. If that was Tony, he could get lost. She didn’t want him spoiling Christmas with his denials and lies. It wasn’t lost on Mel how Chloe’s behaviour had improved since she’d thrown him out.
She opened the front door, heart beating a little faster, mind crammed full of responses to possible attempts by Tony to reconcile. She wasn’t in any mood to forgive a philanderer. Especially a lying, smug, self-righteous one who couldn’t think beyond algebra and equations.
Charles Honeywell stood on the doorstep, black Burberry coat buttoned to his chin, a parcel tucked under one arm. ‘Merry Christmas, Mel.’
She gawped at him, half-expecting Honeywell to morph into her husband at any moment and shout fooled ya! ‘Charles?’
‘How are you bearing up?’
She invited him in, took his coat, offered him a drink.
‘That would be most welcome, thank you. I’ll have a small Scotch. Neat on the rocks if you’ve got it.’
Mel poured his drink and handed him a crystal tumbler.
‘I’ve got a little present for Chloe.’
‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘Nonsense. You’ve been through a lot. It’s the least I could do.’
Mel put the present under the artificial tree by the front window. She didn’t return to her place on the sofa, electing to sit on the arm of the chair near the kitchen door. ‘How did the school play go?’
Honeywell sat in Tony’s chair near the fire. He busied himself wiping his glasses on a small polishing cloth. ‘Brought the house down.’
‘That’s good.’ Mel took a mental measurement of his height. About five-six. ‘Everyone remember their lines?’
He perched his glasses back on the end of his nose and returned the cloth to his glasses case. ‘Miss Stobie had to prompt once or twice, but apart from that…’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’
‘You’ve got nothing to apologise for.’
‘I’ll be back in the New Year.’
Honeywell sipped his drink. ‘Take all the time you need. How’s Chloe?’
‘She seems okay.’
‘I must confess to having given this quite a lot of thought these past couple of days. I’m rather intrigued by what you told me. I’ve been looking into the phenomena of past-life experience. It seems a rather common occurrence. Much more so than I imagined.’
‘Really?’
Honeywell swirled ice around the bottom of his glass. ‘Extraordinary stuff, some of it. There was one child who remembered being burned to death.’
‘That’s awful!’
‘Isn’t it? Burned to death in a bakery where she worked. Over a hundred years prior to her birth. This child was born in Brighton. Her memories were rooted in Lancashire. How on earth could that be?’
‘I don’t—’
‘The child knew the minutest details of her other birthplace. A small village. The layout. Where her home was at the end of a towpath. The bicycle she rode to work. Her husband. Five children.’
‘But that’s… impossible.’
Honeywell nodded. ‘They found the village. Found the towpath, too. The cottage was long gone, but records showed it had once stood on that plot of land. They even traced the child’s former name through church records. Everything turned up true, Mel. The bakery, the fire, the whole tragic episode.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘You say Chloe acted strange when she went to Feelham Theatre?’
Mel nodded. ‘She didn’t want to go inside.’
Honeywell was silent for a moment, stroking his chin. ‘This a complete shot in the dark, and forgive me if it sounds preposterous, but I can’t help wondering if perhaps something once happened to your daughter inside that theatre.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just thinking about the fire in the bakery.’
Mel excused herself, walked to the kitchen, and retrieved Chloe’s picture. She held it up before the headmaster like an auctioneer’s assistant displaying a fine work of art.
‘Did you draw that?’
&nb
sp; Mel shook her head. ‘It’s the one I told you about.’
‘Chloe drew it?’
‘Yes.’
‘But… she’s only four, isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘She couldn’t possibly draw something of that standard.’
‘I wish she hadn’t.’
‘It’s… incredible.’
‘She drew another one at her childminder’s.’
‘What of?’
‘A guillotine.’
‘For cutting paper?’
‘No; for cutting off heads.’ Mel described the grisly detail of the bloody execution.
‘Where on earth would she get such an idea from?’
‘You tell me.’
He was silent for a moment, thoughtful, and then he said, ‘It does appear your daughter has lived before, Mel. What does your husband think?’
‘He’s not here. We’ve… had a bust-up.’
‘Over Chloe?’
‘Sort of. I don’t want to talk about it. This whole thing’s been a nightmare.’
‘You said Chloe had marks around her neck?’
Mel nodded. ‘At first, I thought she’d been strangled. But then…’
‘Mel?’
‘They could have been made by a guillotine.’
‘Like in the drawing?’
‘Yes.’
‘It might be prudent to look at the history of Feelham Theatre. See if there’s ever been a fatal accident. I’ll look into it if you like. See if I can trace its history right back to its construction.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘I want to. I’m intrigued. I wonder if there’s ever been a fire there?’
‘She drew this house on fire, not the theatre.’
Honeywell put his empty glass on the coffee table and stood up. ‘I’d better be going. Things to do and people to see. I’ll pop back in a few days’ time if I manage to dig something up.’
Mel escorted him to the door. ‘I don’t want you to put yourself out.’
‘Quite the contrary. It will give me something to get my teeth into.’
Mel thanked him and let him out into a night intent on delivering rain and spoiling every kid’s dream of a white Christmas.
14
Purple-six sat on the edge of her bunk, massaging the back of her neck with her manacled hands. A three-foot long chain between the wrist restraints afforded her limited movement, just enough to perform bodily functions, eat, stretch, wash. Leg restraints, joined by a shorter chain, allowed her to shuffle around the cell and just about keep the blood circulating around her body.
The Game Master’s voice, muffled by the heavy door, but no less threatening, said, ‘I have left six buckets of water and cleaning equipment for you in the theatre. Four are for personal use. The others for scrubbing the floors. Is that clear, Purple-six?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I want this place spick and span for tomorrow, okay?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And try to inject some enthusiasm into your voice. It’s Christmas Day tomorrow. A day to celebrate.’
I can’t fucking wait. ‘Right.’
‘I want you to make an effort. The new game starts tomorrow.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll unlock the door now. I want you to wait a full five minutes before opening it. If you defy me, I will shoot you. Understand?’
Purple-six, more than aware the Game Master was incapable of making idle threats, confirmed she understood. Yellow-four made a face and spat on the floor. Orange-seven lay on her bunk, staring at the mouldy ceiling as if it might reveal a way out.
‘I wish I could kill the cunt,’ Turquoise-six said. ‘Wrap these chains around his fucking neck and throttle him.’
Purple-six, formerly known as Tanya Wichello, resident of Lower Spittle, shuffled to the door and listened to the Game Master’s retreating steps.
‘Why don’t we just go for it,’ Turquoise-six persisted. ‘If we all rushed him at once, we’d—’
‘All be shot,’ Yellow-four snapped. ‘There’s no way out of here. Except in a body bag.’
‘What have we got to lose?’ Turquoise-six said. ‘Absolutely fuck all.’
Tanya turned to face the others. ‘Will you be quiet? I’m trying to listen.’
Turquoise-six rolled her eyes and chewed on her index finger as if it was of great nutritional value. ‘I’ll fucking kill him.’
‘Is that right,’ Yellow-four said. ‘So, how come you haven’t done it already? You’ve been here for ages.’
Turquoise-six shrugged. Her chains rattled and echoed around the bare walls. ‘Just waiting for the right time.’
Yellow-four shook her head. ‘Yeah, right. And I’m Father Christmas.’
Orange-seven leaned over the side of her bunk. ‘Always thought you looked like a bloke.’
Yellow-four laughed. ‘That’s me. All body hair and bollocks.’
‘More like a big butch lesbian, if you ask me,’ Turquoise-six said.
‘No one’s asking you,’ Yellow-four retorted.
Tanya moved away from the door. ‘I think he’s gone.’
Turquoise-six clapped her hands, rattling her chains. ‘Give the girl a prize.’
Orange-seven climbed off the top bunk. ‘You going to open the door, then?’
Tanya thought the woman’s bright orange tracksuit made her look like a traffic cone. ‘Okay. But I don’t want everyone squabbling. We’ll do the chores, and then we’ll wash.’
‘What I want to know,’ Turquoise-six said, ‘is who made you the leader of the fucking Teletubbies?’
Yellow-four rounded on her. ‘Who made you the biggest whinger in the world?’
‘What the fuck do you expect, locked in this freezing cold shithole?’
Tanya said, ‘We’re all in the same boat, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
She snorted and zipped her turquoise tracksuit top up as far as it would go. ‘Boat? Fucking dungeon, more like.’
Tanya took a deep breath. ‘The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can relax.’
‘Are you for real? The only thing you can do down here is freeze your tits off.’
Orange-seven walked over to the door and stood next to Tanya. ‘I hope to God she gets picked tomorrow.’
Turquoise-six flipped her the bird. ‘I heard that!’
‘Good.’
‘Just in case you’ve forgotten, they pick two for each game.’
‘I know,’ Yellow-four said. ‘But at least there’ll be a fifty-fifty chance you’ll wind up out of my life.’
Tanya turned to her friend. ‘That’s a bit OTT.’
‘I don’t care. She does my head in.’
‘And you do my head in,’ Turquoise-six said. ‘But I don’t keep going on about it.’
Yellow-four rounded on her. ‘Don’t you ever shut up?’
‘That’s enough,’ Tanya said. ‘Come on. Let’s get this done.’
Turquoise-six looked at Yellow-four as if she was trying to set fire to her with her eyes. ‘And you needn’t bother to ask me to wash her. Unless you want me to wash her mouth out with soap.’
Tanya shook her head. She wasn’t one to wish ill on anyone, but she’d be lying if she said she’d never wished Turquoise-six would be chosen to play One False Move and never return. She knew it was a terrible thing to think, and she hated herself for doing so, but this place did all it could to destroy every last ounce of compassion.
She didn’t know how long she’d spent locked away down here. It might have been one year, might have been ten. Time no longer existed. Minutes bled into hours, hours haemorrhaged into weeks. It was a completely different Tanya Wichello who had travelled from Paddington Station to Oxford with the tall, bearded, pot-bellied man.
She remembered little about the house he’d taken her to. By the time she’d drunk her third glass of wine, everything in the room had presented itself in twos. Two Thomas Kowalskis, two wine glasses, two tables, two
chandeliers swinging above the dining table. If there was one piece of advice Tanya could give to women, it would be this: never surrender control to a man. Give him your time. Your money, even. But never your mind. Once you gave that away you were as vulnerable as a fawn in a valley full of wolves.
She remembered a sensation akin to being on a fairground ride, followed by euphoria, and then darkness, thick and black as an oil slick. When she’d regained consciousness, she was chained to a bed, and a severed head had been sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. After her initial burst of hysteria, the man had hit her with a baseball bat and knocked her unconscious.
She had no recollection of how she’d got from the bed to her basement prison. The other three girls, dressed in turquoise, yellow and orange tracksuits, had all long since perished playing One False Move. One, Yellow-two, had been so helpful and caring during those first few months that without her Tanya might well have taken her own life.
Tanya opened the door. The Game Master had left polish, dusters, brooms, four bottles of bleach, Flash sprays and six buckets of water as promised. After a long debate about who was going to do what, they set about sweeping the floor, polishing the oak table, dusting the stocks and cleaning the cage.
Tanya elected to clean the game board, getting on her hands and knees and scrubbing the orange, yellow, turquoise and purple squares with hands almost as rough as the concrete.
Turquoise-six leaned on her broom. ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering to do that. We’ll only be treading all over it tomorrow.’
Tanya climbed to her feet. ‘Because if we don’t, he’ll punish us.’
‘Like he’s not doing that already?’
‘You want him to put you in the cage?’
‘I couldn’t care less.’
‘You want to get electrocuted by the cattle prod?’
‘I—’
‘Or perhaps you want to be tied to the whipping post and have forty lashes with the leather whip?’
Turquoise-six didn’t answer.
‘I didn’t think so. Now get on with it. The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can relax.’
Turquoise-six rolled her eyes and made a point of pushing the broom as slowly as she could across the floor.