by Martyn Ford
Right. Come on.
Robin folded the photo and slid it into her pocket. Keep searching, she thought, don’t get distracted. Be brave – brave like Ruby.
Back on her feet, she found a wardrobe with two wooden doors – also painted white – which creaked as she pulled them open.
In here there were more crosses and candles and a tall stack of books. Bibles. Some of them were so old the thin pages had turned brown. Robin stroked the silky paper, then looked up and frowned. Above, she found weird toys lined up on the shelf. Wait, they weren’t toys, they were dolls. Five of them, made from wood and tatty cloth. They were small, no taller than a mobile phone. Like little dusty girls in little dusty dresses. All facing the wall. Even though, of course, they weren’t real, Robin still felt sorry for them. Cooped up in here, all alone, like they’d been naughty. She turned them round, one by one, and creased her nose at what she saw. Their faces were black – like charcoal. Maybe, she thought, I could use them to draw. Although, again, she felt that would be mean because she would hate to have her face dragged across paper. The girls had arms too – the right hand of each one was lifted like it was saluting, or maybe pointing. But because they had no fingers, just small wooden stumps, it was difficult to be sure. And in their left hands they held a small stick, a bit like a match, or a torch. She rearranged the figures in a line, so they were all pointing right at her. Squinting, she shook her head.
‘It’s rude to point,’ she whispered. ‘Is that why you’re in here?’
Is this what happens when you misbehave? You get locked away in the dark.
Robin glanced around the shelves, then down, behind her, to the left. On the floor there was a metal box full of tools and a set of . . . keys? She leaned and snatched them. But they weren’t keys. They were lockpicks. And under them were some rubber gloves – the fingers twisted and stuck together. And wet wipes, and a syringe and—
Robin froze. And a test tube with a blue screw-on lid. Half filled with blood. She touched the bruise in the crease of her arm, then carefully picked at the tiny scab. With the dried skin gone, a single spot of red appeared, a perfect sphere – when it grew to the size of a pea, it started to drip. So she held her elbow and sucked the wound, wincing at the metal taste.
He had taken her blood. He had given her drugs. He was, then, definitely—
On the driveway. A sound. Outside. The car. His car.
Quickly, Robin stepped backwards, shut the wardrobe, then checked everything was as she had found it. For some reason she patted herself down, panicking. She turned. Rushing back into the kitchen, she closed the white door, bolted the bottom lock and—
A shadow in the round window in the front door. She dragged the chair across the tiles, tucked it under the dining table, then swooped round towards the sink. She grabbed a glass and turned on the tap as he walked up the hall behind her. She almost started humming a tune to herself, but thought that’d make her seem even more suspicious.
He didn’t say anything as he placed a bag of shopping on the side. Robin tried so hard to act normal – taking a seat at the table, sipping her water.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
She pretended she was distracted. ‘Mmm, yes, thank you. Are you?’
Julius didn’t respond. It took a lot of effort not to look at the white door’s top bolt, which was still open. Maybe he suspected she’d been doing something wrong. Maybe he could see it on her face. But, after a few seconds, he seemed to relax and, to her relief, started making dinner.
They’d been eating in silence for about ten minutes. She did try to start conversations, but Julius was, well, not quite shy but . . . it was as though he didn’t know how to talk. Like a new kid at school.
Following her third attempt, he managed to ask her a question. He wanted to know whether they prayed in assembly and if she ever read the Bible.
‘They taught us about Noah’s Ark,’ she said. ‘And we went to a cathedral once, on a trip.’
‘Did you like it?’
Robin shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Would you like a Bible? I have a few.’
And, without meaning to, Robin’s eyes flitted just a few centimetres to the left and looked over his shoulder at the white door. Immediately, she realised what she’d done and snapped her attention straight back to her plate.
‘Uh yeah, OK,’ she said. ‘Sure.’
But it was too late.
Julius hesitated, opened his mouth, then slowly turned in his chair and stared at the door. Robin curled her toes and made fists on her lap.
‘Did you go in there?’ he asked.
‘I . . . I was . . .’
‘Did you go in there?’ he yelled, spotting the top lock.
‘I’m sorry, I just . . .’
Julius stood up so fast he knocked his chair over, went to the door, undid the bottom bolt and slammed it open. She couldn’t see but heard him thudding around in there. She swallowed. Her legs started to jitter as she searched the kitchen, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.
‘No, no, no,’ he shouted. ‘No.’
There was another loud sound and he came storming back.
‘I didn’t touch any—’
‘Why did you turn them around? Why?’
‘I . . . They . . .’
He shoved the dining table aside, their plates and glasses smashing on the floor, then he crouched in front of her and checked her face, moved her hair, looking into her eyes.
‘God, dear God.’ He seemed worried now, not annoyed. ‘Robin, no, no.’
Again, he dashed into the room, and came out with a small wooden cross. He pressed it against her chest.
‘Hold this – hold it.’
Robin did as he said – her eyes wide, alarmed – watching him. But she didn’t cry.
He was breathing fast, like this was an emergency.
‘Stand up, stand up, stand up.’
She stumbled as he dragged her into the middle of the kitchen.
‘I don’t understand,’ Robin said. ‘I . . . I . . .’
From a cupboard, Julius removed a washing-up bowl. He put it in the sink and turned on the tap.
‘Lord, cleanse this place,’ he said, and then he started talking so quickly Robin couldn’t hear the words. It was like a prayer, but he was mumbling desperately, as though he couldn’t say it fast enough. He kept repeating the word ‘light’.
Robin shuddered and scrunched her face as he poured the water on to her head. She gripped the wooden cross, lifted her shoulders and gasped as it ran down her back, splashing on the floor around her socks.
He drenched her with bowl after bowl, until her hair and clothes were stuck to her skin. As he recited his prayer, he dragged his hands over her head and flicked the water away.
When he’d finished, Robin stood shivering on the tiles, her teeth chattering. And, finally, she opened her eyes.
Now Julius had put all the dolls on the kitchen worktop. He laid them face down, then pulled a hammer from beneath the sink.
‘What are you doing?’ Robin waited, dripping wet, catching her breath, trying to calm herself. ‘Don’t.’
‘As it was in the void of the beginning,’ he said, and – whack – he smashed the first doll’s head. ‘Is now.’ Thud – she blinked – another one. ‘And, God, shall ever be.’ Bang. Robin flinched at each impact, tiny shards of charcoal flying across the kitchen. ‘A serpent.’ Crack. ‘A saviour.’ Crack.
‘Stop,’ Robin whimpered. She was so cold. He was killing them.
He destroyed the last doll, bashing it over and over and over again.
There was fear – there was always fear. But, somehow, what he’d done made her, for the first time, extremely angry. Robin heard her own breath, short and sharp through her nose.
‘Listen,’ he said. He held her shoulder in his free hand, crouched and stared into her eyes once more. ‘You are in a lot of danger. I can’t keep you safe unless you do what I say. Please.’ His grey hair w
as damp. His face – his scarred, broken, wrinkled face – was snarling. He looked so mad. So completely mad. ‘There are very bad people in the world. Demons. Monsters. And they will do very bad things to you. Do, you, understand?’
‘Have . . . have they got red eyes? Like in your comic book?’
He stood, held the hammer tight and grabbed a fistful of her T-shirt. ‘Do you understand?’ He shook her.
‘The All-Seeing Eye isn’t real, Julius. It’s make-believe.’
‘Do you understand?’ he yelled, hitting the table.
Robin looked at her feet, at the flooded tiles, the powdered charcoal, black dust running like ink across the surface of the water. Some of it had flowed to her socks and stained them.
Then she lifted her head.
And she nodded. Oh, she understood just fine. Robin knew exactly the kind of person he was talking about.
‘People,’ she whispered, ‘like you?’
Chapter 21
Sam came in through the automatic hospital doors, frantic and desperate. He could hardly speak at reception – he blurted words, names – a calm man pointed to a large red sign behind him. The ground was still lurching as he went down the glowing corridor – as if seasick, he felt his shoulder bounce off a wall. He steadied himself and dismissed a concerned nurse who appeared at his elbow to offer assistance.
Hallowfield General was different at night – a bright oasis, white at every turn. He made it to a place that bustled with emergency, through a long walkway lined on both sides with glass – like a motorway overpass. The windows were black, wet with rain, reflecting back at him. A holographic row of Sams, swaying down the tunnel in perfect unison.
He saw David first, standing in a doorway, tired and distraught. Marilyn was pale – blank in the face. That unique expression – loss in her eyes, the look of grief. He had seen it before when her father died. As he stepped close, she turned and hugged him, burying her forehead in his shoulder, her cheek sticky, hot with fevered thoughts. David just watched, passive in this moment. Something that had lain dormant for years was here again – something Sam and Marilyn shared, something beyond love and the petty disputes that had driven them apart. There, lying behind her, sedated in a white bed – the life that would bond them for the rest of theirs. When everything else had boiled away, he was all that mattered. This child – here, now. Freddie was asleep, countless wires and tubes flowed around his body, like medical vines crawling inside him.
Time seemed to slip forwards – haze and shock disobeying the rules of normal days. A doctor was speaking to them in a side room, beneath a glaring strip of light. It fizzed, flickering faster than Sam’s eyes could see. He tried to listen.
‘The good news is the injuries above his waist are superficial. There’s no brain trauma,’ the old doctor said, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his jowls hanging off his night shift. ‘However, we’ll need to operate on Freddie’s right leg immediately.’ There was a terrible pause. ‘He’s . . . he’s got a long road to recovery. But, given time, he’s going to be OK.’
Sam felt his own legs cave at this – he lowered himself into a chair and tried to pay attention, but he couldn’t focus.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, but no one was listening.
Marilyn and David were stunned, nodding at the man – asking questions about metal rods and recovery time. About Freddie’s future.
The doctor then waved to a pair of uniformed officers Sam hadn’t noticed – standing at his side, foggy, blurred impressions. Dark in vests, belts, cuffs catching the light. One of them had his thumbs resting in his shoulder straps. The other twisted a dial on his radio, pressed his lips together and gave Sam something between a nod and a frown. Routine. Normal day.
A paramedic then conveyed, second-hand, what she had managed to glean from Freddie’s account. Two men, wearing animal masks – one maybe a horse – had attacked him in the underpass. He’d been walking home alone after five-a-side. Apparently, no threats were made – they simply embarked on their assault. One of the officers remarked that it was, indeed, the work of animals. What else would do this to a thirteen-year-old boy?
Freddie, they said, managed to escape and get out on to the open street.
‘M,’ Sam whispered, calling her over to the endless black windows in the corridor. They stood side by side, their reflections opposite. ‘This . . . this is my fault.’
‘No . . . Sam . . . it’s . . .’
‘The men who did this . . . There’s a church, a religious sect. Something to do with Robin Clarke . . . somehow related to whatever’s happened to her. There are . . . brothers.’
‘Why would they . . . why would they want to hurt Freddie?’
‘Because I hurt one of their sons. They have quite . . . quite a . . . a refined understanding of retaliation.’
‘You . . . Sam . . .’ She took a slow breath, holding back anger. ‘Why are you . . . Why the fuck can’t you just . . . why. . . why? ’
‘I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . I . . . ’
There was a long silence as reason returned. Marylin was never one to dwell on what cannot be changed.
‘He . . . he got away,’ she said. ‘It could have been a lot worse.’
‘I think it was meant to be.’
Marilyn looked through the glass, past their reflections, into the night – then her eyes readjusted and centred on Sam’s. ‘How sure are you that it was them?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘I hope so.’
‘And if not?’
Leaning on the railing, Sam turned to face her. He took her hands, slender and cold in his, her new wedding ring rotating as he squeezed. Lifting them, he pressed her palms flat on his chest – letting her feel his heartbeat. Just like she used to. Then, gradually, he slid her right hand inside his jacket, and beneath his biceps. He felt her fingers on the leather holster, on the metal grip. When she knew what it was, she moved her arm round further, to his back, and pulled herself into him. Her mouth found his ear and came as close as flesh can come without touching. Peach hairs standing, reaching what they could. Her lips sent goosebumps down his neck, down his shoulders. Warm breath. Perfume. Expensive shampoo. These smells. These familiar things.
‘Good,’ she whispered.
In the morning, after the surgery, Freddie was sitting up in bed, sipping juice from a carton that Sam held out for him. He was calm now, in relatively high spirits. But the noise he’d made when he woke up, the bewildered, understated whimper he emitted when he looked down at the cast around his leg – it was, bar none, the worst sound Sam had ever heard.
‘Guess I’ll try out for the academy next year instead,’ Freddie said, swallowing the blackcurrant juice. He took the carton and held it himself.
Exhaling, trying to grasp his sinking heart, Sam looked at the floor.
‘That was a joke,’ Freddie added, with his resilient smile. ‘You still got the receipt for those boots?’
Somehow, this was worse than despair. Beyond those strong eyes, one swollen into a purple squint, Freddie was still crying. This brave face was for Sam. Comfort he did not deserve.
They chatted for a while about nothing in particular – the adjustable bed, the brilliant power of morphine, the sweetener used in lieu of sugar in the blackcurrant juice. Eventually, Freddie gestured to the muted TV in the corner of his private room. The Clarkes were, as always, on the news.
‘Is Robin dead?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘If her dad really killed her, do you think he killed Ethan too?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why?’ Freddie’s eyes were glazed, dipping from the drugs, his conversation open and honest – even more so than usual.
‘Because I know Francis Clarke, and I don’t . . . there . . . there isn’t enough evidence to suggest he would do something like that.’
He yawned. ‘But the police think he did.’
‘They do.’
<
br /> ‘People at school say the parents have hidden Robin to make money, by selling the story. Is that possible?’
‘It is. But quite unlikely.’
‘Maybe she’s flown away, like a bird?’ Freddie lifted his hand, moving the white clip on his index finger. Then he closed his eyes.
‘Maybe.’
‘I think she’s alive,’ he whispered, beginning to fall asleep. ‘I think she’s in the sky, sitting on top of a cloud . . . Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t you have work to do?’
‘I can stay as long as you want.’
‘Nah. You should go . . . go and get the bad people.’ This was what they used to tell him – a simplified job description, this was what Daddy did all day. ‘And please, please don’t be sad, OK? You should . . . you should smile.’
Sam stood, touched him on the head, then left him there sleeping, his drip feeding him peaceful dreams about clouds and birds and baseless hope.
Later, faint on drink and tears, Sam arrived at Isabelle’s ground-floor flat. He clambered through the bushes, crunching on twigs and leaves, to check he was in the right place. At the window, he looked inside, past the curtains, and saw Isabelle sitting cross-legged on her sofa, in pyjamas, eating nuts from a bowl on her lap. It was odd seeing her relaxed in a domestic setting. Made her seem vulnerable – made her seem young. Real. Human. Sam had lost track of the date, the time, all these normal markers. From the sun, he supposed it was late afternoon.
Back at the front of the building, he thumbed the buzzer for her apartment. Before she answered, the door swung open and a woman, wearing a pale-green uniform and a small silver watch on her breast pocket, stepped past him. She had red paint in her hair.