by Abby Davies
‘No!’ I shouted. ‘No! She’s lying! She’s crazy! I can show you – in her bedroom there’s—’
‘I’m happy to show you my bedroom, if you like, Patrick. I simply want to put all of this to rest,’ she said, backing out of the room. ‘Follow me.’
Patrick turned away from me and followed her out of the room. I let go of Emma and dashed past him, unable to believe Patrick’s stupidity, yet following Mother closely, desperate to stop her from somehow hiding the evidence. It occurred to me that she may have a key for the doll wardrobe. She might run into the room and lock the wardrobe before anyone saw, then claim she’d lost the key or … Mother stopped outside her bedroom door and waved me and Patrick inside.
‘Feel free to look around. I don’t know what Mirabelle’s talking about, but please feel free to look – just don’t touch!’ she added with a light chuckle.
I rushed past her into the room. Patrick followed me. I flung open the wardrobe doors and stood back, ‘See!’
‘What the he—’ Patrick’s words stopped abruptly. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him fall, heard him gasp. Blood sprayed all over the bed, the walls, the carpet, me. Patrick fell onto his front on the carpet with a thud. He moaned, one hand on his bleeding side, and swivelled to face Mother, his eyes wide with terror, his other hand held up in self-defence.
‘Please, don’t,’ he gasped. His eyes pleaded with her as she stood over him, a kitchen knife wet with his blood, her head tilted, eyes narrow.
She had stabbed him. I looked from the knife to her face, from her face to Patrick lying on the floor. It had all happened so fast. I blinked, trying to make it un-so, but it was real. Mother had a knife and she had used it on Patrick. I couldn’t move. My mouth was dry, my stomach like lead.
Mother stared down at Patrick, her eyes bright. ‘This would never have happened if you had read the sign – Private Land – it says it loud and clear. No one else has ever come here. It’s your own bloody fault for being such an ignorant fool,’ she spat. ‘If you’d left well alone, this would never have happened.’
Patrick’s face crumpled. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned.
‘He’s going to die. We have to help him,’ I said in a small, weak voice, eyeing the knife in her hand, too aware that it had sliced through Patrick’s skin like butter only moments ago.
‘And you,’ she said, turning to face me, jabbing the knife in my direction, ‘you disobeyed me, Mirabelle, didn’t you? You went into the attic when I was out, didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU! You’re just like her. You’re just like Olivia!’
I stared at her, unable to believe I had been blind to her madness for so long.
‘Answer me,’ she said.
I took a deep breath, ‘Yes. I went into the attic.’
‘Why?’ She almost sounded hurt.
‘I wanted to know more about your sister, but I found the newspaper article. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but …’ I trailed off as she switched her focus to Patrick, apparently bored of me.
‘You’re spoiling my lovely carpet,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. ‘Mirabelle, grab his legs. Help me carry him downstairs. Now.’
‘But—’
‘Now, or …’ she flicked her head at the knife in her hand, and I believed her. I believed she would hurt me too, or worse, if I refused to do what she said. She didn’t need me now that she had Emma. Emma was little and sweet and perfect. I wasn’t like that. Not any more.
Heart pounding, I moved to crouch behind Patrick, whose face had gone sickly white. I gently lifted his hand away from his wound and picked up his other wrist, surprised to find his skin cold.
‘Three, two, one!’ Mother said, and we heaved and picked him up.
He groaned as blood oozed from the slice in his side. His face contorted with pain and he bit his lip as we half-dragged, half-carried him out of the room, across the landing and down the stairs, stopping every two steps to get our breath.
‘You’re heavier than you look,’ she said with a strange smile.
Emma appeared in the hallway chewing her nightgown. Mother snapped at her to go up to my bedroom and stay there.
‘It’s OK, Emma,’ I murmured, my eyes following her as she slipped past me and ran up the stairs.
‘What are you going to do?’ I said.
We had carried Patrick into the kitchen leaving a trail of thick, gooey blood in our wake. Patrick looked like death. He was losing too much blood. A sweet, metallic scent drifted around the kitchen.
Mother placed the knife on the counter and told me to sit down. I did as she said, though I perched on the edge of the chair, ready to move if a chance came. She leaned against the counter watching Patrick, her head tilted to the side, eyes glazed, her expression almost bored. A zigzag of dried blood smeared her right cheek and her nostrils flared as she struggled to regain her breath. Her tongue flicked out of her mouth to wet her thin, dry lips.
Chapter 25
‘What are you going to do now?’ I repeated.
‘This mess is sickening,’ she said, ignoring my question, her voice raw. ‘Clean it up.’
She grabbed the dishcloth and threw it at me. It hit me in the face. I hesitated. She glared, snapping at me to fetch the bucket from under the stairs.
I hurried away and slipped on Patrick’s blood. I fell onto one knee and she tutted. Ignoring her, I left the kitchen and opened the cupboard under the stairs. My eyes found the bucket immediately. I grabbed it, pausing at the sight of Mother’s toolbox. There were no pockets in my dress, nowhere I could conceal anything.
‘Hurry up!’
I snatched up a small screwdriver and put it in the bucket. If she saw it, I was done for, so I rushed into the kitchen, passing her as quickly as possible. With shaky hands I lifted the bucket into the sink and ran the hot tap.
‘Add bleach,’ she said.
Obediently, I bent down and opened the cupboard under the sink, picked up the bleach and added a tiny amount to the hot water.
‘More than that,’ she snapped.
I added two drops and looked at her. She nodded sharply telling me to add more. I kept on adding more until she held up her hand to indicate that I should stop. Within seconds the harsh odour of bleach permeated the small room, overwhelming the metallic zing of blood and making my nostrils burn. I gazed into the now steaming water, realizing that if I was to plunge my hand into the liquid to retrieve the screwdriver, I would burn my skin. I sneaked a look at Patrick as I turned off the tap. His body was utterly limp, his face ashen. Was he dead? It was impossible to tell in one quick glance. Mother was gazing down at Patrick’s body, leaning her weight against the counter, her fingers inches from the knife.
Hoping she would not notice, I turned on the cold tap and watched the water gush in, cooling off the steam.
‘Not too cold,’ she said, whipping her head round to glare at me.
I turned off the cold tap and, with difficulty, lifted the bucket out of the sink onto the bloodied tiles.
‘Can I have some gloves please, Mother?’ I said.
She seemed not to hear me, so I stood up, opened the cupboard and rifled inside.
‘No. No gloves. Hurry up.’
Gritting my teeth, I got back down on my hands and knees and dipped the dishcloth into the top of the water in an attempt to keep my fingers dry. I could feel her watching me as I crawled towards a small droplet of blood to her right, nearer the back door. The blood was still wet and I was able to wipe it up in one swipe. I crawled back to the bucket and rinsed the cloth, again conscious of keeping my fingers out of the water. With only two thirds of the cloth wet, I moved to the second furthest droplet of blood and began to clean it, my hands trembling, my fingers beginning to tingle as bleach made contact with my skin despite my efforts.
There were no more small droplets. My mouth went watery. I dipped the dishcloth into the bucket for a third time, keeping the part I was holding as dry as possible. I turned w
ith the dishcloth raised and stared at the huge black-red puddle of blood beside Patrick, fighting a sudden surge of pointlessness. I watched his chest to see if he was breathing. If he was dead, what was the point in trying to fight her now? I should wait for a better opportunity … a moment when I wasn’t crawling around on my hands and knees with her standing over me and a knife close to her hand.
‘Do it,’ she snapped.
I inched towards the puddle, my eyes fixed on Patrick, on his face and chest, looking for the slightest hint of movement. Breathe. Breathe. Please breathe.
There! There it was! His chest – rising and falling – minutely – just enough!
In that instant, I plunged the whole cloth into the thick puddle of blood.
‘Good girl. That’s it,’ she said, almost breathless.
I fought the urge to throw up and focused on letting the cloth absorb as much of the blood as possible. It took only seconds for the cloth to become heavy with blood.
‘I can’t! I can’t!’ I cried, glancing over my shoulder at her, begging with my eyes.
Mother’s eyes revealed only excitement. ‘Do it,’ she said.
‘No. I’m going to be sick.’
She stepped towards me, finger jabbing, ‘You will do it or I will make Clarabelle do it. Is that what you want?’
I shook my head and whispered something.
‘What did you say?’ she snapped, coming closer.
‘Nothing,’ I murmured.
‘Tell me!’ she demanded.
‘No!’ I screamed, staring at the cloth in my hand.
She froze, shocked by my defiance, and I spun around and thrust the blood-soaked cloth into her face. She screamed and clawed at the sodden cloth. At the same time, I plunged my hand into the bucket, barely feeling the burn, my fingers scrabbling for the screwdriver, but she was there, grabbing my hair, yanking me back, throwing me down on top of Patrick. I rolled off him onto my side and turned to face her. She reached down with both hands to grab my legs and I kicked and pushed myself up and stabbed the screwdriver into her thigh. She screeched and stumbled, falling into the counter, her hand scrabbling for the knife, eyes aflame, but she knocked the knife, sending it spinning onto the floor under the fridge.
She fought to stand but fell, grabbing her thigh, screaming and cursing.
I darted to the counter, opened a drawer and pulled out a knife. ‘Keys,’ I said, pointing the knife down at her, careful to keep my distance.
Tears poured from her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, Little Doll. Please, please don’t do this! If you go outside, you’ll die – I love you – I never wanted any of this to happen.’
‘Keys,’ I said.
She continued to sob and wail, clutching her injured thigh.
‘Keys.’
She looked up at me and I could see her noting my determination, seeing how strong I was for the first time. With a shaking hand, she pulled the keys out of her pocket and tossed them weakly onto the floor.
‘You’ll die,’ she said, closing her eyes and sobbing into her chest, ‘Clarabelle too. You’ll both die.’
‘Don’t move,’ I said, backing up to stand behind Patrick. Placing the knife on the floor beside me, never taking my eyes off her, I grabbed Patrick’s upper arms and used every ounce of my strength to drag him out of the room into the hallway.
‘Stay where you are!’ I shouted, darting back into the room and picking up the knife, relieved to see she was still lying in a heap on the floor sobbing into her chest.
I backed out of the room slowly, the knife pointed in her direction. ‘Goodbye, Mother.’
I shut the door and placed the knife on the floor by my feet then opened the cupboard under the stairs, listening for any sound of movement from the kitchen, hearing none – not even sobbing, which unnerved me. I quickly found what I needed: an old washing line that I remembered seeing there earlier. I picked it up, tied it securely around the kitchen doorknob then trailed it to the banister at the bottom of the stairs where I stretched the line tight and tied the other end around the top of the banister. It was now impossible for her to open the kitchen door. The only other exit was through the back door, which was locked, or the kitchen window, which was securely boarded up. Mother was trapped. She wasn’t going anywhere and I had the keys.
Relief sang through my veins like water through a parched vine, but I didn’t slow down. I ran upstairs into my bedroom where Emma lay curled up, her eyes wide and terrified, her nightgown in her mouth.
‘Get up,’ I said, ‘we’re leaving now.’
Emma got out of bed, sensing my no-nonsense tone, and watched me grab my pillow and bedcovers, which I dragged down the stairs. I placed the pillow under Patrick’s head and covered him with my blankets. He was unconscious but still breathing. There was no way on earth Emma and I could carry him anywhere fast enough, so we would have to leave him there while we went to get help.
‘Is the man OK?’ Emma whispered.
I nodded and dashed to the front door, hesitating. We had no supplies – I hadn’t been able to find the holdall I needed to stash my collection of tins in. How far was it to the nearest house? I didn’t know.
I grabbed Emma’s hand and pulled her after me back upstairs.
‘Go to the toilet then drink as much water as you can,’ I said. She followed my instructions and I went into her room to find her slippers or, if possible, any outdoor shoes Mother may have bought her.
In the spare room, I saw how Mother had escaped. She had hacked through the sewn-up middle of the curtains – with what I couldn’t be sure, but possibly the kitchen knife – then smashed the glass – so she hadn’t nailed boards over Clarabelle’s window – and jumped out. The drop was big; she had been extremely lucky not to break any bones.
In the wardrobe, I found a pair of black plimsolls which I slid onto Emma’s feet. I pulled a blue doll dress on over her nightgown, hoping the two garments together would be enough to keep her warm.
Emma stayed as quiet as a mouse, watching me with her huge, bleary eyes while I emptied my bladder then drank as much water from the tap as I could. We had to stay hydrated. If necessary, we could go without food for a while, but water was essential. I looked down at my slippers – they would have to do. At least they had hard soles. Mother’s feet were bigger than mine, so wearing her shoes would only slow us down, and we had to move as fast as possible for Patrick’s sake.
We ran downstairs and I tried a couple of keys before finding the right one. With a deep, shaky breath, I slotted the key into the keyhole and unlocked the front door.
Chapter 26
Outside. I was outside, in the other world. I was outside for the first time in ten years. I thought my cheeks would break I was smiling so hard. Greens and browns and blues and light – so much light. Natural light that was warm yet fresh, so fresh it made the fine hairs on my body tingle. I shivered with pleasure, wincing against the sun, though it remained hidden behind a white frosting of cloud.
I wanted this moment to last, wanted to feel, taste, smell, hear every atom of it. I inhaled the air, filling my lungs with the stuff, savouring, relishing, loving everything. Even the red car was a wonderful sight to behold with its gleaming scarlet brightness, its bonnet shimmering with light. Most of the ground was hard earth; natural, not man-made, but a lot of white and golden bits of stone sat beneath the car. And the trees that loomed larger than the cottage – which I did not want to turn and see – the trees were magnificent. So tall and green and full of colour and life. I could hear birds chattering to each other, see ants on the ground, clouds in the sky. My head ached with the brightness, but I was not in any real pain. My skin was not melting off or beginning to burn or peel or do any of the many other horrible things I had imagined. My eyes were not bursting, my body was not on fire, my lungs had not exploded in my chest. I was alive and breathing and healthy. I grinned down at Emma and she gave me a small smile.
‘Can I go home now?’ she said.
‘We have a
little way to go, but yes, we’re going home.’
Hand in hand we strode past the car, taking the dirt road, following the tyre tracks that Mother’s car had so recently created. We walked quickly along the dusty road, me shielding my eyes with my free hand and scanning the distance, unsurprised to see nothing more than dirt road, trees on either side of us and far, far in the distance, a bright green field. I had seen some of this from Mother’s bedroom window.
After about five minutes, a sheen had worked its way onto my skin, Emma’s too.
‘I’m tired. How long ’til we get there?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but we can’t stop. Patrick’s not very well. We need to find someone who can help him as quickly as possible.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
I hesitated, unsure how much to tell her, whether to lie or tell the truth. I’d had enough of lies to last a lifetime – but Emma was only five years old. She had been through so much already. Too much.
Unbidden, the sight of Patrick grasping his side, appealing to Mother, blood soaking through his T-shirt into the carpet, flashed into my mind’s eye. I shivered despite the warmth, unable to believe all that had happened. Unable to believe I had managed to escape.
I dropped my arm to my side and looked at the bunch of keys in my palm. I was holding them so tightly that they were cutting into my hand. I loosened my grip and glanced at Emma’s damp hair.
‘Patrick got hurt,’ I said.
‘How?’
‘Mother hit him and he fell over.’
Emma looked up at me. ‘Oh. Is she a bad lady?’
‘Yes, but she can’t hurt us any more. We’re free. Everything will be OK now. Shall we go a little faster? Remember, Patrick needs us to find someone to help him.’
Emma nodded.
We picked up our pace, breaking into a half-run. The clouds drifted off the sun, which beat down on us, making sweat drip down our faces and backs, but we kept up the pace, Emma’s sweaty hand in my sweaty hand, which burned and throbbed from the bleach and my unhealed wound.
The dirt road seemed to go on for ever, as did the woods on either side. I considered branching off the road into the woods to look for a footpath of some kind that might lead us to a house or farm, but the woods looked dense and the fear of getting lost or coming across an evil, witchy woman like Hansel and Gretel did in the fairy tale prevented me from following that idea. Instead, I urged Emma to keep up our half-run and tried to ignore the pains in my thigh muscles. My body was not used to this sort of exercise. Emma seemed to be bearing up better than me.