The Devil's Gate

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by Malcolm Richards


  “You are a selfish, disgusting man. Letting another child die to save yourself – your own flesh and blood.” He stood up again and straightened his spine. “We are the Dawn Children! This is our New Dawn!”

  Lindsay caught her brother’s gaze and it chilled her to the bone. He no longer looked seventeen. He was a scared little boy, sobbing and dribbling. Behind him, the masked assailant raised his knife. Todd squeezed his eyes shut. His mother continued to scream and thrash.

  Lindsay watched the knife cut through the air and plunge into her brother’s neck. She saw it pull out again, saw arterial sprays of blood arcing through the air and raining down on the floorboards, the table, her father. Then she watched her brother crumple to the ground.

  Her mother shrieked hysterically. “No! No! Oh, Jesus, no!”

  Lindsay tried to turn away. Squeezed her eyes shut just like her brother. Because she knew what was coming next. She heard the swish of steel slicing through flesh, followed by the choking gurgles of her mother’s dying breaths. She heard her father whimper and wail, his screams reaching up to the ceiling. She squeezed her eyes shut, tighter and tighter, until the blackness began to sparkle with lights. Then everything went blank and silent. Like she'd fallen asleep without realising.

  When she looked up again, she felt strange and empty. As if someone had pulled the plug on her emotions and they'd all drained away. A young man's face swam in and out of her vision. He was kneeling before her, bright eyes burning through the fog like storm lanterns. She didn't know if she was still at the dining table or if she was floating through space. All she saw was the young man's eyes and all she knew was that he was not her brother.

  “We have spared you,” he said. “You’re an innocent. A child of the New Dawn. One of us.”

  The young man smiled and everything went dark again. The last thought Lindsay had before she fell back into the void was: now, I’ll never go to the beach.

  .

  1

  SUMMER CAME TO PORTH an Jowl on a Tuesday morning in mid-June, bringing warm sunshine and a clear blue sky that hung over the cove like a tapestry. There was only one way in or out of the town and that was via Cove Road, which was shaped like a hangman’s noose. To drive along it would first take you past the caravan park on the left, now open and booking up fast, and Briar Wood on the right. Then you would descend, passing tiered rows of old stone cottages, until you reached the heart of the town, veering around surf shops, gift boutiques and ice cream parlours, before finding yourself traversing along the pink slabs of the promenade and drinking in the view of a sandy white beach and a calm green ocean, wedged between two sheer cliffs.

  Winter had been cruel to the people of Porth an Jowl, in more ways than one. Spring, not much better. But now that the weather had changed and the first wave of tourists had descended in surprisingly decent numbers, the townsfolk could taste hope in the air, mingling with all the sea salt. Maybe when school ended next month and the holiday season entered its peak phase, all the horrors from the past year would be forgotten.

  Or maybe not.

  Carrie Killigrew stood at the counter of Cove Crafts, the tourist gift shop she'd been running for the last six years, staring through the glass storefront at the town square beyond. Tourists sidled up and down, stopping to take pictures of the quaint little shops, while eating ice cream or munching on pasties. But Carrie didn't see them. She was lost inside her mind – a jumble of thoughts and worries all knotted together and growing increasingly tangled. It had been hard to focus on anything lately. The lack of sleep wasn't helping, either.

  Pulling her gaze back to the store, she watched a handful of potential customers peruse the shelves of nautical knickknacks, boxes of flavoured fudge, and traditional Cornish fairings. Although the holiday season had only just begun, business was already doing well, which was a huge relief. With all the terrible things that had happened in the past year, Carrie had fully anticipated customers to stay away in droves, leaving Cove Crafts to run into the ground. But it seemed that all those terrible events had instilled these early holidaymakers with morbid curiosity, tempting them into her little shop so they could lay eyes on the mother of a teenage killer.

  She felt someone watching her now and turned to see a head bobbing over one of the shelves, then furtive eyes flicking away. It had irritated her at first, the constant staring, making her feel somehow worse. But she’d gradually learned to shut it out, to even use it to her advantage. Now, whenever she caught someone staring for too long, she'd guilt-trip them into buying trinkets from the shop. And they almost always did.

  The bell over the front door tinkled, making Carrie turn her head. But instead of seeing another prospective customer, she saw her neighbour, Dottie Penpol. Dottie may have been an elderly woman, but it was as if her brain had forgotten to tell her body. She could always be seen marching through the streets of Porth an Jowl, arms and legs swinging as if she were powered by engine oil, her furtive, keen eyes searching out gossip. Which was no doubt why she was here now.

  “Afternoon, Carrie,” she said, flashing a yellow-toothed smile as she approached the counter. “How's business?”

  “Business is good.” Carrie waved a hand at the aisles of browsing customers, but Dottie was clearly uninterested. She hovered from one foot to the other, her nervous energy screaming that she had news to tell. “What brings you to Cove Crafts?”

  Dottie’s lips curved slightly at the edges. “You mean you haven't heard?”

  “Heard about what?”

  “Why, the murders!”

  Her voice rose on that last word, making curious heads turn. Carrie had been expecting some sort of salacious gossip about one of the cove’s townsfolk; it was usually Dottie's favourite topic of conversation. No one was safe, not even Carrie. She was well aware that her neighbour had been most helpful in spreading the word about the horrors that had taken place at 6 Clarence Row all those months ago. Carrie had resented her for it, at first. But wasn't that just the nature of small towns? Everyone knew everyone else’s business. It was almost like a God-given right; an expectation that if you lived somewhere like Porth an Jowl, you had to be prepared for your insides to be ripped open and spread across the street for all to see.

  Right now, Carrie felt no irritation towards the woman, only mild shock and confusion.

  “What murders?” she asked, dropping her voice to a hush.

  “It's been all over the news,” Dottie said, almost gleefully. “A family was murdered over in Falmouth. Down on holiday, they were. Staying in one of those second homes that all the city folk seem to own down here – never mind it driving up house prices for us poor locals. Their cleaner found them. The husband and wife had been stabbed to death. The son, too.” She glanced over her shoulder. Carrie followed her gaze to see that shoppers had all stopped browsing and were now staring in their direction. Dottie turned back, leaning in closer. “They had a daughter. Whoever killed the family took her.”

  Carrie was finding it hard to breathe. “Do they know who did it?”

  “The police aren’t talking. Only that the girl’s missing and there’s a search party looking for her.” Dottie shook her head. “It's a terrible business. The last thing we need after everything that happened here. No offence, of course.”

  Irritation stabbed Carrie’s chest. There it was. The accusation that every bad thing that had happened here in the last year was her fault.

  If only she’d watched her son that day. If only she’d kept him in the hospital and not taken him home.

  It didn’t matter that her son had been held in captivity for years by a deranged serial killer of children, had been starved, beaten, broken down to nothing and built back up into something terrifying and dangerous. No, according to local gossip, the very fact that Carrie had given birth in the first place made her solely responsible.

  Forcing a smile, she stared at Dottie, then at the tourists, who returned to browsing the shelves.

  “It's a terrible business
,” the older woman said again. “Let’s just hope it doesn't affect the festival, eh?”

  “Oh yes, the festival. Because heaven forbid a family being murdered should take precedent over a marching band and a few waving flags.” Dottie’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open. Carrie forced down a smile. “No offence, of course.”

  “Yes, well, I think this town is due a bit of good luck, don't you? And Devil’s Day will certainly bring in money. Maybe this year it’ll bring some welcome distraction, too.”

  Here’s hoping, Carrie thought. “Is there anything else, Dottie? Only I have customers...”

  The elderly woman stiffened. “Just dropping by to see how you're doing. How’s that mother of yours? All recovered now?”

  There it was again. The pointing finger.

  “She’s doing much better, thank you. Fully recovered, in fact, and back on the yacht with Dad. Somewhere near Malaga, I believe.”

  “Some people have all the fun, don't they? Well, I best be off. Can't stand around all day gossiping, can we?”

  Carrie smiled. The shop door opened again, setting off the bell.

  “Oh look, it's Dylan,” Dottie announced, as if Carrie was blind. “And little Melissa.”

  Melissa dashed forward, locks of blonde hair falling across her face as she headed for the counter. “Mummy!”

  Carrie stepped out and swept her daughter up into her arms.

  “Hi sweet pea,” she said, planting kisses on the child’s face. “How's my soon-to-be five-year-old?”

  “I’m good! How many days until my birthday?”

  “Two whole weeks yet, snuggle bum.” She rubbed her nose against Melissa’s and they both laughed. Her smile wavered a little as she glanced at Dylan, whose tall, muscular frame was still hovering near the door, dark eyes watching their exchange.

  “Hi,” she said.

  Dylan lifted a hand. “Hi.”

  A clearing of the throat pulled their attention back to Dottie.

  “How are you, Dylan? And those parents of yours? Haven’t seen much of them at church lately. And have you heard about what happened over in Falmouth? A family mur –”

  “Okay, Dottie, thanks so much for stopping by,” Carrie interrupted, her voice loud enough to make Melissa flinch.

  Dottie narrowed her eyes and smiled. “Well, I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on, so I’ll be off. Don't be a stranger, Carrie.”

  Pretty much impossible in this town, Carrie thought as she waved.

  The three watched Dottie march out of the shop, followed by a couple of holidaymakers seizing the opportunity to escape without making a purchase. Arms swinging, the elderly woman crossed the square and was gone, no doubt desperate to share her news with anyone else who crossed her path.

  “What was that all about?” Dylan said, finally moving away from the door and towards the counter. His eyes fixed on Carrie before glancing away again. “What happened in Falmouth?”

  Carrie shrugged, staring at him uncertainly. Then she turned to Melissa and playfully pinched her nose. “Go get yourself a juice from the back.”

  “And a lolly?”

  “Just one. I’ve counted them, so I’ll know if you take more.”

  Screwing up her face, Melissa made her way along the nearest aisle, heading for the storeroom. Carrie watched her go, eyes flicking between her daughter and the browsing shoppers. She turned back to Dylan and they both stood in silence, bodies shifting uncomfortably.

  “How’s she been?” Carrie asked.

  Dylan ran a hand through his mop of dark hair, which was in need of a cut. “She’s good.”

  “Any nightmares?”

  “One or two.”

  “Has she... has she mentioned –”

  A middle-aged couple dressed in matching shorts and t-shirts, sidled up to the counter and placed an ornamental lighthouse in a glass bottle on the counter. Carrie smiled and said hello. Dylan stepped back and stared listlessly at a shelf of porcelain anchors. As Carrie wrapped the lighthouse in tissue paper, she felt the couple watching her. She glanced up and they both looked away. The transaction complete, the couple nervously brushed past Dylan and went on their way.

  At the back of the shop, the storeroom door opened and Melissa came trundling out, a carton of juice clutched in one hand and a bright blue ice lolly in the other. She smiled at her parents then awkwardly scrambled onto a stool behind the counter.

  “Anyway,” Dylan said, his smile fading as he glanced at Carrie. “I'm off to sea tomorrow for a few days. I won’t be back till Tuesday, but Mum will pick Melissa up from school on Monday afternoon. That okay?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn't it be?”

  Silence settled between them again, prickly and uncomfortable; a reminder that they were still new at this separated life, still working on behaving amicably. They made small talk for a minute more, until the conversation dried up. Dylan leaned over the counter to ruffle Melissa's hair.

  “See you after the weekend, my little pirate.”

  Melissa beamed at him. “See you, Daddy. Bring me back a mermaid.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Dylan leaned into Carrie, and in that brief moment it was as if he’d forgotten they weren’t together anymore, and she inhaled a heady mixture of his sweat and aftershave. He pulled away and shook his head, admonishing himself.

  “Sorry. Old habits and all that.”

  Carrie watched him go. Saw him pause outside the shop door and slowly hang his head. Then he was gone.

  “Mum?”

  The weight in Carrie's chest grew heavier, threatening to drag her to the floor.

  You’re doing the right thing, she told herself. Besides, he’d been the one to call it a day. Although she hadn’t fought to keep him.

  “Mummy?”

  Melissa sat on the stool, dimples creasing her cheeks as she sucked on the lolly.

  “Yes, sweet pea?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  Carrie smiled, ran fingers through her daughter's hair.

  “We’ll be going home soon. You want pasta?”

  “No, ice cream.”

  “Um, what’s that in your hand?”

  “That’s a lolly. Not an ice cream.”

  “Well, ice cream is for dessert. How about risotto?”

  “Grandpa Gary and Nana Joy let me have ice cream first.”

  “Do they now? Well, in our house it’s dinner first.” Carrie stared at her daughter, feeling a stab of envy. “How about pizza?”

  Melissa’s eyes lit up. “With pepperoni!”

  Laughing, Carrie turned away, fixing her gaze on the single customer left in the store. Her smile faded. Anxiety sprang up in her chest and trickled down to her stomach as her thoughts returned to Dottie Penpol’s news.

  2

  TWENTY MILES SOUTH of Porth an Jowl, a train was pulling into a station. As it ground to a halt, Nat Tremaine opened the carriage door and stepped onto the open air platform. The seaside town of Penzance was twice the size of Porth an Jowl and just as stagnant in her mind. But just like Porth an Jowl, she supposed it wasn’t entirely ugly. She took a moment to enjoy the view of the large swathe of sandy beach that stretched all the way to Mounts Bay, where St Michael’s Mount rose up from the water; a tiny rock of an island with a handful of houses at the bottom of a sheer slope, and an impressive-looking castle at the top. She didn't know much about the Mount, only that a wealthy family had lived in the castle for hundreds of years, and that local legend would have unsuspecting tourists believe that a giant had once resided on the island and still lay buried beneath it.

  Moving down the platform, she entered the station, her eyes taking in its impressive iron rafters, before scanning the empty concourse. Warmth rushed through her as she spied a tall, young man hanging back by the ticket office. To Nat’s surprise, he was not alone.

  She moved closer, forcing down her smile. Growing serious, she tipped her head in Jago Pengelly’s direction. “Hey.”

  “He
y,” he replied, dark eyes peering out from beneath a mop of equally dark hair. He was thinner than the last time she’d seen him, his tall, sinewy frame lost beneath baggy jeans and an over-sized black t-shirt.

  Nat glanced down at the young boy beside him, this time allowing her smile to break free.

  “Hello, little dude,” she said, bending her knees. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

  Noah Pengelly peered up at her with wide, round eyes that were even darker than Jago’s. Instead of saying hello, he pressed into his brother’s side and stared at the ground.

  Nat straightened up again. No one spoke. It had been almost eight months since the Pengelly family had moved out of Porth an Jowl. Nat hadn’t seen Jago since. She had tried, but Jago was always coming up with some sort of excuse. His mother needed him. Noah needed him. He had too much college work. He was broke. Nat had just about given up on their friendship when, out of the blue yesterday morning, Jago had sent her a text message, asking if she wanted to hang out.

  “So, are we standing here in awkward silence for the rest of the afternoon, or what?” Nat said, flashing him a wry smile.

  Jago shrugged. He stared down at Noah. “You want ice cream?”

  Noah was silent, his eerie, haunted eyes fixed on the ground.

  “He wanted some earlier,” Jago said, and a strange expression passed over his face that Nat couldn’t quite discern. Frustration? Helplessness?

  She shrugged. “So let’s go get him some.”

  They exited the station, bright sunlight assaulting their eyes as they crossed the car park and followed the road along the seafront. Penzance was a popular tourist destination in the summer, which meant the pavement was currently bustling with holidaymakers dressed in shorts and t-shirts and colourful dresses, all meandering along, as they took pictures and ate pasties and ice cream. Nat pushed her way through them, clearing a path for Jago and Noah. They passed the harbour on their left, where the tide was out and a handful of boats rested awkwardly on the wet, slippery bed. Crossing the road, they strolled by a nautical-themed gift shop and a restaurant boasting a menu of locally caught fish, before coming to a stop in front of an ice cream parlour. Jago bought them a cone each, then the trio walked on in silence, Jago holding onto Noah’s hand as they crossed a bridge and passed by warehouses and a shipyard, until the road veered around a corner and opened on to the pink and grey paving stones of the promenade, which stretched all the way over to the neighbouring fishing village of Newlyn.

 

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