The Devil's Gate

by Malcolm Richards

  The trio came to a halt outside the gates of the Jubilee Pool, an Art Deco style saltwater lido that extended off the promenade and had only recently reopened after violent storms had left it in near-ruin. Nat stared through the gates at the children and parents splashing about in the pool. Her initial joy at being re-united with Jago was swiftly disappearing.

  “So, did you invite me here just so you could ignore me in person as well as over the phone?” she said, letting out a heavy breath. “You’ve barely spoken a word since I got here.”

  Jago shrugged, his eyes coming to rest on his little brother’s face. “Sorry.”

  Nat waited for him to say something else. When he didn’t, she followed his gaze until she was staring at Noah, who was deathly silent and far too pale to be considered healthy.

  “How’s your mum?” she asked.

  Jago looked away, peering past the swimming pool, out to sea, where a passenger ship called The Scillonian, had left the harbour and was making its daily voyage towards the Scilly Isles.

  “That good, huh?” Nat shook her head. She wondered which prescription medication was filling the void this time, then immediately felt guilty. Tess Pengelly had been to hell and back this last year, and even though Noah had been found alive, unlike the other poor kids who’d been murdered by Grady Spencer, the entire ordeal had broken her. Judgement wasn’t what Tess Pengelly needed right now. What she needed was help.

  “How about you?” Nat asked. “College going okay? Made any new friends?”

  “Some,” Jago said. “No one special. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, does it? In a few weeks, it’ll all be over. Everyone will be going off to university. Everyone except me.”

  “What do you mean? I thought you were London-bound.”

  “I can’t. Not with...” He stole a glance at his brother, who stood by the gates of the swimming pool, tiny fingers wrapped around the bars as he watched the other children splash about. Jago smiled and ruffled Noah’s hair. The boy didn’t react. “Anyway, I’m taking a year out. And we’re moving again. This time out of Cornwall.”

  Nat stared at him, mouth hanging open. “Where to?”

  “Wiltshire. We have relatives there. Mum’s sick of all the staring. Me too.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “In three weeks.”

  “Oh.” Her heart was pounding. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She turned away, fighting them back. Pushing them down. “Well, maybe it’ll be good to get away. You can press reset. Get focused.”

  Jago nodded. “Here’s hoping. How about you? How’s life in the cove?”

  “You know, the same old shit. Except now we have this stupid festival to look forward to. Rose has decided it would be good for me to get involved this year. She thinks I can use my art skills to impress the natives and make them less afraid of me.”

  “Cool.”

  “Not really. I mean, I guess it's good to be doing art. I just wish I was doing it elsewhere.” Nat's eyes drifted downward once more, watching Noah cling to the bars like a ghost clinging onto life. “Is he okay?”

  Jago shot her a glare. “Keep your voice down. He’s not deaf, you know.”

  “Sorry.”

  He grasped his brother’s hand and gently pulled him away from the gates. They continued along the promenade, weaving between crowds of tourists. As they walked, Jago stole worried glances at Noah, who remained silent beside him, his gaze blank and unreadable.

  “Anyway, he’s still working through it all,” he told Nat in a hushed voice. “Getting abducted and locked in a cage for months isn’t something you just get over.”

  “I guess not. Which reminds me, did you hear about Cal? Apparently, he’s been moved from the young offenders place to a mental hospital while they wait for the trial. Apparently, he’s not coping.”

  Jago stopped dead, pulling his brother behind him. “Don’t ever say his name in front of Noah,” he hissed. “Ever.”

  Shocked, Nat stared at him. “Sorry, I – I wasn’t thinking.”

  “No, you weren’t. And I heard about it. Honestly, I can’t wait to get away from here and forget the whole fucking episode.”

  Lowering his shoulders, he started walking again. Noah hurried alongside, stumbling over his feet. Nat stood still, head lowered, lump in her throat. Every word that came out of her mouth was pissing Jago off. But she was no one’s emotional punch bag. She thought about turning around and getting the next train back.

  Like he would care, anyway. He’s leaving. Just like everyone always does.

  She hurried to catch up with the brothers. Jago glanced at her, then looked away.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I can’t think about...about him. He took my brother and gave him to that psychopath. I don’t care if he was a victim first. I don’t care if he was brainwashed like they’re saying. He gave my brother to a monster.”

  “A monster who’s dead now,” Nat said softly.

  “Because I killed him.”

  “Because you had no choice. Because he deserved to die.”

  Jago stared at her through cold eyes. “Yes, he did. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

  They both stared at Noah, who peered up at them with haunted eyes. Jago’s shoulders sagged. “How are you doing, buddy?”

  Noah shrugged.

  “Can I have another ice cream?” he asked, his voice barely audible above the noise of the crowds.

  Jago smiled. “Mum said only one. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  They walked on, leaving the crowd behind as they headed for a small play park, where children climbed frames and sliced through the air on swings. On their left, the ocean stretched out in a wide green swathe.

  “How about you?” Jago said, pushing open the gate to the play park and ushering Noah inside. “Are you still heading to London?”

  “Not right now.”

  He looked at her, a frown creasing his brow.

  “You’re not the only one who had a bad year,” she said.

  “What will you do instead?”

  Nat curled up her lips. What was she going to do? Because she sure as hell wasn't going to piss her life away in Porth an Jowl. She was supposed to be leaving. She'd promised herself that as soon as she was done with college, she was taking the next train to London. Or Manchester. Anywhere that wasn’t here. But that was before the events of December. That was before what happened to Aaron Black.

  “I guess I’ll stick around for a bit,” she said, avoiding his gaze, instead watching Noah cautiously approach the climbing frame.

  “Why? I mean, what's holding you back? It's not like you have anyone to keep you here, so why would you stay?”

  Nat flinched, feeling the sting of his words like cuts to her skin.

  Jago’s mouth hung open, then snapped shut. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It’s just that –”

  “It’s just that what?” Nat glared at him.

  “Well, it’s just that you're really talented. You should be in a place where you can meet other artists. Somewhere with culture, not some dead end town in the ass end of nowhere.” He leaned forward. “Bad things happen in that place, Nat. You know that. So why are you choosing to stay?”

  There was that question again. Why?

  Nat already knew the answer. But she couldn't tell Jago. If she did, he'd finally understand what kind of person she truly was. The kind who ignored others in crisis. The kind who ignored pleas for help and let people die. People like Aaron Black.

  Out of nowhere came an unbearable ache inside her chest that threatened to drag her down to the ground. She fought against it, pushing away with all her strength. She cleared her throat, felt the sting of tears in her eyes once more.

  “Rose needs me right now,” she said.

  “Rose wants you to go to university and you know it.”

  Nat said nothing. She watched Noah, who was still beside the climbing frame, silently watching the other children play. She thought about going to London. She
thought about staying in Porth an Jowl, where she'd never felt welcome and the locals stared at her short hair and tattoos with wide-eyed curiosity reserved for circus freak shows.

  In London, she would be able to disappear. No one would judge her because in the city, weird was wonderful. And yet, the idea of being lost in a population of millions terrified her.

  “You should go to London,” Jago said.

  “So should you. Wiltshire sounds boring as hell.”

  “I will. Eventually. But you should go now.”

  Nat glanced at Noah. The other children were staring at him, whispering to each other.

  “You should come to the festival,” Nat said. “You should bring Noah. Rose is organising all kinds of fun stuff for kids. It would be good for him.”

  Jago clenched his jaw as he continued to watch over his brother. “I’m never letting him near that fucking town again.”

  Shrugging, Nat pulled a tobacco pouch from her pocket, then remembering where she was, pushed open the gate to the play park and stepped back onto the promenade. As she stood, slowly rolling a cigarette, she watched Jago guide Noah over to the swings, where he lifted him onto the seat and began pushing him through the air.

  The ache in her chest intensified. There had been a time when all she and Jago did was smoke cigarettes and stare out at the sea as they talked excitedly about their plans for the future. Everything was different now. Jago was leaving. Maybe that was a good thing. Their friendship had been waning for months now. Perhaps it had run its course. It happened sometimes; suddenly you ran out of things to say.

  She lit her cigarette and drew smoke into her lungs. What did it matter that Jago was leaving? She’d been on her own for most of her life. It was easier that way. Besides, one less person in her life was one less person she had to worry about getting killed.

  3

  CARRIE SAT IN THE LIVING room with the curtains half drawn, nursing a mug of steaming coffee. Caffeine at this time of the day wasn’t going to help with the insomnia, but sleep had started to feel a lot like a luxury meant for other people. At least she’d quit the booze.

  With dinner done and Melissa playing upstairs in her room, Carrie watched the early evening news on television. The murders were dominating the show. A stern-faced newscaster in an expensive suit introduced the story, before the camera cut to idyllic images of Cornwall and the seaside town of Falmouth.

  “Paul and Donna Church, along with their seventeen-year-old son, Todd, were found dead at their holiday home early this morning,” a voice said over the visuals, which now cut to a shot of a modern, white house with a wide balcony overlooking the ocean. Police vans were parked outside. Tape cordoned off the area with uniformed officers standing guard. Crime Scene Investigators, dressed in imposing white coveralls and face masks, could be seen entering a large white tent that was pitched over the garden, suggesting that at least one of the bodies had been found on the lawn. “Devon and Cornwall police have yet to release any details of the killings other than the victims’ names and this photograph of Lindsay Church, who is still missing.”

  The programme cut to a school photograph of a feisty looking girl with wavy brown hair and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Carrie's fingers tightened around her coffee mug. Aware that she was holding her breath, she gasped for air. The story continued, showing a group of police officers spread out and walking slowly in a perfect line as they scoured nearby fields and woods. Carrie had seen it all before, experienced it herself all those years ago when Cal had first disappeared. And again, last year, when Noah Pengelly had vanished. She suddenly felt dizzy and off-kilter, as if her own memories were being projected on the television screen.

  “A search for the ten-year-old is now underway,” the reporter continued in his monotone voice. “Meanwhile, the police are appealing for witnesses. Anyone with information should call Crimestoppers on the following number...”

  The field report ended and the camera cut back to the studio, where the newscaster continued the story. “Thank you, Charlie. Although we’re still waiting on that statement from Devon and Cornwall police, there is some speculation that the Church family murders may be connected to the murder of former local councillor John Beaumont in December of last year.

  “Beaumont and his young son Luke were abducted from their home. Mr Beaumont’s burnt remains were found at an abandoned farm in January, following the discovery of video footage that captured his murder at the hands of Callum Anderson, as part of what appears to be a bizarre cult ritual. The footage was shot by crime writer Aaron Black, who was allegedly investigating Anderson’s involvement with the group known as the Dawn Children. Mr Black subsequently vanished. His body was later recovered by local fishermen.

  “As previously reported, Callum Anderson is a surviving victim of serial killer Grady Spencer, although it’s now widely believed that Spencer had in fact been grooming Anderson to continue his deadly legacy. The seventeen-year-old is currently awaiting trial for the murder of John Beaumont and the attempted murder of his own grandmother, Sally Nance. Meanwhile, Luke Beaumont, who turned five in February, is still missing. We’ll have more news for you later tonight. Now over to Susie for the weather...”

  Carrie sat in stunned silence, mouth hanging open, heart thumping in her chest. Hearing her son's name mentioned on television again – in yet another murder report – sent waves of nausea coursing through her body. She leaned forward, fighting for air. Cal’s crimes were old news now. Everyone in town – hell, the whole country – knew exactly what he’d done. They all knew what he’d been subjected to as well, but that part – where he had been a victim, where he’d been broken down and brainwashed – they’d all seemed to have conveniently forgotten about that. Now, here he was on television again and they were suggesting that these new murders were somehow connected to the man Cal had allegedly killed.

  Carrie caught her breath. She was doing it again. Denying that her son was a killer. Even though she’d been there when he’d driven a knife into her mother’s chest. Even though there was video footage of him killing Councillor Beaumont in a violent frenzy.

  Guilt washed over her. Memories rushed in. She remembered being abducted by the Dawn Children from her home. Being locked in a cage at Burnt House Farm and left to die. But Cal had saved her life. He’d set her free. Chosen her over the Dawn Children.

  And what had she done for him in return?

  She’d driven Cal down to Land’s End, where they’d sat on the cliff top and stared out to sea, her arm wrapped around him, pressing him into her side. They’d watched the sunset together in silence, mother and son. Then she’d driven him to the police station in Penzance, but it had been unmanned and she’d had to drive fifteen miles to the next station in Camborne. She had waited for Cal to jump from the car. For him to escape. But he’d just sat there in the passenger seat, head bowed and lifeless, as if he had already accepted his fate. And when the police had put him in handcuffs and taken him away, Carrie had collapsed on the ground and wept uncontrollably, screaming after him that she was sorry. But she had still felt hope for him. She’d still believed that Cal might one day come out of this intact.

  Until Aaron Black’s video footage had been discovered.

  “Mummy?”

  Carrie twisted around on the sofa. Melissa was in the living room doorway, eyes glued to the television screen. Carrie snatched up the remote. The television screen faded to black.

  “Yes, sweet pea?” she said, aware that her voice was shrill and breathless. She cleared her throat. Forced a smile.

  Melissa entered the room, her eyes still fixed on the screen. Carrie patted the empty seat beside her, but the girl didn’t sit down. She stood there, staring listlessly, fingers twisting her hair in knots.

  Carrie reached out to stroke Melissa’s face. The girl flinched. “It’s almost bedtime, sweet pea. What are we reading tonight?”

  “Were they talking about Cal?” She had that look in her eyes again.
Haunted and tired. Not the kind of look that should be seen on a child’s face. “Is he coming home soon?”

  Carrie tried to speak, but it was as if her throat had sealed up. She didn’t want to have this conversation. Just the mention of Cal’s name seemed to make Melissa regress to toddler age again, making her suck her thumb or talk in gibberish.

  “I –” Carrie tried again. “I don’t know when he’s coming home.”

  The widening of Melissa's eyes told her it was not the answer she wanted to hear. And who could blame her? ‘I don't know’ didn't tell her anything. ‘I don't know’ said it could be tomorrow, next month, next year, or it could be never. There had been so much uncertainty in their lives lately. Far too much for a girl of Melissa's age. And everything she had witnessed – including her brother stabbing her grandmother in the chest – meant that all Melissa needed right now were cold, hard facts.

  “We have to wait for the judge to decide what will happen with him,” Carrie said, running fingers along Melissa's cheek as she tried to ignore the sting of her own words. “But I do know that whatever happens, Cal won't be coming home for a very long time.”

  Melissa's shoulders softened a little. She let out a long, shaky sigh.

  “Good,” she said.

  It was like a slap to Carrie’s face. Yet it was understandable. In the brief time that Melissa had known Cal, all he'd done was rip her family apart.

  Carrie swallowed. Her eyes flicked to the drinks cabinet, which she’d emptied months ago, then back to her daughter.

  “So, which story? And please, don’t say Frozen.”

  Melissa was quiet, staring at her with an intensity that made her squirm.