The Devil's Gate

by Malcolm Richards

  “Nice outfit.”

  Shoulder muscles tensing, Nat slowly looked up. She’d been expecting one of the other Saturday cleaners; air-headed sixteen-year-olds who worked for a pittance and whom she avoided like the plague. But it was a young woman, possibly eighteen or nineteen, maybe older, with wavy blonde hair and a curious face that was all sharp angles.

  She stood in front of one of the caravans, wearing a faded Panic! At The Disco tour t-shirt, a pair of black denim shorts that cut off mid-thigh, and heavy black Dr Martens on her feet. She flashed a smile at Nat, who immediately glanced away.

  “They really make you wear that?” the young woman said, smiling again. “Isn’t that abuse or something?”

  Nat stared down at the flowery aberration and felt her face burn hotter. She wanted nothing more than to be back at home and hiding under her bedsheets.

  “I –” she began.

  The young woman stepped forward. “Sorry. I was just walking by and saw your boss giving you a rough time. What a twat.”

  Nat stared at her again, but only for a moment. “Is there something you need? Because I need to clean.”

  “There is something, actually. I stupidly agreed to go on holiday with my dad and step-bitch when I should have stayed at home and enjoyed the silence. But they guilt-tripped me into it, said it would be good for me. So here I am and my god, I’m so fucking bored! Please enlighten me – what the hell do people our age do for fun around here?”

  Nat glanced over her shoulder. She saw Dennis in the distance, his intimidating size bearing down on one of the other cleaners. Hopefully one of these days, he’d have a heart attack and die. Sooner rather than later.

  She turned back to the blonde, young woman, whose eyes were an intense blue-grey fenced in by severe but expertly-applied slashes of eyeliner.

  “Fun?” Nat snorted. “The most fun to have around here is plotting your grand escape.”

  “Great. Good to know. What about booze? If I’m stuck here, I may as well get obliterated.”

  “There’s an off-license in town. Then there’s The Shack. It’s a beach bar, but I wouldn’t waste your time. It’s mostly full of assholes and tourists. No offence.”

  “At being called an asshole or a tourist?”

  “Um, I didn’t –”

  The young woman smiled. “I’m kidding. What’s your name?”

  “Nat.”

  “I’m Rachel.”

  Nat stared down at her open hand. Slowly, she reached out and shook it.

  “You from around here, Nat?”

  “Not originally, but I live down there in Porth an Jowl.”

  Rachel dug her hands into her jeans pockets, then pulled them out and let them drop to her sides. “I’m sorry. Here I am complaining about being stuck here for a week and you actually have to live in this hell hole. No offence.”

  “None taken, believe me.”

  “How come all the towns have weird names around here, anyway?”

  “It’s the Cornish language. Porth an Jowl means –”

  “Devil’s Cove.”

  Nat stared at her. “You know?”

  “Everyone knows that...” Rachel’s smile faded. “But my parents aren’t like those other freaks that come here to see where it all happened. The only reason we’re in Porth an Whatever is because they’re skinflints and the caravan park was cheap.” Her smile returned, but this time it had a curious edge. “Were you here? When –”

  “I don’t want to talk about that,” Nat said, her voice sharp and angry. For a second, she was no longer at the caravan park, but in her bedroom late at night, getting drunk and drawing terrible pictures of Aaron Black.

  Rachel stared at the ground. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...” She looked up again and Nat felt guilt pinch her stomach harder.

  “Forget it,” she said. “I’d be curious, too. Anyway, I’d better get back to work.”

  “Wait. What time do you finish? My parents are off to St. Ives for the day, but I’d much rather grab some beers and hang out. You in?”

  “I –” Nat began. Five caravans over, Dennis had finished tearing strips off the young man and was now stalking his way back to the office. She watched him disappear, then glanced at Rachel. “I – I can’t.”

  “Oh.” Rachel’s smile faded and it was like the sun being smothered by clouds.

  “It’s just that my fost – Rose, she’s expecting me. There’s this local festival coming up. Devil’s Day? I’m supposed to be helping out with painting banners and making stuff. ”

  “Devil’s Day? That doesn’t sound satanic at all. What’s it about?”

  Nat shrugged. “Some stupid celebration to do with a local legend. Honestly, it’s boring. A bunch of annoying school kids parading through the street along with a shitty brass band, while everyone else gets drunk and throws up over the town square.”

  “Awesome,” Rachel said, her sullenness quickly evaporated. “You’re making banners? You like art?”

  “It’s okay, I guess. I mean, I paint all the time, so...”

  Nat gasped as Rachel reached out and grasped her wrist.

  “That’s some pretty cool art right there,” she said, exposing the forearm. Nat tensed but didn’t resist as Rachel ran a finger along her skin. “I like this one. That’s a cool dragon.”

  “Um...yeah. I designed it myself.”

  “You did? So you’re a real artist? Impressive.” Rachel let go of Nat’s arm, and instead pinned her with a gaze. “You sure I can’t tempt you? You could give me a tour and then we could get drunk and throw stuff at seagulls.”

  Nat hesitated. “Sorry. I promised.”

  “Bummer. In that case I’d better get ready for a riveting day out in St. Ives. At least it’s not raining. That’s something, right?”

  Nat nodded. The burning in her cheeks had finally settled down to an embarrassing glow. Rachel was intense and seemed to know nothing about personal boundaries, but there was something about her that had piqued Nat’s curiosity. She was from the outside, and she didn’t seem intimidated by Nat in the slightest. Besides, it wasn’t as if there was anyone else to hang out with, especially now her friendship with Jago had come to an end. She stared down at her feet, ignoring the floral glare of her apron.

  “If you want, you can come along and help make banners for the festival. We’ll be working on them today and tomorrow at the town hall. It’s on Harbour Road. Which is...by the harbour. ”

  “We?”

  “Just me and a bunch of annoying brats, so...”

  Aware she was sounding too desperate, Nat shut up.

  Rachel flashed another smile. “I guess I should go to St. Ives with my parents. After all, it’s the first day of our holiday. But maybe tomorrow?”

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah. Well, it was nice meeting you, Nat. Don’t get shit on that apron.”

  With one last smile, Rachel turned and sauntered away.

  Cheeks flushing, Nat watched her disappear, relieved that Rachel wasn’t staying in her section of caravans. At least that would save her the embarrassment of having to clean in front of her. She stared down at the apron again and her bad mood returned.

  “Fucking Dennis.” She moved to the nearest caravan and hammered on the door. As she let herself inside, she peered over her shoulder and wondered if she would see Rachel tomorrow at the town hall. It would be nice to have someone else to talk to instead of a bunch of whiny kids, even for an hour. She just hoped that Rachel wasn’t another so-called ‘dark tourist’, eager to hear all about the life and crimes of Grady Spencer, or his psychotic protégé, Cal Anderson. Because that would truly suck.

  7

  CARRIE SAT IN THE WAITING area, arms crossed, knees folded, foot tapping on the ground. On the plastic chair next to her, Melissa was sitting cross-legged and was currently conducting a wrestling match between two dolls. They’d been here for almost twenty minutes now, Carrie's shoulders slowly turning into knots and Melissa growing bored and rest
less, huffing and puffing as she played. Hanging out at the police station in Truro had not been part of their Saturday morning plan, but ever since Carrie had heard about the Church family murders and the abduction of Lindsay Church, her mind had been wandering into some very dark places. Places she’d vowed never to revisit.

  At last, a door opened and a man in his early forties stepped out. Detective Constable Will Turner. He was handsome and smartly presented, wearing a charcoal coloured suit with a crisp, white shirt beneath. But around his eyes were the dark circles of someone who hadn’t slept.

  Carrie got to her feet. “I’ll be one minute, sweet pea. Stay right here.”

  Melissa shrugged a shoulder and blew out another sigh.

  “Carrie, how nice to see you,” DC Turner said, meeting her halfway and extending a hand. “How are you?”

  Now that she was up close, she saw just how tired he really looked. No doubt yesterday's murders and abduction had the force pulling long hours.

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  Turner glanced at a wall clock, then back at her. “About what?”

  The expression on his face said that he already knew.

  “It's those murders,” Carrie said, shooting a glance at Melissa, then back at Turner. “The ones in Falmouth.”

  “Carrie, I know what you’re going to –”

  “Is it them? Are they responsible? Please, I need to know.”

  Melissa looked up, curious eyes flicking between the two. Turner nodded at Carrie to follow him, then made his way over to a coffee machine in the corner, pulled a coin from his trouser pocket and slipped it into the slot.

  “Carrie... You know I can't tell you anything,” he said, punching a button. A plastic cup dropped into the dispenser and watery, black coffee began to pour. “We’re very early on in the investigation, and even if I did know something, I’m not at liberty to tell you. You know that.”

  Carrie watched the cup slowly filling. Turner asked if she wanted one. She shook her head. “They’re saying on the TV that it's them. That it's the Dawn Children. What if they’re right? What if they’re back? I don't even know what to do with that.”

  Turner picked up the cup, a few excess drops landing on his finger, making him wince.

  “The press don't know anything. They’re putting two and two together and making five. You know what they're like – you've experienced it first-hand, so just take everything that you're hearing right now with a pinch of salt.”

  He sipped the coffee. Grimaced.

  “So you won’t even tell me that it's not them?”

  “Look, I was working late last night, up at the crack of dawn this morning, I have a full day ahead of me. I don't know what else to tell you except to stop worrying and go home. Let us do our jobs.”

  Carrie stared at the floor. Why had she even come here? All she wanted was some reassurance, but Turner couldn't even give her that. Coming here had just made her feel a hundred times worse.

  “We’re doing everything we can to find out who’s responsible,” Turner said, his eyes softening. “Right now our priority is finding that little girl. Hopefully alive. But let us worry about it, okay? You have a family to take care of and I’m sure you already have enough on your plate.” He paused, took another sip of the bitter coffee. “How’s everything at home?”

  Carrie shrugged. Looked away. “They've been better.”

  “And Cal? How’s he doing?”

  It was a simple, honest question, and yet to Carrie’s ears it was pointed and accusatory. She glared at the floor. The truth was she didn't have the answer, and every time someone asked, she was reminded of how long it had been since she'd visited her son.

  “Cal’s not doing great. He’s been transferred to a secure hospital in Bristol and he’ll wait out the rest of his remand there. But you must already know that.”

  “Me? I'm just a lowly Detective Constable at the bottom of the chain, not some all-seeing Oracle.”

  Carrie hung her head, the weight of her troubles bearing down on her shoulders. “I just want it all over and done with. The trial...everything.” She glanced over at Melissa, who was now busy swinging her legs and rolling her eyes. “We’re all in limbo.”

  “Listen,” Turner said, “I'm sorry that I can't tell you much, but what I can tell you is that you’re one of the strongest people I've met. Certainly stronger than this coffee.”

  He smiled. Carrie, too.

  “You're just saying that.”

  “I'm not. You forget I've been around for a while. I saw you deal with the shock of Cal coming home. I saw you deal with him disappearing again. I saw you go through hell with what he did to your family. But you’re still standing. Still supporting him, when everyone else has turned their backs.”

  She looked down, biting her lip. If only Turner knew the truth.

  “All I'm saying is to hang in there. The worst of it will be over soon. Then, one way or another, you'll know where you stand. You'll be able to get on with your life.”

  “God, I wish. That sounds like a dream.” Carrie gazed up at Turner's weary face. Her smile faded. “Did you... Did you see the video? The one of Cal? The one, where he...”

  Turner's face paled. He nodded. Looked away.

  “Do you think Cal can come back from that? That he can be saved?”

  Turner opened his mouth, shut it again. “I'm not professionally qualified to answer that question. I don't think it would be fair for me to say either way.”

  Carrie nodded. Crossed her arms. An image flashed in her mind: Cal being dragged away in handcuffs as she lay screaming on the ground.

  “Go home, Carrie,” Turner said softly. “Try to have a nice day. Concentrate on the here and now. There’s a festival coming up, I hear. Are you involved?”

  “Me? No. That little scamp over there is, though.” She looked at him hopefully. “Are you going to be there?”

  “I don't think so. Anyway...” He nodded at the door, indicating that the conversation was over.

  “Thank you, Will. Sorry to take up your time.”

  “I'll be in touch if I hear anything I’m allowed to tell you...”

  He touched her on the shoulder, winked at Melissa, then exited through the main doors, dumping his cup of coffee in a bin. Carrie watched him go, the anxiety in her chest growing worse. She turned back to Melissa.

  “Come on, sweet pea. Let’s go home.”

  8

  LINDSAY CHURCH SAT on a makeshift bed in a tiny cell. There were no windows, the only light coming through the metal grid that made up the cell door. The door was locked, the square holes large enough to put her head through, but not large enough for her shoulders. From what she could make out, the room was bare except for the bed and a plastic bucket in the corner to go to the toilet in. At first, she had refused to use it. Then she’d wet herself. Now her clothes reeked of stale urine and her skin itched.

  Lindsay longed for a hot shower, to change into her pyjamas and climb into her own bed, not this filthy mattress with springs poking through the surface. But she knew she would never see her own bed again.

  Wherever they had taken her, it was deathly quiet, as if all the noise in the world had been muted by a TV remote control. To compensate, Lindsay's mind was creating its own sounds. Screams. Shrieks. The pitter-patter of her brother’s blood raining down. With the sounds came images. Todd, kneeling on the floor. Her mother’s contorted, terrified face. Those terrible red devil masks climbing out of a nightmare.

  Lindsay sat on the edge of the bed, her limbs aching, her own stench making her nauseous. Why had they left her alive? What did they intend to do with her? Even though she was just ten years old, she already knew what bad people could do to children. She’d read horrifying stories on the internet when her parents had been downstairs. She’d watched YouTube videos of true crime accounts that had given her bad dreams. At school, scary tales of child abduction and Stranger Danger were always passing from clique to clique in the canteen and play
ground, the tales growing more graphic with each round. Lindsay had listened to every story with mounting fear. Now, she wondered if her own face would show up on the internet, the horrific story of what happened to her passed around the playground, nightmare fuel for generations of children to come.

  In the darkness, she felt her chest growing tight and tears stinging her raw eyes. Through her shock and exhaustion, she felt something else. Hunger. She hadn't eaten since dinner two days ago, which had been so cruelly interrupted. Her stomach growled noisily as she tried to piece together the terrifying events.

  She remembered a sackcloth sliding over her head, lying on the cold metal floor of a van, the rumble of the engine making her bones shake. She didn’t know how long the journey had taken, or where she had ended up, but she remembered hands dragging her from the vehicle and throwing her over a shoulder. Then she was carried into the cell she now sat in and dumped on the bed, the metal door slamming shut with a thunderous clang.

  She remembered kicking and screaming and wrapping her fingers around the cold metal bars and shaking the door so hard she thought the hinges would fly off. But they hadn’t. After hours of screaming, her throat had grown painful and raw, so she’d started crying instead; long braying sobs that overflowed with grief and anger and horror, all wrapped up in one terrible sound.

  Eventually, she had collapsed from exhaustion and fallen into a deep sleep. When she'd woken up, there had been a brief moment in which she'd forgotten where she was or what had happened to her family. But then it all came rushing back like a tidal wave, engulfing her body, drowning every cell. Now she was mostly numb. And hungry. Starving, in fact. If only she was at the seafront right now, munching on a greasy burger with extra ketchup.

  From beyond the cell, she heard the metallic jangle of keys and the clunk of a lock turning. Somewhere out in the corridor, a door opened, the hinges squeaking, then dazzling daylight set the world alight. Lindsay winced, shielding her eyes. She scrabbled back on the bed, terror clawing at her insides.