The Final Child

by Fran Dorricott

  Four red candles.

  “They’re the candles from my dreams,” Erin whispered. “I remember them, sort of. In, like, a basement? I remember a girl. I think she was dead. Jaswinder Singh, maybe. It’s like he’s trying to tease me. I think he wants me to find him. But that’s all I know. The rest is… nothing.”

  * * *

  Hours later, we found ourselves in a hotel room as the darkness thickened. The police were going over my whole block of flats, checking the broken camera system, knocking on doors. There was police tape, interview after interview. Had anybody seen anything? Heard anything? There was a resounding feeling that nobody had noticed.

  I phoned Mum, who was down in Brighton now staying with some friends and the dogs, and then I emailed Thomas to update him. Erin called her mum and the conversation was stilted, panicked at first and then, eventually, calmer, but the whole exchange was warm, hesitant.

  We couldn’t stay in my flat, and Erin’s house was out of the question, but neither of us felt safe anywhere else and we didn’t want to end up in police protection, feeling like we were being watched every minute. It was getting late and we decided to check into a hotel off the motorway, about twenty minutes from Derby, where we were surrounded on one side by fields.

  We spoke very little at first, both shaken and unsure. The room was big enough, but cheap, containing little more than a double bed and a TV. We switched it on briefly, but Monica’s death had made the national news and Erin quickly turned it back off. If Jenny was missing, or dead, how long would it be before it was her face on there too? How long before journalists discovered we’d been to see her just yesterday?

  I’d brought my laptop and my notebooks from home. The police already had all of the facts anyway, but these notes felt personal to me.

  Erin looked sick, the dark circles under her eyes a mixture of makeup and chronic lack of sleep. I wondered if going out last night – and then what came after – had helped, or if we’d only made everything worse.

  Every set of footsteps past the door made her jump, and even with the curtains closed, the windows firmly locked against the night, I think we both felt exposed.

  “What are we going to do now?” I asked eventually. We had a bottle of wine between us and were taking turns drinking directly from it.

  “What can we do? We’re stuck. He’s going to keep doing this until he can’t do it any more. Until he runs out of reasons, or people. And then he’ll either kill me, or he’ll get caught. Maybe both. Simple as that.”

  “Or he’ll keep at it until he can make you remember,” I said. I genuinely believed that. “He doesn’t want you to die. Why go to all of that trouble to break into my block of flats and hurt neither of us—”

  “He killed Monica.”

  “I know.” I sighed. Took a sip of the wine and passed it back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I just meant that he obviously has something else in mind for you. There’s some other reason that he’s leaving you – well, clues. I don’t know why—”

  “He called me Jilly. Like he’s fucking taunting me.”

  “You were ‘little Jilly Chambers’ to the newspapers, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they reported all about your escape. So, the Father – if this is him – must have known that you were alive.”

  “All these years I thought he was dead. I don’t know why. I guess it was blind hope. Why else would he just… disappear? But I guess me getting away meant he had to go into hiding. That makes more sense.

  “But… if he could have found me again at any time, why now? It’s not like we even moved house straight away afterwards. So, whatever happened, I must have been no use after I escaped.”

  “Maybe he was in prison?” I suggested. “That’s one of the theories. I thought maybe it was true, that he got caught for something else. I hoped he might have died there. Maybe he was just released? The timing is surely not a coincidence, though.”

  “Basically it’s on me,” Erin snapped, but it was tired. She was tired. She gulped another mouthful of wine. “How did this even happen?”

  “I don’t know,” I said softly.

  Erin relaxed a little, then. As though the fact that I didn’t know either made her feel better. I reached over, gave her knee a gentle squeeze. Now might be a good time to tell her about the Facebook messages I’d sent. On the drive over I’d felt my phone vibrate, and I’d checked it while Erin was in the bathroom. One of the Danielles I’d messaged had sent me a short reply. She’d spent some time in the care system. One of her foster mothers had been a cleaner who looked after several boys, but she didn’t remember very much and couldn’t – or wouldn’t – confirm the details I’d given her.

  But I didn’t say anything. As the night wore on, and the wine ran low, Erin began to relax a little bit more. She curled up on her side fully dressed and closed her eyes. I sat with my laptop on my knees and listened to her breathing even out. I’d tell her if I learned anything more.

  I didn’t want to get her hopes up.

  TWENTY SIX

  Erin

  I WAS RUNNING. THE same dark trees, skeletal and tall. Finger-like branches scratching at my face as I stumbled and tore through the black night. I fell, grazed my knee. He was behind me.

  I scrabbled to a halt at the edge of the familiar dip. It looked higher now. My legs were shorter. The fear of the unknown at the bottom left my breathing ragged. But I wouldn’t let it defeat me.

  I fell into the cold darkness. The leaves scratched me, burning against my skin. I tumbled head first, tasted dirt and rotten leaves in my mouth.

  The ground was icy and hard. It wasn’t the forest floor any more. It was concrete, unyielding under my cheek. Groggily, I tried to sit up.

  “Jilly.”

  Alex’s voice was inside my head. I couldn’t turn my neck to search for him. Everything hurt.

  The smell was mould of a different kind. And dust. Something rusty, too. I realised my lip was bleeding.

  It was too dark to see anything. Slowly I was able to lift my head. A cold breeze snaked the length of me. I pulled my legs up, felt something heavy digging into my ankle. I reached down and then yanked my fingers away.

  Chains.

  I wanted to cry but I knew I couldn’t. I didn’t have any tears in me.

  “Alex? Alex, are you there?”

  “I’m here, Jilly.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m here. Jilly – Jilly, don’t leave without me.”

  “I won’t. I’m here.”

  Then there was grass and leaves and a burning at my back as I skidded down the slope, tumbling into the darkness in the woods. And I left him behind. He made me leave him. I was meant to go back for him so that he didn’t end up like the others. But I didn’t.

  I blinked. In the darkness there was a light. A warm, hot light that filled me with hope, and then with terror. Basement walls melting to reveal the dead girl, eyes hollow, the fingers on her hand bent at weird angles where somebody had fought her, where she clutched that old doll. And on the floor below—

  Four red, dripping candles, wax pooling like blood. Lighting the room that became Jaswinder’s tomb.

  “Don’t look at her, look at them. They’re just candles,” Alex whispered in my ear. “It’s only fire.”

  Then one burnt out, leaving a trail of smoke behind.

  “Alex, I’m scared.”

  One of us would be next.

  “Don’t worry, Jilly, I’ll protect you.”

  Four candles… Four fingers. Four children, down to three.

  The Father had been speaking to me and I hadn’t been listening.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  11 NOVEMBER 2016

  Harriet

  ERIN BOLTED UPRIGHT IN bed, fighting the blankets, fighting me.

  “Shh. Erin, it’s me!”

  Slowly the tension drained from her body. She looked into my face, as though she was examining every inch of it in the weak la
mplight. She sucked in a shuddering breath. Slowly I loosened my grip on her arms.

  “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head. I got out of bed and flicked the kettle on. I made tea for both of us and carried it back to the bed in the small white mugs, precariously full. Erin took hers gratefully.

  “How about now?” I asked. It was maybe three in the morning, the hotel around us completely silent. I could hear the faint drip of the shower in the ensuite, and the motorway traffic a little way off.

  Erin took a sip of the scalding tea, wrinkled her nose at the long-life milk and then slowly nodded.

  “I think so.”

  “Do you… want to talk about it?”

  She started to shake her head and then stopped. She stared at the murky tea, eyes chasing the scummy water on top. She had fallen asleep in a chunky cardigan but I saw that she was shivering.

  “I had a nightmare,” she said eventually. “It didn’t make sense, but… I was thinking about what Jenny said, when we spoke through her intercom.”

  “What do you mean? It was too confusing. Just that stuff about all her children—”

  “Exactly. All of her children. She was talking like she was trying to protect them, right? Like I told the police, I think somebody was threatening her. But…”

  She stopped. I felt an icy dread settle over me.

  “I think he was with her,” Erin said slowly, the air thick between us. “When we went to her flat. I think he was there the whole time…” She put her tea down hastily on the bedside table, her face going grey.

  A thousand questions swelled inside me. “Do you think…”

  “He killed her because of us. Because I went there.”

  “Erin, it’s not your—”

  “Can you stop fucking telling me this isn’t my fault?” she snapped. Then, “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just… it is my fault. Don’t you get it? All of these taunts… They’re messages which I’ve been missing this whole time. All the work the police are doing, it’s all a waste of time if I can’t figure out what he wants – because they’re never going to find him.

  “He doesn’t want to get caught yet. He’s had years to make this plan, he must know how to hide. But now it’s different. He wants me to find him. He wants me to follow his breadcrumbs. That’s why it’s no good if he just gets rid of me. He wants me to find him, to find where it all happened.”

  I had seen Erin afraid before but I had never seen her look so defeated. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, folding herself small.

  “I don’t know all of the answers,” I said, “but I do feel like we’re getting somewhere with this.” She started to argue but I held my hand up. “Let me finish. Look, I sent some messages. I know you didn’t think it was worth it, but I did it anyway.”

  I waited for a second. Erin processed what I was saying but her expression didn’t change.

  “And?” she said.

  “I had a message tonight, from one of the Danielles. One of her foster mothers worked as a cleaner.”

  “So, that’s Jenny?”

  “Yes, I think so. She couldn’t remember a lot about that time – she was only with Jenny around six months – but she said that the lady who looked after her did some cleaning up in those big houses up in Derbyshire. You know—”

  “The ones near where I was found?” Erin sat up a little bit straighter. “But the police spoke to everybody around there, didn’t they?”

  “They did. But they weren’t looking for a connection to two long-missing foster children. They were looking for your brother. Maybe there’s something the police missed, or didn’t realise was important. They searched the empty houses, spoke to the occupants of others, but they didn’t find anything suspicious. Still, might be worth following up?”

  “It’s not a lot to go on.”

  “No, but it’s more than we had a couple of days ago.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “What about the Adams? Did you get in touch with any of them?

  “I sent a few messages,” I said. I checked my phone.

  “Hey, look.” There was a new message from one of the Adams sent an hour or so ago. I opened it, a sort of excitement bubbling inside me.

  The message was short, to the point. Yes, he was Adam Bowles. The police had been in touch about his mother and he was considering who he should and shouldn’t talk to, pending the official investigation into his mother’s disappearance.

  Suddenly, the realisation that this man’s mother was missing – and probably dead – made the excitement drain right out of me. Although I’d sent the message before what had happened with the parcel, with the fingers, I still felt guilty reading it back. It felt callous.

  “What does it say?” Erin asked.

  I only now realised I’d turned my phone away from her, stopping her from seeing the unbearable sadness in Adam’s message.

  “It’s pretty vague.”

  “Can you call him?”

  “Right now? Erin, it’s the middle of the night.”

  “I mean… tomorrow.” I knew what her expression meant: what did night and day matter when this was life or death?

  “I’ll send him another message,” I said. “I’ll just say that we’re sorry, and if he feels up to talking… Maybe I’ll send a friend request, too, so he can do things on his terms.”

  “Right,” Erin mumbled.

  “We will figure this out.” I moved a little closer. Erin sighed and nestled into my side, my arm around her shoulders. I held her weight against me, feeling how tense she was.

  Outside a branch skittered across the window and both of us jumped.

  “How?” she asked. “I’m running out of belief.”

  * * *

  I held onto her all night, although neither of us slept very much after that. Eventually we gave up, and Erin got up to shower. I checked my phone. At some point in the night Adam Bowles had accepted my friend request. I fought a surge of hope.

  It was one minute past nine, the shower roaring in the bathroom, when I phoned him. I half expected him to ignore my call through Facebook Messenger – he might even be with the police, and accepting a friend request wasn’t exactly evidence he was ready to talk – but there was a beep as the call connected.

  For a moment there was nothing except a buzzing static. Then I heard a muffled sound like a yawn followed by an apology from a male voice that sounded somewhere away from the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. Is this Adam?”

  “Yes.” A pause. Then a long, exhausted breath full of the weight of the last twelve hours. All that pain and hurt and longing in one. Eventually he said, “You’re… Harriet? I saw your message, before…” He sounded throaty, as though he hadn’t long woken up. Or perhaps he hadn’t slept at all. I know I wouldn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. With everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to mention the missing fingers which might have been his mother’s; I didn’t know what the police would have told him, or how much he knew about why I was calling.

  In the end, Adam spoke first.

  “You’re the writer, aren’t you? The one they said received…” His voice broke and he took a shaky breath. He knew, then. Which meant the fingers were probably Jenny’s. “God. Sorry. Uh, why did you want to talk to me before? How do you know Mum? Have you – Do you…? Do you know where she is?”

  I heard the sudden swell of panic, the hope all jumbled up inside.

  “No,” I said quickly. “I don’t know where she is. I’m so sorry. But I do want to help in any way that I can.”

  “How? Did you tell the police everything you know? Do you have any ideas at all where she might be? Can we set up search parties and you write about them or something?”

  “I don’t think I can give that sort of help,” I said. “I’ve talked to the police, though. I… Did they tell you about me?” I asked. I neede
d to know if he knew about Erin, too.

  “They said you were a writer. I’m going back to talk to them again later, maybe…”

  “I am a writer. That’s sort of how I know your mother. I have a friend – and we’d been talking to your mum about something that happened a long time ago. My friend, in particular, spoke to her because she was involved.” I heard Adam’s breath hitch and I forged on. “I’m writing a book about children – the victims of a serial killer. I wanted to talk to your mother about your foster brothers, Oscar and Isaac, the ones who ran away, and a possible connection between them and him.”

  “You think Mum being missing is connected to my foster brothers?” Adam asked, panic back full-force. So the police hadn’t told him everything yet. “But they ran away such a long time ago. Why would they…” He paused. “Wait, you said you’re writing about a serial killer. You don’t think…”

  “I think it might be easier if we talked about this in person,” I stopped him. “Please. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, the police already have all of this information but—”

  “Which serial killer?” he asked.

  “Adam—”

  “Who is your friend?”

  Erin was out of the shower and brushing her teeth. It wasn’t fair to ask this man to talk to me without giving him something, some truth. I had wanted to tell him in person, to test his reaction, but his mother was missing and he was our best lead.

  “Her name is Jillian Chambers,” I said quietly. “She was abducted by the Father.”

  The silence was deafening. Then I heard a muffled sound, like a voice asking if Adam was okay. He swallowed audibly.

  “Okay,” he said eventually. “You’re right. Let’s talk in person. After the police… I’m meant to be going to the station soon, to talk more, I don’t know.” His voice was muffled, as though he was covering his face. “That’s in Derby. Are you near here? I’m in a hotel. Should we…? I don’t know. How can I even help? All of that stuff with Isaac and Oscar was a long time ago.”

  “I know. I’m not expecting anything. But after you’ve spoken to the police maybe we can talk more, that’s all. Maybe it will help.”