The Final Child

by Fran Dorricott

  The opening was an arch carved into the stone. It led through into an area that looked remarkably similar to the one I’d just left. Trees that reached high overhead, some with low-hanging boughs. I smelled rotten fruit, perhaps apples or pears like the trees that had grown in my parents’ garden when I was a child. My stomach churned. Now it reminded me of something else. Dana Wood’s body in the bathtub, that cloying pervasive scent. I forged onwards, hoping this was the way to the house.

  It wasn’t yet five-thirty but it felt like I had been awake for hours. My body ached but deep down the core of fear and anger kept me moving, the furnace inside me burning with uncontrollable terror that I fought to leash with long, confident strides.

  The sight of the house broke the barriers. An icy wind whipped me to shivers, the cold in my bones already. And something else.

  The house was… a monster. There was no other word for the hulking shadow that grew out of the trees. Two wings, sandstone, red brick and black slate twisted together to create the impression of a Bosch painting. And over to the right I saw something that made my blood sing and my memory thrash free of its shell.

  Just like that.

  Like the snapping of a cord, everything came tumbling out.

  There was a small shack, an outhouse where somebody might once have kept innocuous gardening tools like spades and trowels. A wooden plaque above it – a dove carrying an olive branch. I knew, then, that this was right.

  And I felt rather than saw the image that had hidden at the edge of my dreams for eighteen years.

  I was seven years old again, being led from the back of a big car in the dead of night. Stiff-legged, wet-eyed, I had managed to pull up the blindfold – the one they’d put on us so we wouldn’t see the front of the house, wouldn’t see where the orchard ended in another high wall and the back gardens began. So that we couldn’t see where they parked the car, in the small clearing in the woods.

  So that even if we made it outside, even if we ever escaped, we would never find our way off the rambling grounds. We would never be able to find the car, or the path, or any way out of this maze-like place.

  But I had seen it.

  I remembered now. And I knew, with a clarity that felt like a bolt of lightning, that Harriet must be in that house. He – Peter – had her, and the only way to save her was to go inside.

  I knew that this part of the house was older than the front. That the whole place was a cobbled-together monstrosity, Frankenstein’s monster sort of thing: cold panelled hallways that didn’t lead anywhere, oddly shaped doorways, and old, polished flagstones which looked like they came from two different houses. I knew that down there, to the right just beyond the trees, there was a lake. The one that Christopher Wood had drowned in.

  I broke into a run. I scrambled up to the edge of the house, searching for a door. A door I remembered vaguely as being small and down a short set of stone stairs. I found it on instinct alone – just like I’d found the house – and once I was there I was confronted by the weathered wood and the brass knocker.

  Alex’s words were in my head now, his childish voice high and sweet. “The front of the house is theirs. It’s where they live. We live downstairs in the back. But if we’re good we might be allowed upstairs, to use the bedroom.”

  I’d known even then that it wasn’t true. They would never let us loose in a house this size. Instead I remembered only darkness, concrete, cold stone and no windows. Except the conservatory. Two glorious hours of sunshine, before we’d been made to go back downstairs.

  I pressed down on the door handle. It wasn’t locked.

  I slipped into the dark, cold room and inhaled the air that was equal parts dust and something else, something more human. The smell of a person. Sweat, maybe, but clean enough. Somebody had been here.

  The room was so dark that I closed my eyes, tried to remember if I knew the way. I didn’t, but I inched my feet across the flagstones, my heart stuttering at every brush of a cobweb. There were leaves in here too, carelessly left to fester. I heard their tell-tale autumn crunch and knew they were fresh.

  I wanted to call out. I wanted to shout Harriet’s name, but I didn’t dare.

  I hit the edge of the room. The wall loomed in the pitch darkness. The walls were cold and hard, my fingers scrabbling against bare brick for what felt like an eternity. I stumbled over uneven stones, jumped at the skittering of browning leaves as I inched forward, until finally I felt something that was not stone. It was wood. A door.

  On the other side I finally allowed myself a moment of torchlight. The frigid space around me was illuminated in a clinical white light. Moving faster now, I hurried down the length of a hallway until a jolt of recognition stopped me in my tracks. It felt like the ground dropping out beneath my feet.

  It was just an old bookcase, festering volumes on the shelves. But it sat away from the wall, a gap big enough behind it that I could just squeeze through. And there, instead of a wall, was a door.

  And when I pushed it open, stairs. The stairs from my dream.

  I paused for a second, listening. I could hear nothing but the sound of my own panicked breathing. The stairs descended into darkness, and with a sinking sensation in the pit of my belly, I knew where I had to go.

  Down.

  THIRTY FOUR

  Harriet

  PAIN LANCED DOWN THE right side of my face, my jaw, my neck. I could feel the muscles at my collarbone cording with effort as I struggled to consciousness. Every second felt like a fight at first. The darkness was cold, empty, smelled like dirt and musty old wood and something metallic.

  I blinked. Tried to reach for my face. My hands were tied at the wrist; they rested in my lap, heavy like concrete. I opened my eyes wide, straining. It was so dark I couldn’t see a thing.

  I waited. The only sound was my breath, which was ragged. Gently I massaged my forehead with the back of one of my hands, checking for tender spots. The worst of the pain was at the back of my head.

  Slowly it came back to me. The hotel, the cigarette, the man. I surprised myself when I realised that I wasn’t afraid. But the numbness I felt instead was worse, as though my body had already given up.

  I don’t know how long I sat there. I was cold, shivering, and aching all over. And then, eventually, I started to see. The walls of the room began to appear in shades of grey as my eyes adjusted to the dark; they were planks of wood, maybe, crooked and gnarled.

  I was dazed. How long had I been here? It seemed like hours. I was freezing under my thin coat, which I noted I was still wearing. My whole body was stiff with cold, but I could move. I felt sick, my head pounding from the blow. It was still tender, but the adrenaline had worn off. I wasn’t hungry though, and I didn’t need the toilet, so I couldn’t have been here any longer than a few hours. Slowly, stiffly, I let myself shift from the hard concrete floor, wobbling as my vision tilted.

  I lifted my hands from my lap. They were tied together at the wrists, and then attached to the wall with a long piece of rope. I moved a little, to get a better look. The rope was hooked around a metal ring, bolted to the wood. Like you might use to tie up a dog if you had to leave them outdoors.

  Now suddenly the fear hit me and I let out two panicked, gulping cries before I got my body back under control. Wild thoughts consumed me. Had Jeremy and Michael been here, once? I fought off the urge to sob again, imagining them in this place. Cold, afraid. Was this where they had died?

  I thought about calling for help, but what good would that do? Whoever had left me here – was it Dana’s son? Or somebody else? – might only be waiting for a noise from me and they’d come back. I thought about Adam Bowles, how his text had led me here. Could he have anything to do with this? But, no. I had asked for the address. It was Dana’s son. It had to be.

  I took as many deep, slow breaths as I could and tried to calm down. My head was thudding; it felt very heavy. I looked at my wrists more closely. They had been zip-tied, the rope running between my palms. Someho
w this filled me with relief. I’d seen a video once, on how to break these sorts of plastic ties with a shoelace. I’d never tried it, but I set to work now, aware every second of the pain inside my head as it grew.

  I pushed back questions of what I’d do once I was free. I couldn’t think that far ahead.

  Getting the shoelaces untied was the hard part, my fingers numb and fumbling in the cold. But I did it. I tried to force the laces between my hands, but the rope made it difficult. I dropped them. Cursed as they blended into the darkness.

  Then I found them. I tried again, this time with more success. Once they were through I tied them together. And then, as I’d seen in the video on YouTube, back when I thought things like this were for fun, I began to move my legs, back and forth like I was riding a bicycle. The movement was painful, my thighs aching, my back stiff. But I kept going, using the laces to saw through the plastic until I was, suddenly—

  Free.

  The rope pooled in my lap, still tied to the ring on the wall. I resisted the urge to cry. Instead I lowered my legs, retied my shoelaces slowly, and let out a juddering breath. I reached up to touch the back of my head, feeling dizzy from even the slightest pressure. I thought I might vomit but I took deep gulps and waited for the feeling to pass.

  Slowly, I climbed to my feet. I was unsteady, my knees threatening to give way at any moment. But I held onto the wall, felt the rough-cut wood dig into my palm of my hand, and inhaled.

  It was a small room, I realised. Maybe a shed. The door was a darker spot against the cracked and warped wood of the walls. Frantically I ran my fingers along its outer edge, searching for a latch or a handle, even a knot in the wood or a hook I could pull.

  There was nothing.

  I barely resisted the urge to scream. My head, God, it ached… I patted my pockets, but he’d taken my phone. My cigarettes and my hotel keycard too.

  If he had the keycard – he had access to Erin. Would he be able to find out which room was ours? Panic coursed through me and I felt again like I was going to vomit, but I fought to slow my thoughts. That didn’t make sense. All of that just to steal a keycard? He didn’t want to hurt Erin. He wanted…

  He wanted her to come here. To protect me.

  “Oh, Jesus…” I whispered, dread making me weak.

  For a moment I sat. I was exhausted, an iron-tinted taste in my mouth, like when I used to spar too hard in karate practice. I leaned against the wood and closed my eyes. If I didn’t get out of here, this might be the last place I’d remember.

  So, after a minute, I got up. I stepped back from the door, locating the weakest-looking panel. It was warped, twisted with the rain and the sun and years of neglect. I took a moment to focus, and then snapped my foot out as hard as I could.

  The sole of my shoe was thick rubber but I felt the impact right up in my knee and in the clenching of my teeth. It hurt. But the wood made a groaning noise so I did it again. And again. Until finally, something gave.

  I tumbled forward, catching myself at the last second. I grazed my knuckles against the wall but ignored the pain. The board was loose, and I set about prying it off. Rusty nails, jagged, unyielding until my fingers were sore and bloody. But I got it off, and then set about the next.

  It wasn’t long before I was sweating. It stung my eyes, and the exertion made my head pound so badly that my vision swam. Gradually, the smells of the outside began to filter through the gaps. Grass and trees and fresh rain. I wanted to cry, I wanted to lie down and sleep, but I refused to stop until I had managed to climb out, scrambling through the hole I had created in the wall of the shed. Out into the dark. It wasn’t as late as I had thought, still maybe only two or three in the morning, the moon still high.

  It was only when I was outside, looking in, that I noticed it. The source of the metallic scent. I had dark brackish stains all over me. Old, gloopy blood. I’d lain in a puddle of it. More than one person could lose and live.

  I knew I should be moving. Running. But my eyes were fixed to the spot. I couldn’t move, and all the while my brain just looped Erin Erin Erin.

  Was she here? Did he have her?

  I had to find her.

  THIRTY FIVE

  Erin

  “HARRIET, WHERE ARE YOU…?” I whispered.

  There was another basement corridor ahead. I’d lost all sense of direction. The house was bigger than it seemed, a maze of hallways, as if an old, small cellar had been converted, twisted into something else. Some passages ended abruptly, while some became rooms and then corridors again without it seeming as though I’d crossed through. Everything was bare, windowless and dark. It was colder down here, the chill deep in my bones as my adrenaline ebbed away.

  The effects of the alcohol were starting to wear off too and I felt heavy. I chose another hallway at random. This one – it felt right. There were doors that led off to the left and the right but I ignored them. I knew I would recognise the one I needed when I saw it. I had to…

  I must have walked almost the length of the house. Suddenly I hit a sharp turn and my body reacted, muscles moving as though from memory. The ground sloped slightly and I felt my heart hammer harder. Yes, this was right.

  And then: just a door, dark and wooden like all of the others. But I recognised this one. There was a big, long scratch mark down the front. It had looked like this back then, too.

  Suddenly I was overwhelmed. I had been here before. I had been here during the worst nights and days of my life – and I finally remembered. Not everything, but I remembered Alex, and this room, and the conservatory, and I remembered – Dana. Stern, unsmiling, her hair scraped back in a severe bun as she gripped my arm hard enough to bruise. And a boy, Peter, solemn and arresting.

  I was so wrapped in my memory, the fear uncoiling inside me and turning to anger, that I didn’t hear it right away. The sound was faint, muffled by the door, but it was definitely human.

  Was it Harriet? My stomach lurched with fear. I froze. What if she was hurt? What would I do? Or worse, what if it wasn’t Harriet?

  Seconds like hours passed as I stood. Then, without even realising I was moving, I saw my trembling fingers grip the handle. I was a puppet and my body was out of my control. I could taste the panic on my tongue, the bitter iron tang in my mouth. I swallowed.

  Then I opened the door.

  It was dark, but not too dark to see. I shoved my phone into my pocket and let my eyes adjust. The muffled crying stuttered and then died. I noticed the candles with a dull kind of shock, a handful of them on the floor, stood in their own red wax. There was a single bed, like the one from my dream. A cot big enough for an older child, with high bars at the back and an open front, the whole thing dirty and grey with age.

  On the bed there was a lump of darkness. I recoiled, thinking of the girl from my dream, the hollow eyes, the twisted fingers. Jaswinder, already dead and rotting. The body was left there for long enough to scare Alex and me into silence before being taken away. Jenny’s fingers – they were meant to remind me.

  I fought the bile that rose in my throat.

  The silence was as heavy as a lead-lined blanket. I begged my eyes to work faster, to take in the dimness, the flickering light, the shape on the bed. Was it a child? Was it Harriet?

  No. It was too large to be either.

  “Who are you?” I demanded. My voice didn’t wobble and for that I was glad. “Where is she?”

  The figure didn’t move right away. When he did, he uncoiled with a slowness that betrayed years of abuse. He was probably around my age, a little older. He wore dark, ripped jeans and a plain t-shirt. He was pale, shadows under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks. A few days’ worth of stubble darkened his jaw.

  He was bound to the bed with a piece of rope, tied at one end and looped around his wrist. His other hand was free but he acted as though he was handcuffed.

  My throat felt like it was full of wasps.

  I didn’t recognise his face. Not at first. But those eyes… I would rec
ognise those eyes anywhere.

  For a second all thoughts of Harriet were gone as the man struggled upright.

  “Jilly…” he whispered.

  “Alex?”

  * * *

  I stood rooted to the spot as though any second he might evaporate in a cloud of smoke. It was a trick. It had to be. But he didn’t move either, as if he was afraid of the same thing. His golden brows dipped as he studied my face. I mimicked him, taking in the strong line of his jaw – like our father – and the dip of his collarbone beneath his baggy shirt. My eyes latched onto the dirt and dust on his jeans, the piece of rope that tied him to the bed, and a million thoughts raced through my mind.

  What came out was, “What the fuck?”

  He flinched, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

  “Jilly,” he repeated.

  That single word was the solution that dissolved the glue holding me to the spot. I ran towards him, all cares gone as I threw myself at his feet.

  “Alex,” I cried. “You’ve been alive all this time? What have they done to you?”

  I was crying hard, perhaps the most I’d cried any day since the moment I woke in that blinking, pale hospital room without him. I clutched his bony legs now, holding them close to my chest.

  Alex seemed confused by the physical contact. He moved only to lay one of his hands on my head. It was a gentle touch, so gentle it felt like the beat of a moth’s wings.

  “Jilly,” he whispered softly, his voice husky. “You came back.”

  My name from his lips was like cool water and I cried harder still. Slowly I came back to myself, felt the hard concrete beneath my knees and the snot running down my face, and the weird, unreality of the moment.

  “We have to go,” I said suddenly.

  “I can’t leave.”

  “What? Why?” I gestured to the rope. “It’s just a bit of rope. I can untie it.” I set to work on the knot, which wasn’t tight.