Charlotte (12 page)

One Year Later

Peter Murray walked the halls, whistling as he went. His slightly off tune melody echoed in the dark, foreboding halls, alerting every child to his unwelcome presence. He used it to intimidate the children, show them who was in charge.

This is my house,
he thought.
I'm the boss.

Murray ran his nightstick along the bars of the cage beside him, sending a series of metallic clanks into the air. After three swipes, he stopped and listened. Normally, one kid would be crying by now, maybe two.

He liked inflicting pain on the kids.

No one could stop him.

He ambled into the kitchen. He snatched a red apple from the fruit bowl beside him and opened the fridge. The room was deathly silent around him. He glanced left and right, looking for Susan, the chef. Nowhere to be seen.
You can’t fucking miss her; fat bitch has more rolls than Sainsbury's.
Murray chuckled at his own, lame joke. He placed the apple between his teeth and took a pack of ham and two sausages from the fridge.

He resumed his rounds.

He slid a sausage in and out of his mouth, pursing his lips to mock fellatio, smiled, and took a bite. It tasted like shit. Murray swallowed it, took one more bite—he needed the energy—and tossed the remainder into the room beside him. It sailed into the darkness and hit something with a gentle thud.

"Hey!"

Murray paused at the sound of the strange voice. He took a step back and gazed into the darkness of the room. He saw the sausage on the floor behind one of the children. Their back was to him, supported in the air by a swivel chair. Murray whistled at the child, but got no response. He whistled again but got the same result. He felt a rage rising up inside of him. "Hey."

Still no response.

"Oi." He slammed his nightstick against the doorframe. "Oi, shit bricks. I'm talking to you." He rattled the stick against the wooden frame once more.

Murray stepped into the room. "You know I could have you scrubbing toilets for a week for not obeying an order? Stand to."

The child rotated on their chair slowly. The shadow in the room shrouded an innocent face, youthful and female. A young girl, evident when her brown hair fell over her face, covering one of her stark blue eyes.

"What's your name?"

The girl didn’t respond.

"I said…what's your name?"

The girl blinked. "Amy, sir."

"Good. Now, Amy, unless you want me to make you my bitch, you'll cooperate, okay?" Murray took a step forward, past the door. "How long have you been here?"

"A month."

"Uh huh. What are you in for?"

"I shouldn’t tell you that."

"Well, you're gonna."

"I killed some people."

"Oooo, big shot are we? Hardcore." Murray placed his stash of food down outside of the room and stepped back in. "How old are you?"

"Ten, now. I was nine when I…killed them."

Murray licked his lips, reached down and patted his crotch. He adjusted himself beneath his trousers, smirking as he did. He pointed. "Do you know what this is?"

"Probably less than average."

Murray laughed. "You're a funny girl. I like funny. We're going to get along just fine."

"Sir?"

"Yes, Amy."

"Have you met my friend, Charlotte?"

"Who? She another kid in here? Is she a naughty girl too?"

"No, she's my friend. She doesn’t take kindly to people picking on me or taking advantage of me."

"Who's doing any such activity? We're simply having a chat."

"It doesn’t feel like that," Amy uttered, weakly.

"It's just a chat. Say, why don’t you get Charlotte in here, we can have a group session. If it makes you any more comfortable."

"Okay no problem."

"What room is she in? I can go and fetch her."

"Ah, don’t worry about that, she's behind you."

"Wha…" Murray span around.

The door slammed.