Cruel Minds (21 page)

She found it minutes later in an unnamed folder. What she saw made her eyes grow wide with shock.

J
erome tried to temper the anger that was heating his skin. Why did Emily think it was fine to just take off like that, knowing that he couldn’t go after her? He’d learned months ago that if Emily had set her mind on something, it was best to see how you could help rather than hinder her—no matter how much danger she was about to put herself in—but he’d hoped that after being abducted, put into a coma, experimented upon, and almost murdered, that she might have learned a thing or two about safety procedures in dangerous situations. For a person that could come across as quiet to the point of withdrawn at times, Emily certainly had a surprising amount of gall. It was a quality that impressed and frustrated him in equal measures. Like now for example—here they were, trapped inside a house in the middle of the New Forest with a maniac on the loose, and Emily Swanson had seen it fit to run off alone. It was obvious she was onto something but couldn’t she see how much it made him worry? Did she even care?

He glanced down at Helen. Her chest rose and fell in slow bursts. The fresh bandages he’d applied were holding out but they would need changing soon. What if it was Emily who lay unconscious on the sofa right now, a hole in her head the size of a large marble? He doubted she would learn anything new from it—except next time to duck.

He was distracted from his thoughts by Pamela. She stood in the doorway, staring at Helen.

“No change?” she asked.

Jerome shook his head.

“Here, I’ll take over.” She swapped positions with him, gently resting Helen’s head in her lap. She nodded towards a cherry wood cabinet in the corner. “There’s whiskey.”

Jerome took out glasses and a bottle of Glenfiddich single malt. He poured out two generous shots, handed one to Pamela, then held his glass up to the light. Tipping back his head, he drained it of its amber-coloured contents. A fire ignited in his belly, burning all the way up to his chest. He refilled his glass, then watched as Pamela tended to Helen.

“We’re almost out of bandages,” he said.

“Well, we’ll have to improvise. There are clean towels in the closet—through that door, then second on the left.” Pamela went still. She looked around the room as if she didn’t recognise it. “Where’s Emily?”

“Upstairs. She went to fetch something from her room,” he said, annoyed by his loyalty.

“She shouldn’t be wandering around alone. It’s not safe.”

“You’d have better luck convincing Jason Voorhees.”

“Who?”

Jerome shrugged a shoulder. “I’ll get those towels.”

Taking his whiskey with him, he made his way through the door and towards the hallway closet. Incense hung heavy in the air, making him nauseous. Taking a pile of towels from the shelf and carrying them under his arm, he took a slow walk back to the living room.

Pamela had propped Helen’s head up with cushions and was now stood in front of the window. The rain continued to fall, clinging to the glass. The darkness beyond was infinite.

“I hope they’re all right out there,” Jerome said.

Startled by his voice, Pamela turned to face him. Her eyes were red and sore-looking. “I hope so too.”

She looked towards the living room door.

“Emily has been a long time. What is she doing?”

A good question, Jerome thought. “I think she was going to change her clothes. There was blood on them from when we found...”

By the window, Pamela’s shoulders tensed.

“I’m sorry about Sam,” Jerome said. “I don’t understand how anyone could do that, just take away someone’s life as if it meant nothing. Is it really that easy?”

“The most awful things in this world are done at the hands of people,” Pamela said, her gaze hardening. “You shouldn’t be surprised by that. People kill people. It’s been the same since we were given birth to on this planet and it will remain the same until we incinerate ourselves. Survival is our greatest instinct and our greatest downfall. We cling to the notion of our existence so desperately that we’re prepared to destroy any threat to it, even if it means killing our own kind. Somewhere along the way, we seem to have misconstrued survival as control. To control the world and all that lives in it gives us a greater chance of survival. Isn’t that what war is really about? Yes, it’s about money-making. Yes, it’s about power, but doesn’t that all translate as survival?” She stared into the glass, swirling the whiskey around. “It’s ironic. We care so much about survival, we fire missiles and shoot guns and detonate bombs, and in an instant, we steal the breath of anyone we perceive as a threat. That’s the great tragedy about the survival instinct. It only goes so far as here.” She tapped the fingertips of one hand against the palm of the other. “
Our
survival really means
my
survival. Such is the way of people.”

Jerome took a moment to absorb Pamela’s words. It was an uncomfortable speech that filled him with deep-rooted anxiety.

“But what about all this?” he asked, waving a hand around the room. “If that’s the case, why bother with Meadow Pines in the first place?”

“Because if I can help people to free themselves from suffering, doesn’t that make the world an instantly better place? For them at least.”

“I like to think I have faith in the human race,” Jerome said. “Yes, there are terrible people in the world. People who do awful things. But the majority of us are not monsters. The majority of us are good and kind.”

“But selfish,” Pamela said. “There is enough food and water to feed every single person on this planet and yet children die in poverty every single minute of every single day. There’s no need for it and yet it happens relentlessly. Why? Because it means thinking about the survival of others, not just our own.” She paused, meeting Jerome’s perplexed face. “I know what you’re thinking. Why is she reacting so heatedly to the problems of the world when her whole ethos is not to react but to observe? I can meditate for twelve, thirteen hours a day and in that time, I can detach from my ego. But the rest of the time, Jerome, I’m a human being living in matter, and that matter doesn’t give two hoots if I’m enlightened or not.”

She looked away from him and towards the living room door. An uncomfortable silence filled the air. On the sofa, Helen groaned and turned her head.

Her eyelids flickered.

“Helen?” Jerome rushed to her side. “Can you hear me?”

Just as quickly as her eyes had opened, they closed again. Hope sinking in his stomach, Jerome got to his feet. His eyes found the door.

“I’m going to check on Emily.”

Pamela returned to the window and peered outside. “It’s a cruel world in which we live, Jerome. The best we can do is free ourselves from its grip, then help others do the same.”

Reaching the door, he pulled it open.

“Lock it behind me,” he said.

T
he rain hit the ground hard, tearing up loose soil. Emily cut through the dark, heading straight towards the forest. She wore her raincoat, the hood pulled up. Her shoes and jeans were already wet, her skin damp beneath. A torch swung in her hands, switched off until she really needed it.

To be wandering around outside while a killer stalked through the trees wasn’t the most sensible idea she’d had in her life. But the rain would cover any noise she made and she could use darkness as a cloak. The torch would be a problem, shining a light on her whereabouts, but if she kept it pointed to the ground instead of swinging it at the trees, the risk of being discovered would be reduced.

The forest came up to meet her. Looking back over her shoulder, she took a last look at the house. Light poured from Pamela’s living room window. A pang of guilt prodded her in the chest as she pictured Jerome sat with Helen. No doubt he would be wondering what was taking her so long. He would be worrying. But had she told him where she was going, he would have tried to stop her. And then, after realising he’d have a better chance of stopping the earth from turning, he would have insisted on coming along. She couldn’t allow that. Enough blood had been spilled today and she was determined that no one else would be put in harm’s way.

Switching on the torch, Emily squinted as trees were illuminated with cold light. By day, the forest was beautiful and serene. Now, tree trunks were gnarled and twisted. Branches reached down like skeletal hands to snatch her up. She dipped the light towards the ground. Darkness swarmed around her, filled with night time evils. Steadying her trembling hand, Emily crept forwards.

She headed west, keeping the lights of the house to her right. With only the torch as her guide, it would be easy to become disoriented. One wrong turn would lead to another. Before she knew it, she’d be heading in the wrong direction, moving deeper into the forest, deeper into darkness.

The sound of rain drumming on the hood of her raincoat was deafening as she weaved between the trees. She moved at a hurried pace, stopping when she thought she was heading off course, then ploughing forwards once she’d regained her bearings. Fear prickled the back of her neck. Her head swivelled from left to right as her eyes searched the darkness.

It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. She stumbled into the clearing. The torchlight fell upon the tool shed, transforming it into a derelict haunted house. Emily moved forwards, her feet cautious and stiff. Rain hammered down on the roof, sounding like a thousand drums.

She froze in the doorway. The smell of blood was overpowering; a nauseating stench that was at once sickly sweet and horribly acerbic. Ignoring the fear pulling her back, Emily stepped inside. The torchlight illuminated shelves and cast shadows against the walls. Blades and sharp prongs glinted.

Sam remained in the corner, dead eyes staring into darkness. His blood had congealed, thick and reddish-black like coloured gelatine. Overcome by a sudden urge to run, Emily turned away. She couldn’t breathe in here. The air was too rank and heavy. A familiar tingling began at the top of her head and in the tips of her fingers. Panic flapped inside her chest like a trapped bird. Her eyes moved back to Sam’s body, lingering on the puncture wounds, the ragged gash in his neck. Whoever had killed him had done so in a panicked frenzy, plunging the blade into his flesh again and again, until he’d lost too much blood to fight back. Fear gripping her bones, Emily stumbled backwards. She hit the wall, sending a garden rake clattering to the floor. Startled, she cried out, then whipped the torch towards the open door, lighting up the forest outside.

“Get a hold of yourself,” she whispered. She hadn’t felt this afraid since waking up at St. Dymphna’s Private Hospital, a feeding tube rammed into her stomach, with no idea of where she was or what had happened to her.

Backing herself into the far corner, she ducked down and closed her eyes.
In for four, hold for seven, out for eight
. She chanted the mantra that always helped to slow her breathing, over and over until she felt calmer and in control.

Opening her eyes again, she pushed herself up. Turning away from Sam’s body, she inspected the tools hanging on the wall. She located a shovel, unhooked it, and without stopping to look back, raced out into the waiting darkness.

It took her a moment to orientate herself. She left the glade, retracing her steps until she saw the glint of lights. The house was a hundred yards away. Switching off the torch, Emily emerged from the forest and moved in a wide circle, keeping enough distance between herself and Pamela’s living room window to pass by unnoticed. She wondered what was happening in there. Had Jerome realised she was gone? Had Helen woken up and revealed who had attacked her? For a second, temptation drew her back towards the house. Then, as she fought it off, she ducked in between the greenhouse and the vegetable plot and headed for the meadow.

The front of the house was pitched in darkness, leaving Emily blind. She switched the torch back on. Wildflowers glowed in the light, their petals shredded by the rain. Long grass swished against her jeans as she hurried eastwards. Her arm was already beginning to ache with the weight of the shovel. She swapped hands, tucking the torch under her armpit. Soon, she was heading back into the forest.

The rain still showed no signs of easing off by the time Emily reached the clearing. Although her raincoat had kept her upper body dry, her jeans and shoes were drenched. A gentle tapping directed her attention towards Oscar’s body. Pools of rainwater had formed in the dips and troughs of the tarpaulin. She circled him cautiously, half-expecting him to leap up and lurch towards her like the living dead. It was unnerving what horrors the imagination could produce in the dark; all those childhood terrors crawling out from beneath the bed in an instant.

Emily moved beneath the tree, then around it, until she stood on the other side. She pointed the torch at the chaos star that was carved into the trunk, then directed the light down at the ground. The bouquet of rotting flowers lay at her feet, the rain turning it to mush. She had no idea if the conclusion she’d drawn was right. If it even was a conclusion. But instinct had drawn her back to this clearing, back to the tree where Oscar had been strung up like an animal at a slaughterhouse. And right now, as she pushed the dead flowers to one side to reveal soft, wet earth, that instinct grew white-hot in her belly.

Resting the torch against a tree root, Emily picked up the shovel. She tapped the ground at the base of the tree. Moving a little further out, she tapped the ground again. There was a difference. The ground directly beneath the tree felt looser, less compacted.

Emily lifted the shovel. Using both hands, she drove it into the earth. Pressing her foot down on the blade, she watched it sink into the soil. Then, with her throat drying and her heart racing, she began to dig.

T
he house ticked and creaked like the limbs of a rheumatic old man. Jerome hurried along the corridor, stopping at the dining hall and sticking his head through the doorway. It was dark and silent. Half-eaten food still sat on the table from an interrupted lunchtime. It seemed like days ago that they had all left the table in a panic.