Cry for Help (32 page)

'Choc?'

He looked back the way we'd come, then up the road again. Hedging his bets. I couldn't believe it - for all his fucking bravado, he was worried about the police. When Sarah and Tori were in there right now.

I took a step towards him, but he clambered back into the passenger seat and closed the door in one motion. Rolled the window down and glared out at me.

'The Wheatfield,' he told me. 'Don't forget. And stay safe.'

'What?'

But he tapped on the dashboard, and a second later their car was vanishing away up the street.

I stood there on my own for a moment, full of disbelief. How could he have abandoned her like that, just because the police were going to be here soon? After everything he'd said. And what - he expected me to lie for him as well?

I turned around. Looked again at the light on the first floor.

The sirens were close, but not close enough.

You'll have to do this on your own, then.

The door to the house was up a short flight of steps. I stopped at the bottom. I still had the knife, but it wasn't necessarily going to do me much good - Rob had been stabbed, which meant the man who'd taken Sarah had one too. And what else? Nothing but that piece of paper - which I realised was still in my hand, damp from the rain. I folded it up and put it in my pocket. My hand was shaking.

Sarah and Tori are in there right now.

I didn't hear anything then, because there was nothing to hear, and the sky didn't go any darker than it already was. But something happened. Some switch clicked on inside me, and I understood that if I didn't do this, a part of me would stay standing there for ever. For the rest of my life, I'd look back on this moment and hate the person I saw. You can forgive yourself for the mistakes you make. But only when you don't know they're mistakes at the time.

I went up the steps before I'd had a chance to question myself any more.

When I pushed the door, it scuffed against the tatty carpet in the hallway. The stairs were directly in front of me on the right. There was a soft glow up on the landing. There. I kept an eye on it as I reached into my pocket for the knife.

I barely had time to see him as he grabbed me. Just caught a glimpse of a tall man in the doorway to the dark living room beside me, a malformed face full of hate, and then the next thing I knew my head collided with a wall, my shoulder with the floor. He'd just thrown me right across the front room.

Sideways on, I saw him close the door, and for a moment the front room was pitch black. Misdirection, I realised. He'd put the light on upstairs, then waited down here.

Then he flicked on the light switch and I saw him properly.

Oh shit.

The man was thin, but there was an air of strength to him too, like he was made entirely of bone and sinew. He had his back to me, and I watched in disbelief as he hefted an old, empty sideboard up from against the far wall as though it weighed nothing, and moved it across to block the door. The muscles contracted in his back, making it look as hard and armoured as a turtle's shell. His knuckles, where he gripped the wood, bulged out like conkers.

The room seemed to shake slightly as he dropped the sideboard in place.

I rolled over and sat up as best I could, and then saw Sarah. She was sitting on a threadbare settee to my left, her legs tucked up to her chin, slim arms wrapped around them. Rocking gently. Smaller than I'd ever seen her before, with tears streaming silently down her face.

'Sarah,' I said.

No response. Her eyes were staring off to one side, and she seemed completely oblivious to everything that was happening. Her lips were moving, I noticed. She was whispering something to herself, but too quietly for me to hear.

The man laughed. I looked across the room at his face. One side of it was sloped and wrong; the eye there was lower than it should have been, and dead. He looked like an old, grizzled predator that had been in too many fights.

'Sarah?' he said. 'Is that what you're calling yourself these days?'

I didn't understand what he meant - my head was pounding from the collision with the wall. I touched it and my fingers came away red with blood. I clambered awkwardly to my feet, but my legs felt so weak that I had to lean against the wall for support.

Blink.

What was that? My vision was going wrong. My mind's eye felt like it had just clenched shut for a second.

The man looked at me.

'You're not my son,' he said. 'Where is he?'

I just stared back at him.

'Run away, has he?' The man looked down at Sarah. 'As brave as he ever was. I'm looking forward to his face when he comes home and sees what I've done to you.'

I tried to contain the fear. I remembered the power in him when he got hold of me. Despite his age, there was no way I could beat this man in a fight - not even if I could stand up properly, never mind right now. The strength was there in his face, too: in the lack of emotion. His expression was utterly pitiless.

He reached into his jacket and produced a knife.

Pointed the tip at me.

'I've waited twelve years for this. And you're not going to get in my way, whoever you are.'

Whoever you are? That didn't make any sense, either.

I stared back, almost hypnotised, then slowly put my hand in my pocket and pulled out the knife I'd taken from my father's kitchen. His expression changed. He thought I was funny, but there was something else there, too. That I'd dared pull a knife on him. In doing so, I realised I'd just made everything a lot worse for myself. He needed to punish me for even thinking it.

'What are you going to do with that?'

Blink.

'What do you think, Mary? I know what I'm going to do with it. I'm going to cut his face off with it. And you're going to watch it happen, you little bitch.'

Sarah didn't respond. She was staring into space, her lips still moving quickly and repetitively.

'Maybe.' I took a step forward, hoping that my legs would hold. 'Maybe not. I'm pretty good with a knife, you know.'

Come on, man. Get yourself together.

'Is that right?'

He looked at me a second longer, then reached around and put his knife down on the sideboard behind him.

'I've had three fights against men with knives. Real fights, I mean. I used to train it all the time. Got cut once. I know a good ten ways to take a knife off someone.'

I forced myself to take another step forwards. It was hard. Every instinct in my body was telling me to curl up in the corner and wait with my eyes closed.

'And these were guys who'd used knives before. You don't look like that kind of guy.'

'Might as well take my chances,' I said. 'You don't--'

Blink.

I shook my head.

'You don't look too fucking great from where I'm standing, either.'

The smile vanished from his face then. He glanced at Sarah.

'This won't take long.'

I walked towards him, but my legs half went, so he came across to meet me. Everything blurred slightly. I swung the knife up at him--

But he was too fast.

He caught my wrist easily, almost delicately, between his hands, slid his thumbs up the back and leaned over, pressing my hand back towards my bicep. My wrist cracked, and something flared in my head that wasn't even pain yet, just damage centres catching fire. I cried out anyway, my knees buckling, and I lost my grip - the folded piece of paper Rob had given me fell from my fingers.

While I could still think, I rammed the real knife as hard as I could into the side of his neck with my other hand. Then stepped away, and fell over.

Blink.

I looked up and saw the man's eyes were wide, his face frozen. Slowly, he put his hand up to where the knife was still sticking out of him, then tried to say something, but it didn't work. It came out as a gargle, and I saw the flash of panic on his face as he realised he couldn't breathe. His eyes clenched shut for a second in pain, then opened and stared at me; his hand reached out, then retracted back. And then again. He fell to his knees. His body seemed to have gone stop-motion.

I looked at him, feeling nothing but horror.

I'd done that. Maybe I would be able to justify it to myself later, but for now, there was only the viscera of what was happening in front of me.

Blink.

The man was resting forwards on his elbows, rattling out blood onto the carpet, and then he fell over to one side, the knife pointing up towards the ceiling. His foot began tapping on the floor, while the blood started to creep across the carpet like ink on tissue paper--

Blink.

My vision kept going for longer and longer. It was as though the room was strobe-lit and time was slowing down. I realised the man had stopped moving, and the thumping wasn't just inside me anymore. Someone was hammering on the door.

'Frank Carroll? Police. Open this--'

Blink.

I glanced up and saw that Sarah was standing now, staring down at the man's body. Her arms were hanging straight down by her side, and her body was very still. She was still talking to herself, ever so quietly. I could only hear the faintest trace of whatever she was saying.

'Carroll?'

'Dead,' I guessed.

'Open the door.'

'I can't.'

Blink.

I shook my head just as something splintered loudly. The door hit the sideboard and someone cursed. Sarah was crouching - blink - and then standing, the knife in her hand. She'd pulled it from his neck.

'Lewis? Is Mary Carroll in there with you?'

'No,' I said.

'Where is she then?'

'What?'

Blink.

Sarah's eyes were closed now, and the intensity of sadness in her face was devastating. I'd never seen anything like it in my life.

Another crash. Behind her, I saw the door judder, the sideboard rocking forward. The man's knife fell off and landed on the floor.

She lifted up the blade she was holding

Blink.

'Sarah?'

But I realised she couldn't even hear me. It was as though she'd retreated entirely into her head. Wherever her mind had gone, I didn't exist there. Nothing in the room did - perhaps nothing at all. And finally, I caught the words she was repeating. The tone of her voice sounded as though every hope she'd ever clung to had been taken from her.

'You did not come back to save me,' she was saying.

And then she plunged the knife into her chest.

Blink.

Chapter Thirty-six

Saturday 3rd September

A dirt path appeared on the right-hand side.

Eddie turned the wheel and took the car off road. The path was slimy and brown from the downpour, little more than wet clay. He had no idea where he was, only that it was some distance away from where anyone could find him in time. That was all he wanted now.

The suspension rocked as the wheels handled the undulations of the track. He followed it up for about twenty metres before it widened out, and then the car emerged into a parking area on the ridge of a large embankment.

There were wooden picnic tables, sodden in the rain, and as he parked up close to the edge he saw that the land stretched away below. The airport was down there. He guessed that people came here to watch planes during the day, and maybe to fuck each other on an evening. But the weather seemed to have put both groups off: there were no other cars here.

Eddie turned off the engine and got out, gripping the door as he almost lost his footing on the slippery ground. When he was steady, he walked round to the boot, opened it, and looked down at Tori Edmonds lying there bound and gagged with the rain pattering in on her.

There was a thicket of woods over to the right.

That would do.

When he'd arrived at Mary's house on the evening of Sunday 7th August, Eddie had been almost delirious from the pain. He'd had to wait until nightfall before he dared to leave the woods, and as he'd sat in the undergrowth, breathing heavily, he could already feel the infection setting into his palms. It itched there. He could barely move his fingers, and every time he tried a bolt of agony went straight up his arm and into his neck.

Think you're a musician, don't you?

Drake had put one bullet through each of his hands.

You don't fuck with me or my friends.

Sitting amongst the trees, the stars appearing overhead, Eddie had howled laughter up into the night. Despite the agony, or perhaps because of it, he felt primeval. Powerful. They had no idea what they'd done - especially Dave Lewis. Eddie couldn't forget the way Lewis had looked at him before he punched him, as though he was so fucking special, some kind of gallant protector come to save the day. Nobody looked at him like that. Not anymore.

There had been a time when they had - when those expressions were all he could see - and it became worse after his father was released from prison. From that point on, he'd felt eyes on him everywhere he went. People looking at him, accusing him, their faces full of the knowledge of how much better than him they were. That had changed after he met Vicky Klein. He'd been playing guitar at an open-mic night, and she'd come in on her own: a small, sad girl at the back of the room. She'd been grateful when he talked to her later - and why wouldn't she be? He'd learned all about her busy friends. He'd pictured them in his head, and even without knowing them, he'd felt the weight of their expressions, even though they were just as bad as he was. In time, those people had learned exactly how superior they really were. Just as Sharon Goodall's friends had, and then Alison Wilcox's.

Sitting in the wood, he'd wrapped his hands in his shirt and thought:
I know all about you.
He'd met two of Lewis's girlfriends while he'd been with Tori and he remembered their names. And Tori as well, of course.

You'll be sorry.

I'll show you exactly how much better than me you are.

Later on, he was still laughing as he pressed his hands onto Mary's walls and doors, painting blood-red birds on whatever surface he could find, while she cried and tore at her hair, and didn't seem able to breathe properly.