She gets up and walks through the hall, into the living room. She peers out the window. Her eyebrows rise. Really?
She walks to the front door.
Don’t open it to anyone you don’t know.
She unlocks the door and yanks it open.
‘What are you doing here?’
FIFTY-FIVE
When I was a child, my favourite book was The Owl Who Was Afraid of the Dark.
I used to repeat it to myself when Mum punished me. I would recite: ‘Darkness is exciting, darkness is fun, darkness is beautiful, darkness is kind.’
Of course, as I grew older, I saw through the lie.
Darkness is only exciting and fun when you’re the owl. A hunter, a predator.
If you’re the prey, helpless and alone, darkness is death.
I blink my eyes open. All around me, thick, impenetrable black. I’m lying on my side, my shoulder cramped under me. My cheek is pressed into rough, bristly carpet. I can feel the fibres tickling at my nose, some trapped in my throat. I cough. Hot, sharp pain envelops one side of my head. Something sticky is crusted around my ear and neck. I want to raise a hand to touch the pain, but I can’t move it. My wrists are bound behind me. I can’t feel my feet but I’m pretty sure they’re similarly restricted. Hog-tied. Helpless in the dark.
I try to quell the panic. Move a little. Fresh pain shoots through my skull as it connects with metal. Only a few inches above me. I roll the other way and my nose bumps into more coarse fabric. I try to straighten my legs and find I can’t.
I’m trapped, confined. In a coffin. Buried alive. The panic swells and threatens to bubble over. No. Push it down. Stop it. Not possible. There isn’t much air, but there’s still air coming in from somewhere. And a smell … grease and oil.
I strain my ears. Outside, I can hear something. Birds. Evening song. I’m above ground. Confined. And the realization is not as horrific as being buried alive, but almost. I am in a car boot. Saffron’s car boot. My brain draws on foggy memory. Standing, staring at her body. Hearing a noise behind me. Starting to turn, and then the blow. A crippling pain in my head as something crashed into my skull. But just before the blackness, a glimpse. Silvery-green eyes.
Wrigley killed his mother. And he’s been living with her body, pretending she’s still alive. The messages I received must have from been Wrigley. My stomach rolls. Not just at the thought of Saffron’s decomposing corpse but at the thought of that boy – that psychopath – touching my daughter. Flo. Oh God. Flo. I need to warn Flo.
And then I hear another sound. Footsteps crunching on the shingle driveway. Getting closer. A clunk. I squint against the sudden shaft of sunlight. A tall silhouette stands over me. My vision adjusts.
For a moment, I don’t recognize this stranger. Through my fog of fear and pain I realize that his hair is shorter, shorn right down to his skull. It makes him look older. The baggy hoodie has gone too. He wears a charcoal T-shirt and his arms are sinewy with muscle.
‘Hi, Reverend Brooks.’
‘Wrigley.’
Except my tongue is sluggish and it comes out, ‘Wugglah.’
He smiles. And I notice what else is different. The twitching, the strange jerking movements, have stopped. He stands, tall and perfectly still.
‘Your twutch?’
‘Oh, that. Yeah.’
He suddenly convulses. Limbs jerking uncontrollably. Then he straightens and laughs.
‘Good act, right? Poor wriggly Wrigley.’ He perches on the edge of the boot. ‘You ever see the film The Usual Suspects? Great film.’ He leans in and whispers. ‘The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was pretending he didn’t exist.’
He hops off the boot. ‘People don’t like to stare at a cripple. They’re embarrassed. All they feel is pity.’ He winks. ‘You can get away with a lot that way.’
I stare at him helplessly. ‘What uh you gunna do?’
‘Well, we’re going to wait till it’s darker and then we’re going for a drive. Just got to get one more thing.’
He disappears from my sight, leaving the boot open. I twist and turn, wriggling from side to side, tugging at my restraints, but it’s no good. I think about screaming, but who would hear me, apart from Wrigley, and I don’t want to make him angry. I hear whistling. Wrigley is already returning. He’s limping very slightly – so he did actually hurt his ankle – and he’s carrying a long shape wrapped in stained bedsheets.
My stomach lurches and my heart fills with horror.
‘No.’
He smiles. ‘Sorry, Reverend. It’s going to be a bit cramped.’
And then he lies Saffron’s rotting corpse in the boot next to me and slams the lid closed.
FIFTY-SIX
Her blonde hair is pulled back. She’s dressed down in jeans and a baggy hoodie, hands shoved deep in her pockets. Her face looks pale and contrite.
Flo stares at Rosie. ‘You know this could be seen as intimidating a witness.’
‘That’s not why I’m here. Honestly. I just need to talk.’
‘Why?’
‘I … I want to say sorry.’
‘Fine. You’ve said it. Bye.’
‘Wait!’
Against her better judgement, Flo keeps the door open, just a wedge. ‘What?’
‘Look, I never meant for things to go this far. Really. It wasn’t my idea.’
‘I find it hard to believe Tom has any ideas.’
‘I’m not talking about Tom.’
‘Then what are you talking about?’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Can’t you tell me out here?’
‘Please? I brought you this back.’
Rosie holds out a Jack Skellington sweatshirt. The one Flo lent Poppy on their first day here. It feels like a lifetime ago.
Flo debates with herself. One on one, she can take this bitch. ‘Fine.’ She snatches the sweatshirt and opens the door wider. ‘But make it quick. My mum will be back in five minutes – and if she finds you here, she’ll actually kill you.’
They walk into the kitchen and stand stiffly.
‘Well?’ Flo says.
‘Look, I know you hate me.’
‘Can’t imagine why. Shooting at me and Wrigley. Throwing him down a well.’
‘I didn’t throw him down a well.’
‘Oh, yeah. It was all Tom, right?’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘No one threw Wrigley down the well.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Did you see us throw him down the well?’
‘No, but –’
‘Don’t you think it was a bit odd that he didn’t hurt himself?’
‘Maybe he was just lucky.’
‘Whose idea was it to meet up there? Wrigley’s, right?’
Flo stares at her, a horrible dry feeling in her throat. ‘Yeah.’
‘It was all planned. The bag over your head. The attack. We tied a rope around him and lowered him down into the well. It was a big wind-up.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? Why would you do that? Why would Tom do that?’