She scowled. “Didn’t you hear me? We’re going home. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“No.” He put the car in reverse. “And I don’t believe it’s what you want, either. Maybe it is at this moment. But in a week’s time, I think you would regret it if you gave up now.”
You think you know me. The venomous words boiled inside her, looking for a way out. You’re wrong. You don’t know what’s best for me. You don’t even know what’s best for yourself.
A painful silence surrounded them as they drove back towards higher ground. Clare felt it acutely, like a black cloud had filled their car, poisoning the air and turning her stomach with every inhalation. She wondered if Dorran felt it, as well. His face was empty of emotion. She had learned that meant there were emotions under the surface that he was fiercely trying to hide.
His eyes were tired, and his lips pressed together. He was unhappy; that was for certain. Unhappy with Clare, maybe. Unhappy that he had to struggle to take the high road, even though he didn’t want to.
We never should have left Winterbourne. Things were better back there. We were safe. We were a team. Back there, I loved him.
Her throat tightened.
Don’t I love him now?
She wasn’t sure. She didn’t think so. Her heart felt raw, as though every emotion that had once lived there had been scraped out. There was no love for anything.
He reached the sign for the caravan park and turned into it. Poles poked out of the ground, indicating where campers could park and—once upon a time—access water and electricity. Wooded areas surrounded the field. A month ago, Clare would have relished parking in such a picturesque location. Now, she eyed the trees with nothing but wariness. Woods could hide hollows. Woods were unsafe.
“Wait here,” Dorran said. The car’s internal lights blinked on as he opened his door. She watched in a daze as he walked between the eight caravans, stopping at each one to tap on its door with his hatchet. He was listening for noises inside, she guessed, but it was hard to see him in the fresh dark of night. The space felt still, though—almost eerily so. Faint mist ghosted across the dead grass and swirled around Dorran’s legs as he paced between the dark structures.
It took several minutes for Dorran to return. When he opened Clare’s door, he smiled, despite the stress and tiredness weighing on his features. “We’re in luck. They are all empty, so we may have our pick. That one there is the largest.”
“It’s fine.” She didn’t mind where they slept. Only that she would be allowed to slip into a world where she couldn’t feel the aches bruising her insides or remember the look on Marnie’s face as she shambled towards them.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The caravan’s door had been left unlocked, and it creaked as Dorran pushed on it. His flashlight ran across evidence that the owners had woken up to a mundane morning. The kitchenette had two mugs set beside the sink to dry. A loaf of bread, just barely starting to turn mouldy now that the ice had abated, had been left on the shelf. Its bag hung open as though someone were planning to toast another slice. A magazine sat on the pullout couch. The double bed’s sheets were tousled and unmade.
Clare wondered how their morning had been disrupted. A relative might have phoned to tell them about the spreading quiet zones, and they abandoned the caravan as they raced to drive home. Or maybe they had heard their holidaying neighbours yelling and stepped outside to see what the commotion was about. Or possibly, they felt the burning in their lungs as they stood in the very place Clare was standing, lounged on the couch, or reached into the bread bag for another slice. What would they have thought? That the air had turned toxic? They could have run outside with just enough sense of mind to slam the door behind them.
Whatever had happened, they were dead. And now she and Dorran were stepping in where they had left off, to sleep in the bed they had shared, to flip through their magazine, to deal with the bread they had left to rot.
Dorran left Clare in the caravan as he fetched armfuls of supplies from the back of the car. When he returned a moment later, he carried weapons in case they were disturbed during the night, a jug of water, food, and their blanket. He placed their haul onto the couch and poured out some water.
“Drink,” he urged, holding the cup towards Clare. “I’ll make dinner. Then we can sleep.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You are. You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I’ll be sick.”
An unhappy, barely audible sigh escaped him. “Very well. But please, at least drink some water.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and sipped from the cup while Dorran leaned against the kitchenette and ate cold stew from a tin. They didn’t speak or even look at each other. Clare knew they were fracturing, losing the loyalty they’d held for each other, but she was incapable of stopping it. She put the cup aside and wordlessly crawled into bed, facing the wall.
Her clothes were still damp from the car, but she was too tired to take them off. She coiled up, hands under her chin and eyes burning, as she waited for sleep to give her some reprieve.
A moment later, the mattress dipped as Dorran sat on its edge. He carefully, near silently slipped under the covers. A word ran through Clare’s mind, unbidden. It was a horrible word. A fearful, bitter one. Murderer.
She saw the blue door in her mind’s eye and heard the thwacks. She tightened her hands into fists as she fought with herself not to cry.
Dorran shuffled closer and, cautious, slid his hand across her waist to hold her. They had slept like that most nights in Winterbourne. Clare remembered feeling warm and safe, her back nestled against his chest, their legs tangling and his arm a reassuring weight.
Murderer. Her body stiffened as revulsion ran through her. She stared, wide-eyed, at the off-white wall.
Dorran hesitated, then the hand withdrew. He rolled over to face the opposite direction. The bed was small, but they slept as far apart as they could, not even grazing each other.
Clare felt drained, but sleep still eluded her. Minutes ticked by. She watched the wall and traced the moonlight’s progress as it gradually crawled over the panels.
She thought Dorran might be awake, as well. He was so still and quiet, she sometimes doubted if he was breathing. She opened her mouth to say something, to try to make it right, but couldn’t find any words.
She was being unfair. She knew that. She had asked him to kill Marnie—she’d begged and cried for it.
Murderer.
Clare had killed hollows too. She’d stabbed a metal pole through his mother’s head. He hadn’t held that against her. It was unfair to treat Marnie’s death as different. That didn’t stop it from feeling wrong.
She was a hollow. A monster.
But Clare had loved her.
Your aunt was gone.
But not completely gone. There was a little of her left in her eyes. Not much, and mostly instinctual by that point. But enough to be confused. Enough to be scared and in pain.
There was no way to save her. Dorran did the right thing by ending her suffering.
The phrase felt wrong. Ending her suffering. As though they were talking about putting an animal out of its misery, not a woman who had cared deeply and been filled with love for the world.