The Shadow House(30)

Another noise at her back: the rattle of a latch, the squeak of a hinge. She whirled around to see Gabriel’s door crack open, just wide enough for Renee to glimpse two frightened eyes and an open mouth. ‘Mum?’ he said in a small voice. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Everything’s okay,’ she said, repeating the line she’d given the dog. ‘Nothing to worry about, go back to sleep.’

Ignoring her, Gabriel crept forward, his eyes on the object outside.

Hardly daring to breathe, Renee opened the door and peered out, flinching as a breeze eddied around her ankles.

‘What is that?’ whispered Gabriel.

Hanging above the front steps, dangling from the eaves by a piece of string, was a doll. A Christmas angel, a tree-topper, complete with sparkly dress, wings and a halo.

The wind picked up and the doll spun in a circle. The string had been tied around its neck like a noose.

And then came a rush, like the whistle of a whip right before it cracks, followed by the sound of smashing glass and a series of wet splats.

Gabe yelled out and Renee jumped as Ebony dashed through her legs out the door, barking furiously. In between the barks, Renee heard a rhythmic swish-crunch; someone was running through grass and leaves, either towards the house or away.

‘Michael!’ she yelled, holding on to the doorframe with both hands.

He appeared in the hallway. ‘What the …?’ he said, rubbing his sleep-creased eyes. ‘What’s happening?’

Ebony’s barks became more frenzied – she was back inside the house – and both Michael and Renee started moving at once, following the sound, hurrying together down the hall, past the bathroom, into the kitchen and around the corner, where they skidded to a stop.

The living room was bleeding. The sofa, the walls, the family photographs on the side table, all spattered with red. Blood dripped down the window glass in thick rivulets. Two of the panes had broken, allowing the night air to roll uninvited through the jagged holes.

Renee covered her mouth with her hands.

There is no tiger.

Gabriel edged past her, his mouth hanging open.

There is no tiger.

Michael was already at the back door, fumbling with the lock, yanking it open, switching on the light, striding outside.

There is no tiger.

There wasn’t a tiger. Of course there wasn’t. But there was a lot of blood. The house was soaked in it.





ALEX





12


Holding on to the sink in my bathroom, I turned on the tap and watched the water swirl down the plughole. Despite the two coffees I’d already sculled, I was so tired I could hardly stay upright. Maybe I needed to slap myself, pinch my skin, bite my lip till it bled; a nice hot cup of pain to start the day. It seemed to work in the movies. I whacked my cheek with an open palm. My face stung, but it didn’t wake me up.

Sighing, I washed my hands, wincing at the sight of my nails, bitten to the quick. I kept flashing back to the kid on the road, the spooky story. My new mum friends laughing at me, making fun of my fear. Stuart’s threats, the way his face twisted when he was angry.

I pressed my fingers to my temples; my head was pounding again. I considered taking a quick nap right there on the floor; curling up on the bathmat and drifting off, just for ten minutes. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw the horrible stick doll and its waxy face. The dead bird and its unseeing eye. The images swirled together with echoes of my now-recurring nightmares, until I could no longer distinguish dream from memory, memory from dream.

Coffee. I need more coffee.

Splashing some water on my face, I straightened up and got on with the day.


The meeting had already started when I arrived. The door banged when I pushed it open, causing countless pairs of eyes to swivel in my direction. Jostling the pram over the threshold, I edged my way inside and hovered by the wall, waiting for someone to tell me what to do next.

The Pine Ridge community hall was a single-storey gabled conversion, clad on the outside with black corrugated metal and decorated inside with white walls, concrete floors, bifold glass doors and ceiling fans that reminded me of wind turbines. In line with its intended function as the heart of the village, it occupied a central position overlooking the dam. The interior was open plan, just one enormous gleaming room with two subdivided spaces at each end: a kitchen to the right, and a room on the left that had been filled with toys and soft play equipment and was used as an unofficial creche. The overall effect was stark and functional: this was a place for business.

I’d already seen the villagers en masse but, unlike at the greenhouses, the vibe here was static and serious. Black folding chairs had been arranged in a circle and every single seat held a Pine Ridge resident. At the back of the room stood a PA system and a whiteboard, next to which sat Kit, spine straight, feet planted firmly on the floor, microphone in hand. As soon as I saw him, I couldn’t help it: my whole body hummed like a tuning fork.

He looked up. Our eyes met. I felt the blush creeping up my neck before I could do anything to stop it.

Kit waved and gestured for me to join. ‘Everyone, make room for Alex. Can someone get another chair?’ After some shuffling and scraping, a gap appeared in the circle.

Parking the pram against the wall and locking it in place, I checked under the hood. Kara’s little face was the picture of peace. Mine, on the other hand, felt swollen with fatigue – and, despite much teeth-brushing, I was pretty sure I stank of alcohol. The late-night vodka was becoming a habit.