The Hiding Place(40)



“Can we take her home?” Dad asked.

The officer nodded. “Yes, I think that would be best.”

He held open the door to the interview room.

“Joe.” Mum nudged me and, before I had a chance to gather myself, or make sense of anything, we walked inside.

Annie sat on a plastic chair, next to a lady police officer who obviously didn’t have much to do with children, and looked awkward and uncomfortable.

There was a small cup of juice on the table and some uneaten cookies. Annie stared straight past them at the dirty, scuffed wall and swung her legs back and forth. Her pajamas were muddy and torn in places. The police had wrapped her in a blue blanket that was too big and no doubt intended for the adult prisoners who normally frequented the cells. Her feet were bare. And black with coal dust.

She clutched something to her chest, half hidden by the blanket. I could just see dirty-blond curls, pink plastic, one blue eye. My scalp prickled. Abbie-Eyes. She brought her back.

“Oh, Annie.”

Mum and Dad ran over and wrapped her in their arms. They smothered her in kisses, getting covered in dirt and coal dust themselves but not caring because their daughter was back. Their little girl was home, safe and sound.

Annie remained still, face impassive, only her legs swinging back and forth. Mum slowly drew away, her face tear-streaked. She reached out and smoothed a hand down Annie’s cheek.

“What happened, sweetheart? What happened to you?”

I hovered by the door, hoping that the officers would mistake my reticence for teenage awkwardness. Perhaps I was even trying to convince myself it was the reason I hadn’t moved any closer.

Annie looked up. Her eyes found mine.

“Joey.”

She smiled…and that was when I realized what was wrong. What was so terribly, horribly wrong…






I stand. The closeness of memory feels suffocating, like it’s choking me. I can taste bitter bile at the back of my throat. I stagger upstairs, making it to the bathroom just in time. I spew sour brown liquid into the stained sink. I pause, breathing raggedly, and then my stomach convulses again. More vomit forces its way out of my throat and down my nose. I clutch at the cold porcelain, trying to catch my breath and stop myself from shaking. I lean there for a while, waiting for my legs to regain some solidity, staring at the vomit-splattered basin.

Eventually, I turn on the tap and wash the lumpy brown contents of my stomach down the plughole. I spit a few times and breathe, slowly and deeply. The water from the sink gurgles noisily down the pipes.

That’s not all I can hear. Now that I’ve finished vomiting, I’m conscious again of that invasive chittering, skittering sound. Closer. Insistent. All around me. I shiver. The cold is back too. Creeping cold.

I look over at the toilet. The brick still squats on top of it. I carefully lift it off. Then I reach for the plastic toilet brush and use the scraggy end to flip up the lid. I inch forward and peer inside. Empty. I look around. The shower curtain is closed. I grab the moldy edge and yank it to one side. The only thing lurking behind it is a scum of shower gel and a dirty sponge.

I walk out of the bathroom. The chittering, skittering seems to move with me. In the pipes, the walls? I advance along the landing, still brandishing the toilet brush. I glance in my bedroom. Nothing to see here. Something about this niggles at me. And then it’s gone. I keep moving forward, toward Ben’s room.

There’s a smell. Not the toilet brush. This smell is rich, metallic. I’ve smelled it before. Another house. Another door. But the same feral scent, the same creeping cold, slithering through my guts like an icy parasite.

I grip the handle. Then I push open the door and quickly flick the switch. The bare bulb spews out a jaundiced yellow light. I look around. It’s not a big room. Just enough space for a single bed, a wardrobe and one small chest of drawers. The room has been decorated. Several coats, I imagine…

I see all of this, but I don’t really see it. Because all I see is red. Soaking the new mattress, running down the wall. Slippery, ruby rivulets slithering down from the words painted there.

Her writing. His blood.

NOT MY SON.

When did she decide? When did she realize? Was it a slow accumulation, the horror and dread building every minute, every hour, every day until she could no longer take it? The smell, the creeping cold, the noises. She already had the gun. But she didn’t use the gun on Ben. She killed him with her bare hands. Consumed by fear, rage? Or did something happen that left her with no other choice?

I force myself to close my eyes. When I open them the blood and words have gone. The walls are bare and clean, the same shade of bland off-white as the rest of the house. Malevolent magnolia. I give the room a final glance. Then I back out and close the door. I rest my forehead against the wood, breathing deeply.

Just the cottage. Just playing with your mind.

I turn. My heart stops.

“Jesus!”

Abbie-Eyes sits on the carpet, halfway down the landing.

Pudgy plastic legs poke out in front of her, blond curls stick out in disarray, her wonky eye gazes off toward a dusty cobweb in the corner. The good blue eye stares up at me mockingly.

Hey, Joey. I came back. Again.

I stare around, as if I might spot some cheeky doll-depositing burglar creeping down the stairs, giggling at his little joke. But no one is there.

On unsteady legs I walk over and pick Abbie-Eyes up. The loose eye rattles. Her cheap polyester dress rustles stiffly. The weight of her, the feel of the hard, cold plastic in my hand, makes my skin squirm.

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