The Hiding Place(83)

I opened my mouth but the words dried up. Blood. Red. Fresh.

“Hello? Which service do you require?”

The bathroom. Splotches on the floor. But not splotches. Shapes. One splotch, five small ones.

Footprints. Small footprints.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

I lowered the phone. From behind me, I heard a noise. A tiny giggle. I put the receiver back and turned around.

Annie stood in the doorway. She must have been crouched in the closet beneath the stairs. She was naked. Blood streaked her body and her face, like war paint. I could see gashes on her arms, her narrow chest. She had slashed at herself too. Her eyes glittered. In one hand, she held a large kitchen knife.

I tried to breathe, tried not to throw myself screaming out of a window.

A knife. Dad. Wet, wet, wet.

“Annie. Are you all right? I—I thought someone broke in.”

I saw confusion flicker.

“It’s okay. I’m home now. I’ll protect you. You know that, don’t you? I’m your big brother. I’ll always protect you.”

The knife wavered. Something in her face changed. She almost looked like my Annie. Like she used to. I felt my heart clench.

“Put the knife down. We can sort this out.” I held out my arms, tears thickening my voice. “Come on.”

She smiled. And charged at me with a growl of guttural ferocity. I was ready. I sidestepped and shoved her hard. She flew forward, tripped on the hearthrug and fell. I grabbed for the poker by the fire, but there was no need. Her head caught the corner of the fireplace. She crumpled to the floor, the knife falling from her hand.

I stood, shaking, half expecting her to leap straight back up. She continued to lie still. Because whatever was inside, it was still inside the body of an eight-year-old girl. And eight-year-olds are fragile. They break easily.

I looked back at my dad. I had to get him to a hospital. I glanced at the phone. Then I ran into the kitchen. A while ago Dad had given me a few driving lessons. Just up and down the local roads. Back then, in Arnhill, no one really gave a shit about a fifteen-year-old behind the wheel. I wasn’t great. But I knew the basics.

And I knew where Dad’s keys were.


—



Dad was heavy. He had put on weight. I dragged him to the door, inched it open and glanced out at the street. No one around. Curtains drawn. I couldn’t be sure that some busybody like Mrs. Hawkins wasn’t peering out of her net curtains, but I had to take the chance.

I heaved his body down the short pathway and over to the car. I propped him against the back door and opened the passenger side. Then I manhandled him in, body first and then his legs and feet. I stood back. My hands and the front of my school shirt were covered with blood. No time to worry about that. The hospital was twelve miles away, in Nottingham. I had to move quicker. I hurried around to the driver’s side and stopped. I looked back at the house. Annie.

I couldn’t just leave her.

She stabbed your dad.

She’s still just a kid.

Not anymore.

She might die.

And?

I can’t leave her. Not again. Not like before.

I ran back into the house. Half of me expected to find Annie had gone, like in horror films when you think the hero has killed the bad guy only for them to disappear and then reappear later, wielding a chain saw. But Annie still lay where she had fallen. Naked. Shit. I ran back upstairs, heart thudding like an internal clock, reminding me that time was running out. I flung open the small white wardrobe in Annie’s room, grabbed some pajamas—pink with white sheep—and ran back down the stairs.

She didn’t stir as I dragged them on her, although I could feel her breathing faintly. I lifted her in my arms, as slight as a baby deer. She felt cold. And a part of me couldn’t contain a shudder of distaste.

I was almost at the gate when I saw a shadow approaching along the street and heard excited panting. A dog walker. I backed up and waited in the shadows as they passed. The dog stopped near the gate, sniffed then recoiled, tugging its owner faster down the road.

“All right, all right, got scent of a fox, ’ave yer?”

No, I thought, but it got a scent of something.

I bundled Annie into the back of the car. Then I ran around to the front and flung myself into the driver’s seat. My hands were shaking so badly it took me three attempts to fumble the keys into the ignition.

Fortunately—miraculously—the engine started the first time. I put the car into gear. Suddenly remembered my seat belt. I clicked it in and lurched off down the street. I concentrated on trying to stay on the right side of the road, and also on not bumping the curb. It distracted me from thinking about what I would do if Dad died on the way, or what I would say if he didn’t.

I needed a story. I remembered what I’d said to Annie—an intruder. Someone broke in. They would believe that. They had to. And if Dad was alive, he could tell the truth.

I was out of the village now. The black country road twisted in front of me like an oily snake. No streetlights, only cat’s eyes. I couldn’t find the full beam. A car emerged from a side road and pulled close behind me. Too close. The glare in the rearview mirror was blinding me. What if it was the police? What if they had traced the 999 call and they were following me? And then the car signaled and pulled past, horn blaring.

I glanced down at the speedometer. I was only doing 35 mph, on a 60-mph road. No wonder they were pissed off at me. And I was drawing attention to myself. Despite the blackness and my tenuous grip on the wheel, I forced myself to push my foot down harder on the accelerator. I watched the needle creep up to forty, fifty. I glanced in the rearview mirror again.