ABBY STOOD AND walked out of the room, pausing outside the door. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
The three girls giggled again… but, no, this time it was only one.
She turned back and entered the room.
“Tessa, is that you?”
She felt the beating of her heart like a tiny fist within her chest. The tears rolled freely down her face, dripping off her chin, smearing against her naked throat and chest.
The top of the shrine had slipped, toppled at an odd angle. The point of the cone, so carefully modelled, had sheared away. She walked over to the mound and was forced to struggle onto her tiptoes to inspect the damage. She peered inside the gap, straining to see down inside the pyramidal mound.
There was someone inside there, crouched low, arms up and wrapped around their head. It was a small figure, barely formed, yet recognisably human. Like a new-born child, it looked wet, slimy.
“Tessa?”
The arms moved, snaking downwards across the slick, bald scalp. They made a sound like liquefied flesh sliding off bone — or at least how Abby imagined that might sound. The figure was breathing. She could hear the gentle, regular rhythm of its inhalations and exhalations. Its shoulders rose and fell fractionally. More movement: small, silver branches erupting from the slick head, reaching upwards, towards the top of the totem, quivering as they climbed.
Abby fell backwards, stumbling across the floor until her back hit the wall. She raised her hands, but had no idea what to do with them. She lowered her hands, feeling foolish.
The pointed tip of a silver branch emerged from the hole, waved around for a second, and then vanished back inside, dislodging a doll’s arm from the pile.
What was it, human or flora? When she’d been looking down inside the totem, she could have sworn that she’d seen arms cradling the top of a head… but now there was only a knot of branches, like those of a budding sapling.
Mind racing, blood pumping, heartbeat doing double time, she did the only thing that seemed sensible in her distressed state. She went into the bathroom to get some water for her new plant.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE CAT BOX was resting on the back seat as Erik drove out to the old country house. He hadn’t wanted to put it in the front, beside him, didn’t feel comfortable having it in such close proximity. He knew this was unreasonable, but it didn’t make him change his mind.
He kept his eyes on the road, not wanting to have an accident or draw attention to his presence from any passing police vehicles, but he was acutely aware of what had become of Monty Bright curled up in the box behind him. He’d realised, of course, that there was far more different about Monty than just his appearance. The twisted remnant of the man was somehow reaching inside Erik’s mind, grabbing hold of his will, and gently coercing him. It felt like soft waves of energy, caressing his brain, massaging the lobes and releasing chemicals that softened all the hard edges.
Erik wasn’t exactly doing things that were out of character, or that he wouldn’t have done anyway. No, it was more down to the fact that he was doing them without thinking, and not even questioning his motives. He was like Erik Best turned up to eleven; a rock n’ roll version of himself with no holds barred and lacking an off switch.
He realised that he was on his way to meet a man he was planning to kill — he wasn’t befogged enough to blank out that particular piece of information. But somehow it didn’t matter. He felt… well, he felt nothing. That was the thing. His emotional responses were empty, as if the emotions themselves had been drained away, leaving behind only a faint residue, an echo.
It was like rushing on strong drugs, but better: easier to relinquish control.
The big old house reared over the horizon to his right, a familiar face with dark eyes and a tightly shut mouth. The Barn — a separate building on the same plot of land — looked dark and foreboding, as if it had sloped quietly away from the side of the house, up to no good. He’d never before noticed that the Barn was this spooky, not until he’d shut it up after the bout that had ended in Marty’s stabbing. There would be fights there again, one day, but he was in no hurry to organise anything, not even a dog fight. He’d gone off the kind of people those events attracted. He liked their money, and had always ignored the bloodlust because of it, but something inside him had changed. He could no longer stomach being around people who were so cowardly that they would rather pay to watch two men fight on a roped-off section of dirt until only one was left standing than face their own battles.
He pulled up at the side of the narrow road, the wheels spitting gravel. There were no streetlights out here. He glanced up at the sky and could see few stars. The moon was a ghost; its outline was barely visible against the blackness, as if it were afraid to take a good look at what was going on below.
Erik opened the gate to his property and got back inside the car. He drove in slowly, leaving the gate open so that Hacky could enter freely, and continued slowly towards the Barn. He parked behind the old wooden structure, so that his vehicle wasn’t visible from the road. There was no reason to get out yet, so he sat there, behind the wheel, and listened to the night.
He wound down the window to let in some air. Night birds sang; it was an eerie, mournful sound. It made him feel lonely, bereft of things he didn’t even realise he’d lost. He thought about his missing daughter, and how everything had started to go wrong around that time. When Tessa vanished, the rest of his world had begun to crumble, bit by bit: his relationship with Abby, the business ventures, even his uneasy partnership with Monty Bright. His hold on the world had loosened, and even then he’d realised that he either had to tighten his grip or let go for good.
He looked behind him, at the cat box. Its occupant was silent. There was no movement.
“What the fuck am I getting into here?”
There was no reply. He wasn’t expecting one, anyway, and was glad that none was forthcoming. The inhabitant of the box had shut up after being fed. It had not uttered a word since, other than inside Erik’s head.
He turned back to the front, stared through the windscreen. Saw headlights on the road as a small, battered Ford Corsa made its way along the fence line towards the gate.
Hacky.
Erik climbed out of the car, opened the back door, and carried the cat box to the Barn. He unlocked the main double doors, opened one of them with his foot, and slipped inside, closing the door behind him. He set down the cat box on the ground and opened the flap. Monty rolled out, his appendages scrabbling like rat’s claws in the dirt. The small, damaged figure didn’t look strong, but it moved fast now that it had fed. He watched in silence as it scurried over the ground to wait in the dense, syrupy shadows at the rear of the Barn.
He switched on an electric light that hung from a loop of wire nearby, but it flickered and barely illuminated the space around him.
Erik sighed and walked over to the old ring, where the fights had taken place. The ground inside the roped-off quadrant was scuffed, disturbed by combatants’ footprints. So many men had bled and screamed on that hard patch of earth; and how many men had suffered trauma that would then go on to ruin their lives? He didn’t know; didn’t care. The only time he had cared was when his friend Marty had been stabbed by a pissed-off Polish corner man. Erik had never told Marty, but at one time he’d loved him like a son. He’d let the younger man off the hook so many times, allowed him to get away with things that would have ensured anyone else had their legs broken.
But he’d not once told Marty how he felt. He wasn’t the kind of man to show his feelings, to allow anyone to sneak inside his guard. He didn’t regret the omission. There was still time — even though he hadn’t had a proper, in-depth conversation with Marty for a while. He had his number. When all this was over — whatever the hell this was — he could always ring him and confess how he felt.