Authors: Julie Parsons
‘For your safety,’ he said to her as he unlocked the attic, switched on the light, showed her the camp bed against the wall, the pot in the corner, the bottles of water and the
bread, cheese and fruit. The small transistor radio on the floor. ‘It’s better this way. You’ll be safe here. You’d never know what’s going on outside. Stay here for
the day, sleep as much as you can, and this evening when I come home you can come downstairs and we can talk.’
He didn’t pay any heed at the time to the expression on her face. Afterwards he realized it had been a mistake not to notice. That she was hurt that he was making her a prisoner in his
attic, that he wasn’t welcoming her into his home as his firstborn, his oldest daughter. He heard her calling out to him as he ran downstairs, and he paused and listened for a moment, and
called back up to her, that she should sleep, and not to worry. He thought about her from time to time as he went about his business throughout the day but he wasn’t anxious. The attic was
secure. There was only one tiny skylight, and it didn’t open. The bolt on the door was solid. And anyway, this situation wasn’t going to last for too much longer. He knew the impact the
tape would have. Rachel would come running, scuttling out of her hiding place. He knew she would. And it would all be over.
It was late when he got home, after dark. The same set of headlights had followed him all the way out from the city and parked within sight of the tall gates. He had paused and flashed his
hazard lights at them as he turned into the drive. When this was all over he was going to sue them for wrongful arrest. For harassment. For compensation. For fucking up his life. He was going to
make that arsehole Jack Donnelly pay for all this. He parked the car outside the front door and let himself in. The house was silent. She’d be hungry, he was sure of that. Probably bored, fed
up. He would let her out, run her a bath. Cook her a good meal, give her something to drink. Open a nice bottle of wine. Show her around the house. Show her how well he’d done. Who knows, he
thought as he walked up the attic stairs, when this is all over maybe she’ll come and stay with us. Ursula would like her, he knew she would.
Or perhaps, or perhaps that wouldn’t be such a good idea. He paused on the small landing and listened. He could hear nothing from inside. He sat down on the top step and rested his head
against the wall. So far only three people knew about his relationship with Amy. And that was the way to keep it. The last thing he wanted was anyone asking any questions, thinking back to
Martin’s death and wondering. Perhaps it might not be such a good idea if Amy went home after all this was over.
He stood up and listened again. There was still no sound from the attic room. He shot back the bolts and unlocked the door. He bent his head to step inside. It was dark. The light was turned
off. She must be sleeping, he thought. He walked slowly towards the bed and called out her name, quietly, so he wouldn’t startle her.
‘Amy, Amy, wake up. I’m back. Have you been all right here all day by yourself?’
The room smelt foetid, stale, with a tang of urine. He couldn’t actually see her anywhere. He could see the shape of the bed, the tumbled blankets.
‘Amy, it’s me. It’s Dan. Wake up now. I’m going to cook you the best steak you’ve ever eaten.’
And then he felt rather than a heard a disturbance of air, just behind him, and turned, just in time, and just in time saw her standing holding something in her right hand. What was it? It was
lighter in colour than anything else in the room. And as she moved her arm, began to bring it up over her head, he saw that it was a piece of metal, and realized that the camp bed was partially
dismantled. That she was holding one of the struts, and as she stepped towards him, her arm up above her head, he moved away, just out of reach, so when her arm came down the metal bar struck him
not on the back of his head, as she had intended, but on his shoulder. Pushing him backwards, making him lose his balance, so he crashed down on to the floor and saw that she was about to turn and
rush through the door. Until, that is, he reached out and grabbed her around the ankle, feeling thumb and index finger joining around the bone. Tugging at her so she too crashed down beside him
with a scream and a groan, while he pulled himself hand over hand, up along her leg, up over her knee, up her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh, until he could grab her by the waist,
pressing her to the ground with the whole of his weight, twisting her short hair in his fingers so she cried out in pain. Felt her small breasts flatten beneath him, smelt her sweat, her fear. He
shouted at her, ‘Going to do the dirty on me, were you? I thought we had a bargain. I thought we were agreed. I thought you supported me in this. That you agreed that your mother was an evil
woman. That I had to get her to come back. I thought we agreed.’
He pulled her head back and knocked it down hard on the wooden floor, so she cried out again and again, tears starting into her eyes. He jerked her up to sitting and then to standing, twisting
her hands behind her back, anger rising up through him so he wanted to hurt her, pay her back for the betrayal. He hit her hard across the face, so blood began to spurt from her nose, then crashed
his fist into her stomach. And as she began to scream out in pain he flung her as hard as he could towards the camp bed in the corner and heard her begin to beg for forgiveness.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was frightened. I thought you weren’t going to come back, that you were going to leave me here. I tried the door, but you had locked it. I
couldn’t cope with the feeling of being trapped. And I heard that tape being played on the radio today. I feel so bad. I heard my foster-parents being interviewed. And they’re so
worried about me. They were crying. It was terrible. And I realized I want to go home. I shouldn’t be doing this. I must have been crazy. I don’t even know you. Why should I believe you
anyway? How do I know you are who you say you are? How do I know you’re not lying to me?’
She pulled back and away from him, putting her hands up in front of her face to shield herself, and then it was that other night all those years ago and Martin lying there on the floor, holding
his hands up in front of his shocked white face, hands that were already covered with the blood from the wound in his thigh, and an expression of bewilderment turning to realization as he saw how
Daniel was lifting the gun to his shoulder.
As he now lifted his right hand, index finger extended, thumb cocked towards the ceiling, his other fingers curled in against his palm, and pointed it at her.
‘Bang, bang,’ he said. ‘I haven’t finished with you. I’ll be back, and then you’ll be sorry.’ He backed away, standing for a moment silhouetted in the
doorway, before slamming it shut, locking it, bolting it top and bottom. Hearing her crying out to him not to leave her. Begging to be let out. Breathing quickly as he took the stairs two at a
time, not stopping till he reached the hall below, and the kitchen and the warmth and the light.
The light inside, the heavy brocade curtains slipping over the long dark windows on their smooth, noiseless runners. The bottle of whiskey on the table. Lifting it up, feeling the smooth
hardness of the glass against his teeth as the liquid burned its way down his throat. Then pouring it into a large heavy tumbler, its crystal base leaving deep indentations in the flesh of his hand
as he squeezed it tightly, gulping down the warmth and comfort. The adrenalin seeped from his body and his head began to droop, jerked upwards for a moment, his eyes struggling to focus, then
sagged back down on his chin as the glass dropped from his hand on to the wooden floor, rolled over and around and around in a circle, and came to rest against the edge of the rug.
Until something jerked him back up out of his doze, so he found himself half out of the chair, his heart pounding, the breath coming out of his chest in short sharp gasps. And heard the sound of
the dog, barking. The dog, of course, he had forgotten all about the dog, tied up in the garage now Ursula and the kids weren’t here to take care of the stupid mutt. Making such a racket.
Short, sharp yowls of anger and despair. So he pulled himself upright and walked into the kitchen, dangling the bottle by its neck, pouring himself another large shot as he hunted in the cupboard
for the dog food, the tin opener, hearing his own footsteps on the tiled floor, loud in the empty house. He turned towards the glass door that opened on to the garden and stopped. And saw standing
outside, staring in at him, a small, slim figure. Dark clothes, cropped dark hair, small white face. Smiling. Lifting a hand and placing it pressed flat against the glass. A hand with a long red
scar bisecting the palm between thumb and index finger. And above it that face, familiar and unfamiliar at one and the same time. She had cut her hair and dyed it black. So she looked for an
instant like the girl upstairs. And as he stood and watched she put her other hand in her pocket and pulled out a cloth, and then as she lifted her palm from the glass she used the cloth to wipe
away the marks, palm print, prints from the pads of flesh on her fingertips, that she had left there. All the time smiling at him as the cloth moved up and down, up and down, side to side, side to
side, until all was clean and shiny again. As she moved back and away and into the darkness, lifting her scarred hand in salute, and was gone.
And he was left, reaching for the key that hung on a ring by the door. But now there was no key. And the door was locked, and although he flung his weight against the panes of shatter-proof
glass it would not budge. So with a cry of rage he turned on his heel and rushed for the front door and out on to the gravel of the drive, howling now louder than the dog tied up in the garage.
‘Come back, you bitch, come back. I know you’re here. I know you can’t get away. Come here so I can see you.’
He began to run, around by the side of the house towards the vegetable garden, his feet slipping and sliding on the grass covered now with a heavy dew. Pulling out the spade that stood where the
gardener had left it, imbedded in the heavy fertile soil, hefting it in his hand, feeling its weight, running his hand quickly across the metal blade polished by use. Then stopping, standing
completely still and listening, listening. Hearing the dog’s howls, a car changing gear as it ground its way up the hill from the beach. His breath slowing as he calmed himself. Further away
he heard the sea on the rocks, the wind in the pine trees, and saw a bobbing light over in the corner where the old polytunnel was, where the kids played hide-and-seek.
Come, Daddy, come and play with us. Count to twenty backwards, then find us, find us.
He watched the light as it moved around the garden, then began to follow it, swinging the spade, feeling its heaviness drag his arm down. And then the light was gone and he heard the bang of the
shed door as he ran towards it, crashing through the row of blackcurrant bushes, smashing them out of his way with the spade, reaching the shed, calling out her name as he blundered inside it.
Tripping over a pile of plastic plant pots. Turning back to the garden, seeing the light again, this time up in the oak tree by the gate, where he had built the tree house for Jonathan for his
seventh birthday. The light swung to and fro, high in the branches. But as he rushed towards it he saw the slight figure jump down just yards away from him. And the light go off. And darkness
again.
He felt like screaming out with anger and frustration. He thought he knew his garden, every bush and tree, every secret place, but somehow she was making it all seem so unfamiliar, so difficult
to find his way through. He turned back towards the house. The dog had stopped barking. But there was another noise now, coming from the garage. The clanging of metal on metal. This time he moved
more cautiously. Slow steps forward. Then stopping to listen. It sounded like a lump hammer, hitting the metal vice. When he reached the open door he stopped. It was dark and silent now. He put his
hand on the light switch. He clicked it on. Nothing happened. He clicked it up and down. Still nothing. He stepped forward cautiously. The dog was no longer in its place by its basket in the
corner. But there was something else moving on the other side, near the bench where he kept his tools. He heard his voice being called, softly, ‘Daniel, Daniel.’
He walked forward. His feet felt hard concrete underneath them. And then he was falling, down into the inspection pit. Landing awkwardly, one ankle collapsing beneath him. Pain shooting up his
leg. Toppling over into the mess of spilt oil. Screaming again, ‘You fucking bitch, when I get you I’ll kill you!’
Dragging himself out, struggling to the door again, leaning on the spade, his leg weak beneath him. Out on to the gravel in front of the house, and suddenly there was a blare of music. And he
turned and saw the curtains drawn back, the French windows open, and the same slight figure standing, looking out towards him. He began to run as fast as his damaged ankle would allow, swinging the
spade, remembering the dull thump as the rats’ bodies were flattened against the earth. He lurched up and on to the terrace and into the house, through the living room into the hall, the
front door standing wide open. Heard her voice again, calling out to him.
‘Daniel, Daniel, I’m going upstairs. Can you catch me? Can you find me?’
And remembered suddenly the Garda car parked as always just outside the tall wrought-iron gates. And the dark shapes of the two men inside, and a glow from a cigarette as he rushed towards them,
shouting, ‘She’s here, she’s here. I told you, didn’t I? I told you she wasn’t dead. She’s here. Come on, come in and find her!’
Dragging open the door, half pulling the driver from behind the wheel, rushing before them as they walked towards the house. Shouting, ‘I told you I was telling the truth all along. She is
here. I’ve just seen her!’
Screaming at them, ‘Search for her. Find her. She’s here. She’s upstairs. Go on, go up. I saw her there!’
Watching the two men go into the hall, up the stairs, as he waited for a moment outside, breathing great gulps of air with relief, smelling the coconut sweetness of the gorse on the hillsides
around them rising up into the night air. As he turned towards the lighted doorway and saw again the small figure standing there and the policemen on either side, holding each of her arms. Shouted
out with joy and relief. Now they would believe him. Now he would be freed from this nightmare. Now he could have back the life he had lost. As he stumbled towards them. Then stopped, a look of
amazement, then horror spreading across his face. As the guard stepped towards him and put his hand on his arm, and said, ‘Can you explain this to us, Mr Beckett? Can you explain why this
young woman was locked up in your attic? Can you explain her injuries to us?’