Twenty Twelve (16 page)

Ronnie hovers over me, her face contorted by anger. ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing?’

I’m writhing around like an injured snake. She leans over and rips off the tape. I barely notice the sting as it takes the top layer of skin on my lips with it.

She reaches in and lifts my head until my breathing calms. ‘You were banging,’ she says. ‘I told you what would happen if you messed me around.’

‘Couldn’t breathe,’ I whisper. ‘Panicked.’

She stares at me, her face inches from mine, then she lets go of my head, letting it thump back down. ‘You’d better pray I drive quickly,’ she says and pushes the tape back over my mouth.

When the boot lid crashes shut once again, I know I came very close indeed to pushing Ronnie too far.

I’ve sunk into a state of semi-consciousness when the car turns sharply to the right. The road disappears beneath me, replaced by ruts and bumps which throw me around like a fairground ride.

Fear bubbles under my skin. Is Ronnie taking me somewhere inaccessible to dispose of me? From what I’ve seen, she’s perfectly capable of forcing me to dig my own grave and tossing me in. The car stops and I steel myself.

As soon as the boot opens it hits me. A shock of cold wind, like the inside of a fridge, carrying with it the tang of salt. Above, seagulls circle, their call a melancholy welcome.

Ronnie pulls me out onto my cramped legs. My knees crack and my feet sink into a patch of grass barely covering the sand beneath. When she pushes me forward, I catch my breath. We are at the very edge of a cliff. Before us, only sky and miles of grey ocean. Waves crash against rocks hundreds of feet below, creating an angry stew of foam that rises and falls, reaching up to us but being dragged down before it can swallow us whole.

Dizzy, I step back, the wind slicing my cheeks.

Ronnie puts the now familiar pressure of her gun on my spine and leads me along the cliff top to a place where the land falls away. We descend into a small valley, battered and flattened by the storms, home to three derelict caravans, their smashed windows boarded up with the sides of packing boxes and black bin liners, secured with tape but billowing in the wind like sails.

Ronnie shoves me towards the one perched on the edge, its paint pitted with rust, metal panels shaking, wheels replaced by piles of bricks. She pulls out a key, opens the door and pushes me inside. The metal steps clang under me and I enter the darkness.

Out of the direct assault of the elements, it feels warmer, though the walls still shudder with each violent gust of wind.

I recall an ex-boyfriend who lived almost on top of West Hampstead train station. During rush hour the flat rattled with a seismic force that threatened to roll us out of bed. He was cute, as I remember, and funny. Heavily into indie music, cooking and me. I’m not sure now why I left him. Something to do with a weekend away in Devon with his friends and my usual inability to commit. I hope he’s found someone who appreciates him.

There’s a small pop and a gas lamp bathes the caravan in a weak, jaundiced glow.

I gulp as I take in the ripped upholstery and the mould on the rug. Ronnie has her back to me as she locks the door, revealing the gun sticking out of her waistband.

This place is so deserted no one will ever find me. But what am I doing here? What does Ronnie want? And staring at the gun, I wonder why I’m still alive. At last she turns, the sickly light making her skin yellow. She bares her teeth at me and I shiver.

‘You’re probably wondering why you’re still alive,’ she says.

Isaac keeps guard at the shutters. Outside the forces of evil have gathered. At the edges of the yard and in the undergrowth beyond, policemen are crouched, rifles trained on the farmhouse
.

‘How many?’ Mama’s voice is real weak
.

Isaac counts. One, two, three, four . . . like the grains of sand on a beach
.

‘Fifteen,’ he says. ‘Maybe more.’

Mama slumps forward in her pool of blood. So much blood. Even Rebecca has stopped her crying, horrified by the amount of it
.

‘You okay, Mama?’ Veronica-Mae asks
.

Mama tries to lift her head, but doesn’t have it left in her. ‘Though I walk through the dark valley of death,’ her voice is fading, ‘I will not be afraid . . .’

‘Mama?’ Veronica-Mae shakes her
.

She falls to the side, her eyes rolled back in her head. All three children hold their breath until the silence is broken by someone calling to them through one of those bullhorns
.

‘Lay down your weapons and come out now.’

The fat one is long gone, replaced by someone who ain’t even from these parts. He’s been hollering at them for over an hour. Mama said she weren’t likely to take orders from a damn Yankee
.

Isaac glances over at her lifeless body. She ain’t got nothing to say no more
.

‘What do you think, Isaac?’ Veronica-Mae looks at him with those wide eyes of hers
.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did we oughta do what he says?’

Mama would say no to that. But Mama can’t help now. Isaac has to make the decision
.

‘If we don’t, Mama’s gonna bleed out and die,’ says Veronica-Mae
.

It’s true. If she ain’t past saving already
.

‘And then they’re gonna come in and shoot us all,’ Veronica-Mae says
.

Rebecca starts blubbing again. ‘Let’s do it, Isaac. Please. I don’t wanna get shot.’

Nor does he. He nods and presses his mouth to the shutter. ‘All right then, we’re coming out.’

There’s a commotion outside. A buzz of talk and movement
.

‘Is that you, Isaac?’ the policeman asks
.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Can I speak to your mama?’

‘She’s out cold, sir,’ he calls back. ‘She needs a doc real bad.’

There’s a pause filled with more muttering. ‘The paramedics are already here, son,’ he says
.

Isaac doesn’t know what a paramedic is, but he wants this to be over with as soon as possible so he ain’t going to argue. ‘All right then, we’re going to come on out now.’

‘Hold on, hold on.’ The policeman sounds panicky. ‘We need to explain how this is going to happen.’

Isaac and his sisters look at one another and shrug. Surely they’re just going to open the door and step out into the yard?

‘I need you to follow my instructions carefully,’ the policeman says
.

‘All right,’ replies Isaac
.

‘First, I want you to come out slowly, one by one. Slowly. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And I need you to be unarmed with your hands on your heads.’

‘Okay.’

‘If the officers see your hands move they will open fire, do you hear me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right then, let’s do this.’

With that, Isaac leads his sisters to the door. He opens it and blinks into the dusk. The air outside is cooler and smells of purple Heal-All. Fireflies dart past. He puts his hands on his head, mindful of the patches of sweat under his arms. Then he gestures to his sisters to copy him
.

Soon, they are standing in the yard in a row, elbows out wide. Three policemen in special uniforms, not the regular kind, walk towards them, shotguns pointing right at their heads. Rebecca sobs. Veronica-Mae purses her lips, trying not to let the tears come. Isaac does the same
.

‘They’re just checking we ain’t got our guns, then they’ll put theirs down,’ he says
.

Suddenly there’s a noise from the left, dry twigs cracking, boots on dusty earth
.

‘Daddy!’ Rebecca screams
.

The policemen turn towards the noise, their sights now on Daddy. Noah lets out a shout, reaching for his own weapon
.

‘Daddy!’ Rebecca screams again and flies off towards him. Veronica-Mae takes two steps after her
.

‘No!’ Isaac shouts
.

Too late
.

The police open fire, bullets searing through the air. Rebecca falls, the nape of her neck an open mess of blood and bone. Noah fires back, until he too drops to the ground
.

Veronica-Mae stops in her tracks, and spins back to Isaac, her arms out to be scooped up
.

The look on her face is the last thing he sees before a bullet passes through her shoulder and into his chest
.

I look around me for something, anything, to cut my binds. Ronnie left five minutes ago and I don’t know how long I have before she returns. She’s left me with my wrists tied behind my back and my ankles bound together. My mouth isn’t taped, but given the location of the caravan and the shrieking of the wind outside, I could scream for the next week and no one would hear me.

The window frame to my right looks old and rusted. It might be sharp enough to cut through the length of rope wound repeatedly around my hands. If I can just get to it.

Before she locked the door behind her, Ronnie told me not to move. ‘I can’t think of one good reason why I haven’t killed you already,’ she said. ‘So don’t give me an excuse.’

She meant it, too. Something in her is dead and she would happily do it. Not happily, no – that’s the wrong word. Draining the life from me wouldn’t give her pleasure, but it wouldn’t cause her pain either. She wouldn’t feel anything, and that is an infinitely more frightening thought.

I watched her open the fridge and take out a small bottle of water. She took a drink and grimaced. ‘It’s warm,’ she said.

I was so thirsty my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. ‘What are you going to do with me?’ I asked.

She didn’t reply but took another snatch of water. The lights began to flicker, casting her face in shadow. She remained as if transfixed, then slipped towards a gas canister in the kitchen, her movements strange and unearthly. A trick of the light.

‘Almost empty,’ she said and disconnected a black rubber tube, plunging the room into darkness.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. I blinked and saw Ronnie bent over the canister, pulling it onto its edge so she could roll it to the caravan door. Deftly, she pulled at the lock with one hand remaining on the metal side of the canister, then kicked the door so that it swung out. In seconds she had it outside and I could hear the clunk as she pulled it down the steps.

Something told me Ronnie had been here and performed this manoeuvre many times before. In a heartbeat she appeared again with a different canister, pushing it in front of her. She was almost inside when a gust of wind howled, making the caravan shudder and the door slam shut, catching her left shoulder. She didn’t cry out but her face told me the blow had been hard. Once she had the canister in place she reconnected it and the lights came on with another pop.

Ronnie stood upright, rotated her injured shoulder and winced. She turned her back to me and shrugged off her leather jacket, exposing a tight black vest beneath. I gasped. There was a red welt. But that wasn’t what grabbed my attention.

It was the scar. The skin from the nape of her neck to her left bicep was a mass of scar tissue, the flesh pulled and puckered in a swirling pattern that drew me in.

Then she replaced her jacket and turned back to me, her eyes hot. ‘I have to go back to Rory,’ she said. ‘Check he’s all right.’

‘Are you going to leave me like this?’ I gestured to my feet bound together.

Her face didn’t move. She crossed the room, pulled open a drawer and rummaged inside. There was a torch and Ronnie flicked the switch with her thumb. Nothing. She cast it back into the drawer. Then she moved aside a packet of Senior Service cigarettes, a book of matches and a board game. I could read the cover of the yellowed box and see it was Twister. It was as if a family in the seventies was still in residence.

At last she found what she wanted; a transistor radio. The battery-operated sort. She twiddled the dials until she found a signal. The sound of tinny music filled the caravan, interrupted by electric crackles.

‘Don’t want you to be bored,’ said Ronnie. Then she left.

Alone now, I know I have to try to free myself. I don’t know why she hasn’t put a bullet in my head; perhaps she wants to torture me beforehand. Whatever the reason, I’m not going to stick around to find out.

I shuffle along the bench to the window frame. Once I’m there, I push myself to my feet, wobbling precariously. I hold my body rigid until I’m steady, then try to lift my arms to the same height as the window frame. My bones crack as I raise my clasped fingers behind me. I’ve always been fast but never flexible and my muscles soon begin to burn. I turn my head, trying to see how far I have to go and realise I need to lean forward to help things along. I grunt with the effort and tip from my waist. Please let it be enough.

Bingo. I feel the cold of steel on my knuckles. The corroded edge rakes my skin. It’s sharp. This will work. It’s got to.