The Ravening, page 16
“True. Not as if every woman feels that need. Pretty common, though. I certainly hoped it would be enough. But it wasn’t, Jenna, not at all. You see, what I wanted – what I want – isn’t some airy-fairy, metaphorical immortality. And I don’t want it in some metaphysical never-never land. I want the real thing. Personal immortality. Here. Now. On earth.”
“Good luck with that.”
“I’d exhausted all scientific options. Couldn’t find anything. Oh, there were possibilities, but nothing I was likely to see in my lifetime. And even then, nothing that was guaranteed.”
“Nothing’s guaranteed, sweetheart,” Jenna told her. “Could have told you that a long time ago.”
“I thought you wanted me to get to the point?”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“Science couldn’t help me, and I’d abandoned religion. So I looked to the occult for answers. Which isn’t as an uneasy a bedfellow with science as you might think. Isaac Newton wrote books on alchemy and magic when he wasn’t discovering gravity or inventing calculus. And when you go back to Greece, or Ancient Rome… anyway. I began wondering if some of those ancients might have known something we rational, scientific types have forgotten or discarded.”
“And they did, huh?”
“Oh, yes. Quite definitely. It took years of research, tracking down unbelievably obscure manuscripts, but at last I found it. Or rather, I learned of its existence. The Rite of Cronos, Jenna. How well do you know your Greek mythology?”
Jenna shrugged. “Bits.”
“Know who Cronos was?”
“One of their gods?”
“The first of the Titans. The Romans called him Saturn. He overthrew his father Uranus and ruled creation in his stead. To ensure he couldn’t be overthrown in turn, he devoured each of his children when they were born. But his sister-wife Rhea hid one of his sons, Zeus, who defeated Cronos and became king of the gods in his place.”
“Saturn,” said Jenna.
“As I said, that’s what the Romans called him.” Whitecliffe gave another of her twitchy little smiles. “I thought you’d make one of those infantile jokes about Uranus. I’ve heard them all.”
That dream she’d had, a couple of years before: the figure crouching in the shadows with a body in its claws, the head and one arm gnawed away. There’d been a dreadful familiarity about the image, and it was absurd it had taken her so long to place it: Francisco Goya’s painting Saturn Devouring His Son. She’d seen it in an art class when she was fourteen. The old, mad god, all wild eyes, matted hair and ravening mouth, ogrish and grotesque; the naked body half-eaten in his grasp.
“That’s how the Rite got its name, anyway,” said Whitecliffe. “That’s the basic principle.”
Jenna snorted. “What? Eat your kids and live forever?”
“No. Well, not just, or not only, your children. It’s not a one-and-done sort of thing. Each… absorption brings a new lease of life, as it were, lasting–”
“Absorption? That’s what you call it?”
“It’s a word, Jenna. It describes a process.”
“What’s wrong with good old-fashioned cannibalism, then? Or is that too near the knuckle for you? Do you not like thinking about it too much?”
“Cannibalism is not the correct term.”
“Looked like it to me.”
“Really?” Whitecliffe looked genuinely fascinated. “When did you witness it?” When Jenna didn’t answer, the older woman nodded. “A dream? Is that it? I read in the documents I studied that could happen, but I didn’t know for sure. The Progenitor’s rather close-mouthed on certain details.”
“That’s what it calls itself?”
“He likes to cover his tracks. The less I know of his origins, the less chance I’ll find out what I want without his help.” Whitecliffe sighed. “Sadly, he’s done far too good a job. To get the information I want, I’ve no alternative but to help him. But that’s no great hardship. The work I’m doing on his behalf will be just as beneficial to me.”
“You’ve completely lost me now.”
“I forget I’m so familiar with all this. The process of absorption – I’ll keep calling it that, if you don’t mind – is what makes the Progenitor immortal. By completely absorbing his offspring, or rather descendant, he renews himself. And by repeating the process every thirteen years or thereabouts, he can extend his lifespan indefinitely. Even infinitely.”
“So what’s the catch?”
“The ‘catch’, as you put it, is being able to repeat the process. As long as he still has descendants, it doesn’t matter how many generations removed they are: all that matters is that they carry his bloodline. Unfortunately, while the Progenitor himself is invulnerable, his descendants are just ordinary, mortal humans, with all the weaknesses that go with that.”
Jenna laughed. “Are you saying he’s running out of kids to eat?”
“At the last absorption, which was a couple of years ago now, the numbers were beginning to run low, but he wasn’t overly concerned.”
A couple of years ago: around the time she’d last dreamt of the grove before it had all started up again. The half-eaten body dangling in the monster’s grip; she must have caught the briefest glimpse, on some level, of the last “absorption” taking place.
“There was, you see,” Whitecliffe went on, “a fairly substantial branch of the bloodline at that time in Ukraine, of all places. Unfortunately they were in Mariupol, and during the bombardment that followed the Russian invasion earlier this year they were wiped out in toto. Every last man, woman and child. And that left you alone, Jenna. The Progenitor’s very last living descendant. He can absorb you, which will keep him going for just under another decade and a half, but after that–”
“He’s fucked.”
“If you must put it like that, then yes.”
“Can’t he just get some other poor cow up the duff?” Not that Jenna would wish that on anybody else.
Whitecliffe smiled sadly. “An unfortunate side-effect of the Rite of Cronos is sterility. It’s a trade-off, I suppose – immortality through your children in exchange for the real, literal thing. So before carrying out the Rite, you need to make sure you’ve sown your wild oats far and wide. The small number of people who’ve successfully performed the Rite have almost all been men. They’ve always had an unfair advantage in that regard. Until now, of course.”
“You’ve already taken care of that, then?” said Jenna.
“My particular discipline’s stood me in perfect stead for it. I’ve three daughters, and grandchildren through all of them. Very fond of them all, of course…”
“But you’d eat the lot of them without a second thought?”
Whitecliffe chuckled. It sounded like a hacking cough. “You’d be well-advised to consider it, if only in terms of simple self-preservation. If there are more descendants out there, the Progenitor doesn’t need you. Being his descendant doesn’t automatically mean you’ll be…”
“Absorbed.”
“Yes.”
“Because he can do it to a baby instead?”
“No. He won’t need to repeat the process for another ten or eleven years at the present time.”
“Ah, great. He can kill a schoolie instead.”
“As I said, killing isn’t the right word.”
“Oh? You mean they’re still alive?”
“Well, not as such, but–”
“So he kills them.”
Whitecliffe sighed. “If you must be sentimental…”
“I was there when he took my mother, doc. I heard her scream. And there wasn’t even anything left of her to bury.”
“We can’t do anything about that now, can we?” Whitecliffe sounded so maddeningly reasonable Jenna wanted to leap out of bed and hit her. “We’re talking about eternal life here. If I ensure the Progenitor’s bloodline continues, he’ll show me how to perform the Rite of Cronos. However, I’ve always been pro-choice. It goes against the grain to violate that principle.”
Choice; that word again. If it had been an actual, proper choice, would Jenna have agreed to it? She’d done her share of questionable things in her time. But she was fairly sure that producing children to be sacrificed would’ve been a bridge too far for her, even on her worst days. “But you will,” she said to Whitecliffe. “Right?”
“Quite simply, yes. That shouldn’t be a shock, Jenna. Most people will abandon their principles, given sufficient temptation. Don’t tell me you’re so holier-than-thou you’re incapable of it.”
“Never claimed to be. But then I’m not a hypocrite. Unlike some.”
Whitecliffe’s mouth twitched, and this time it wasn’t a smile: that particular barb had hit home. “Be that as it may. If you agree to the procedure, you’ll have a far easier time of things, and I’ll pay you very well.”
“All you’re coming out with, doc? Just a fancier version of what James said. All boils down to do what I want or else.” Jenna needed to remember that. It would keep her angry and focused, however hard Whitecliffe tried to muddy the waters.
“Again, be that as it may. Debating morality won’t get us anywhere. You seem a pragmatic young woman, Jenna. I can offer you another inducement.”
“Oh?” Jenna’s stomach tightened.
“Only a handful of people, over the millennia, have successfully carried out the Rite of Cronos,” said Whitecliffe. “I don’t know exactly how many, but as I said earlier, they’ve almost exclusively been men. I’d say it’s past time to redress that balance.”
“Starting with you, right?” Jenna hoped she was hiding her relief: her real fear had been that Whitecliffe would threaten Jenna with Holly. You can have her back, or she can die. Which would you prefer? Despite everything, Jenna realised, that might actually have worked. Christ; it must be love, after all. That was what was so terrifying about it, why she always tried to keep a distance with any partner. They could get inside you and warp you out of true. But that approach, it seemed, had no more occurred to Whitecliffe than it had to James.
“Or us.”
“Are you serious?”
“This isn’t a zero-sum game, Jenna. There’s no reason I couldn’t share the secret with you. And it’s cheap at the price. It’s taken me decades of searching and planning to get here. You can have it on a plate.”
“That’s what you’re offering?” Jenna began to laugh. “Fucking hell, love, you don’t know me at all, do you?”
“Apparently not. But you wanted to know what this was all about. Now I’ve told you.” Whitecliffe stood. “You’re fully recovered, so we can begin the necessary treatments in the next two or three days. Think about my offer, anyway. I’d much rather resolve this in a way we’re both happy with.”
Jenna could normally manage a suitable parting shot even in the most trying circumstances, but this time around she was genuinely stuck for a reply. Whitecliffe flung the door wide as she left, either in a grand gesture or straightforward irritation, but it was on a hydraulic hinge, and swung smoothly and quietly closed again. The lock clicked, and the light went out…
Jenna glared at the door for a few moments, then threw back the sheets and climbed out of bed. She wanted to get out of here – outside, away, free. But the best she could manage was to stalk to the window and gaze longingly out onto the lawn.
Most of it was in darkness, with the trees a high, ragged black line against the deep, star-speckled blue of the night sky, but the light from the building illuminated most of the lawn, and drew even its edges into a dim twilight. And in that grey, twilit area, Jenna saw, a woman was standing, just at the edge of the trees. She was plump, stocky, wore black clothes, and was staring up at Jenna’s window. She tensed, mouth opening, and Jenna realised the woman had seen her gazing down at her.
The woman in black moved back towards the trees, and moonlight glanced off her features. A round, dimple-chinned face, and a wing of dark hair falling over one eye. She looked just like Holly, Jenna thought. Then realised, in the instant before the woman disappeared into the shadows, that it was.
34.
Jenna lay back on the bed and shut her eyes, but sleep was as impossible as Whitecliffe’s story. And as true. Strangely it made such sense, once she accepted it.
The Bonewalker was real, and she mattered because she was the last of its blood. The only real surprise was that it had taken Whitecliffe this long to get hold of Jenna.
And then there was Holly.
Jenna put both hands over her mouth to muffle her sobs as her worst suspicions and paranoid imaginings from the cellar returned. Holly had been working for Whitecliffe all along. Or, like James and Whitecliffe, she wanted the Bonewalker’s prize, and was playing her own long game to get it.
Jenna didn’t want to believe that; the thought hurt, and threatened to taint every memory of the relationship. That wasn’t usually a problem: while every liaison she’d ever been in ended in an emotional car-crash of one kind or another, that part usually faded with time. But Jenna was only now realising how different it had been with Holly. Or how badly she’d wanted it to be. And now it seemed every memory that had sustained her in the cellar, from walking on Dinas Oleu to watching movies on the sofa, had been a lie.
She shook her head, but the pain wouldn’t go away and she doubted there was a drug in the clinic that would make it, except the kind of stuff that turned people into junkies, that made reality disappear when you couldn’t bear it anymore.
This is why Dad drank.
“Fuck.” Jenna opened her eyes and took deep breaths, in and out. No. She wouldn’t go that way. Wouldn’t end up like him. She dragged her sleeve across her eyes and glared at the little red light glowing in the upper left corner of her room, where the CCTV camera kept watch on her. They loved their little electronic I-spies, all the wankers who clustered round the Bonewalker, clamouring for its secret at any price.
If – when – she broke out of here, the police would be hunting her too. Jenna McKnight, escaped nutter. Don’t believe a word she says, just break out the butterfly nets and cart her back to the clinic. That nice Dr Whitecliffe’ll take care of her.
Well, she’d deal with that later. And with Holly, one way or the other. The first step was getting out.
A few more deep breaths steadied her for now. She’d escaped Cutty Wren Lodge; sectioned or not, she’d break out of here too, even if she’d no idea how, as yet. Jenna threw the sheets back and slid clumsily out of bed. Her legs tremored. Jesus. But she steadied quickly enough. She’d retained her fitness as best she could while confined at the cottage, as her escape had proved; two weeks flat on her back had taken something out of her but not too much, and at least she wasn’t burdened with the pregnancy any longer. She squatted a couple of times, testing her strength.
She’d be able to run, Jenna decided; she could fight too, if it came down to it. She made her way over to the window, peering out over the dim-lit lawn. She was about three floors up, or so she calculated, and the side of the building was flat and painted smooth, with no gaps sufficient for hand or toeholds. Not that she’d likely be able to climb, in her state, even if she’d been willing to risk it, which she wasn’t. The window was shut anyway, and the handle locked; it wouldn’t turn. So she couldn’t even get out to try.
You’ve got to think of something, though, else you’re fucked.
Across the room, the lock clicked. The door swung open. Jenna stumbled back towards the bed, groping for the carafe.
Someone appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the corridor light, then stepped into the room, swallowed by the dark again as the door swung shut. Jenna grabbed the covers and heaved them in the intruder’s direction.
The intruder was cursing and throwing the covers aside as Jenna moved towards her. If she was quick, and lucky, she could get in a kick, or a strike to the throat.
But she knew the voice, had recognised the silhouette. She knew who it was.
The intruder reached back through the open doorway. There was a click, and the lights came on.
“Hey, babe,” said Holly.
35.
She wore a backpack over a hooded top and a pair of cargo pants. When she brushed the wing of hair back, Jenna saw both her eyes were glistening. Tears. What the fuck?
Holly tried to smile, mouth trembling. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered. She moved forwards, arms outstretched, but Jenna moved back, hands raised ready for combat – weak or not, she’d fight.
“Get back, you fucking–”
Holly looked as though she’d been slapped. “Jenn? Jenn, it’s me. It’s Holl.”
“I know who you are.”
“Show some fucking gratitude, then.” That was the Holly Jenna knew – the tears were gone as though they’d never been, replaced by sudden anger, and her hands were on her hips. She threw the backpack at Jenna. Jenna ducked to avoid it and moved to launch a kick in response, but her legs betrayed her and she grabbed at the bed for support.
“You okay?” said Holly. Jenna didn’t answer, just glared. Holly shook her head. “Hurry up and get dressed for fuck’s sake.”
“What?”
“Jesus, Jenna, how doped-up are you? I’m trying to get you out of here.”
A shrill electronic tone sounded, a klaxon of some kind, deafeningly loud. Holly looked ceilingward and mouthed “Finally”, then returned her gaze to Jenna. “Come on, for Christ’s sake!” she was shouting now, over the alarm. “Get dressed.”
No time to dither; only a moment to decide. Jenna bent and fumbled at the backpack. Couldn’t be real. Had to be a trick. But the bag contained a sweatshirt, jogpants, trainers, underwear, a bra.
Fine. She’d go along for now.
She flung off the hospital gown, pulled on the pants and top and donned the trainers, grimacing at the alarms’ clamour as she laced them up. It would get her away from Whitecliffe, anyway. And she could find out the truth about Holly. If she was on the level after all, well and good–
Oh come on, you don’t really believe that.
And if not, Jenna would have a chance of escape. And if necessary, for revenge.
“Good luck with that.”
“I’d exhausted all scientific options. Couldn’t find anything. Oh, there were possibilities, but nothing I was likely to see in my lifetime. And even then, nothing that was guaranteed.”
“Nothing’s guaranteed, sweetheart,” Jenna told her. “Could have told you that a long time ago.”
“I thought you wanted me to get to the point?”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“Science couldn’t help me, and I’d abandoned religion. So I looked to the occult for answers. Which isn’t as an uneasy a bedfellow with science as you might think. Isaac Newton wrote books on alchemy and magic when he wasn’t discovering gravity or inventing calculus. And when you go back to Greece, or Ancient Rome… anyway. I began wondering if some of those ancients might have known something we rational, scientific types have forgotten or discarded.”
“And they did, huh?”
“Oh, yes. Quite definitely. It took years of research, tracking down unbelievably obscure manuscripts, but at last I found it. Or rather, I learned of its existence. The Rite of Cronos, Jenna. How well do you know your Greek mythology?”
Jenna shrugged. “Bits.”
“Know who Cronos was?”
“One of their gods?”
“The first of the Titans. The Romans called him Saturn. He overthrew his father Uranus and ruled creation in his stead. To ensure he couldn’t be overthrown in turn, he devoured each of his children when they were born. But his sister-wife Rhea hid one of his sons, Zeus, who defeated Cronos and became king of the gods in his place.”
“Saturn,” said Jenna.
“As I said, that’s what the Romans called him.” Whitecliffe gave another of her twitchy little smiles. “I thought you’d make one of those infantile jokes about Uranus. I’ve heard them all.”
That dream she’d had, a couple of years before: the figure crouching in the shadows with a body in its claws, the head and one arm gnawed away. There’d been a dreadful familiarity about the image, and it was absurd it had taken her so long to place it: Francisco Goya’s painting Saturn Devouring His Son. She’d seen it in an art class when she was fourteen. The old, mad god, all wild eyes, matted hair and ravening mouth, ogrish and grotesque; the naked body half-eaten in his grasp.
“That’s how the Rite got its name, anyway,” said Whitecliffe. “That’s the basic principle.”
Jenna snorted. “What? Eat your kids and live forever?”
“No. Well, not just, or not only, your children. It’s not a one-and-done sort of thing. Each… absorption brings a new lease of life, as it were, lasting–”
“Absorption? That’s what you call it?”
“It’s a word, Jenna. It describes a process.”
“What’s wrong with good old-fashioned cannibalism, then? Or is that too near the knuckle for you? Do you not like thinking about it too much?”
“Cannibalism is not the correct term.”
“Looked like it to me.”
“Really?” Whitecliffe looked genuinely fascinated. “When did you witness it?” When Jenna didn’t answer, the older woman nodded. “A dream? Is that it? I read in the documents I studied that could happen, but I didn’t know for sure. The Progenitor’s rather close-mouthed on certain details.”
“That’s what it calls itself?”
“He likes to cover his tracks. The less I know of his origins, the less chance I’ll find out what I want without his help.” Whitecliffe sighed. “Sadly, he’s done far too good a job. To get the information I want, I’ve no alternative but to help him. But that’s no great hardship. The work I’m doing on his behalf will be just as beneficial to me.”
“You’ve completely lost me now.”
“I forget I’m so familiar with all this. The process of absorption – I’ll keep calling it that, if you don’t mind – is what makes the Progenitor immortal. By completely absorbing his offspring, or rather descendant, he renews himself. And by repeating the process every thirteen years or thereabouts, he can extend his lifespan indefinitely. Even infinitely.”
“So what’s the catch?”
“The ‘catch’, as you put it, is being able to repeat the process. As long as he still has descendants, it doesn’t matter how many generations removed they are: all that matters is that they carry his bloodline. Unfortunately, while the Progenitor himself is invulnerable, his descendants are just ordinary, mortal humans, with all the weaknesses that go with that.”
Jenna laughed. “Are you saying he’s running out of kids to eat?”
“At the last absorption, which was a couple of years ago now, the numbers were beginning to run low, but he wasn’t overly concerned.”
A couple of years ago: around the time she’d last dreamt of the grove before it had all started up again. The half-eaten body dangling in the monster’s grip; she must have caught the briefest glimpse, on some level, of the last “absorption” taking place.
“There was, you see,” Whitecliffe went on, “a fairly substantial branch of the bloodline at that time in Ukraine, of all places. Unfortunately they were in Mariupol, and during the bombardment that followed the Russian invasion earlier this year they were wiped out in toto. Every last man, woman and child. And that left you alone, Jenna. The Progenitor’s very last living descendant. He can absorb you, which will keep him going for just under another decade and a half, but after that–”
“He’s fucked.”
“If you must put it like that, then yes.”
“Can’t he just get some other poor cow up the duff?” Not that Jenna would wish that on anybody else.
Whitecliffe smiled sadly. “An unfortunate side-effect of the Rite of Cronos is sterility. It’s a trade-off, I suppose – immortality through your children in exchange for the real, literal thing. So before carrying out the Rite, you need to make sure you’ve sown your wild oats far and wide. The small number of people who’ve successfully performed the Rite have almost all been men. They’ve always had an unfair advantage in that regard. Until now, of course.”
“You’ve already taken care of that, then?” said Jenna.
“My particular discipline’s stood me in perfect stead for it. I’ve three daughters, and grandchildren through all of them. Very fond of them all, of course…”
“But you’d eat the lot of them without a second thought?”
Whitecliffe chuckled. It sounded like a hacking cough. “You’d be well-advised to consider it, if only in terms of simple self-preservation. If there are more descendants out there, the Progenitor doesn’t need you. Being his descendant doesn’t automatically mean you’ll be…”
“Absorbed.”
“Yes.”
“Because he can do it to a baby instead?”
“No. He won’t need to repeat the process for another ten or eleven years at the present time.”
“Ah, great. He can kill a schoolie instead.”
“As I said, killing isn’t the right word.”
“Oh? You mean they’re still alive?”
“Well, not as such, but–”
“So he kills them.”
Whitecliffe sighed. “If you must be sentimental…”
“I was there when he took my mother, doc. I heard her scream. And there wasn’t even anything left of her to bury.”
“We can’t do anything about that now, can we?” Whitecliffe sounded so maddeningly reasonable Jenna wanted to leap out of bed and hit her. “We’re talking about eternal life here. If I ensure the Progenitor’s bloodline continues, he’ll show me how to perform the Rite of Cronos. However, I’ve always been pro-choice. It goes against the grain to violate that principle.”
Choice; that word again. If it had been an actual, proper choice, would Jenna have agreed to it? She’d done her share of questionable things in her time. But she was fairly sure that producing children to be sacrificed would’ve been a bridge too far for her, even on her worst days. “But you will,” she said to Whitecliffe. “Right?”
“Quite simply, yes. That shouldn’t be a shock, Jenna. Most people will abandon their principles, given sufficient temptation. Don’t tell me you’re so holier-than-thou you’re incapable of it.”
“Never claimed to be. But then I’m not a hypocrite. Unlike some.”
Whitecliffe’s mouth twitched, and this time it wasn’t a smile: that particular barb had hit home. “Be that as it may. If you agree to the procedure, you’ll have a far easier time of things, and I’ll pay you very well.”
“All you’re coming out with, doc? Just a fancier version of what James said. All boils down to do what I want or else.” Jenna needed to remember that. It would keep her angry and focused, however hard Whitecliffe tried to muddy the waters.
“Again, be that as it may. Debating morality won’t get us anywhere. You seem a pragmatic young woman, Jenna. I can offer you another inducement.”
“Oh?” Jenna’s stomach tightened.
“Only a handful of people, over the millennia, have successfully carried out the Rite of Cronos,” said Whitecliffe. “I don’t know exactly how many, but as I said earlier, they’ve almost exclusively been men. I’d say it’s past time to redress that balance.”
“Starting with you, right?” Jenna hoped she was hiding her relief: her real fear had been that Whitecliffe would threaten Jenna with Holly. You can have her back, or she can die. Which would you prefer? Despite everything, Jenna realised, that might actually have worked. Christ; it must be love, after all. That was what was so terrifying about it, why she always tried to keep a distance with any partner. They could get inside you and warp you out of true. But that approach, it seemed, had no more occurred to Whitecliffe than it had to James.
“Or us.”
“Are you serious?”
“This isn’t a zero-sum game, Jenna. There’s no reason I couldn’t share the secret with you. And it’s cheap at the price. It’s taken me decades of searching and planning to get here. You can have it on a plate.”
“That’s what you’re offering?” Jenna began to laugh. “Fucking hell, love, you don’t know me at all, do you?”
“Apparently not. But you wanted to know what this was all about. Now I’ve told you.” Whitecliffe stood. “You’re fully recovered, so we can begin the necessary treatments in the next two or three days. Think about my offer, anyway. I’d much rather resolve this in a way we’re both happy with.”
Jenna could normally manage a suitable parting shot even in the most trying circumstances, but this time around she was genuinely stuck for a reply. Whitecliffe flung the door wide as she left, either in a grand gesture or straightforward irritation, but it was on a hydraulic hinge, and swung smoothly and quietly closed again. The lock clicked, and the light went out…
Jenna glared at the door for a few moments, then threw back the sheets and climbed out of bed. She wanted to get out of here – outside, away, free. But the best she could manage was to stalk to the window and gaze longingly out onto the lawn.
Most of it was in darkness, with the trees a high, ragged black line against the deep, star-speckled blue of the night sky, but the light from the building illuminated most of the lawn, and drew even its edges into a dim twilight. And in that grey, twilit area, Jenna saw, a woman was standing, just at the edge of the trees. She was plump, stocky, wore black clothes, and was staring up at Jenna’s window. She tensed, mouth opening, and Jenna realised the woman had seen her gazing down at her.
The woman in black moved back towards the trees, and moonlight glanced off her features. A round, dimple-chinned face, and a wing of dark hair falling over one eye. She looked just like Holly, Jenna thought. Then realised, in the instant before the woman disappeared into the shadows, that it was.
34.
Jenna lay back on the bed and shut her eyes, but sleep was as impossible as Whitecliffe’s story. And as true. Strangely it made such sense, once she accepted it.
The Bonewalker was real, and she mattered because she was the last of its blood. The only real surprise was that it had taken Whitecliffe this long to get hold of Jenna.
And then there was Holly.
Jenna put both hands over her mouth to muffle her sobs as her worst suspicions and paranoid imaginings from the cellar returned. Holly had been working for Whitecliffe all along. Or, like James and Whitecliffe, she wanted the Bonewalker’s prize, and was playing her own long game to get it.
Jenna didn’t want to believe that; the thought hurt, and threatened to taint every memory of the relationship. That wasn’t usually a problem: while every liaison she’d ever been in ended in an emotional car-crash of one kind or another, that part usually faded with time. But Jenna was only now realising how different it had been with Holly. Or how badly she’d wanted it to be. And now it seemed every memory that had sustained her in the cellar, from walking on Dinas Oleu to watching movies on the sofa, had been a lie.
She shook her head, but the pain wouldn’t go away and she doubted there was a drug in the clinic that would make it, except the kind of stuff that turned people into junkies, that made reality disappear when you couldn’t bear it anymore.
This is why Dad drank.
“Fuck.” Jenna opened her eyes and took deep breaths, in and out. No. She wouldn’t go that way. Wouldn’t end up like him. She dragged her sleeve across her eyes and glared at the little red light glowing in the upper left corner of her room, where the CCTV camera kept watch on her. They loved their little electronic I-spies, all the wankers who clustered round the Bonewalker, clamouring for its secret at any price.
If – when – she broke out of here, the police would be hunting her too. Jenna McKnight, escaped nutter. Don’t believe a word she says, just break out the butterfly nets and cart her back to the clinic. That nice Dr Whitecliffe’ll take care of her.
Well, she’d deal with that later. And with Holly, one way or the other. The first step was getting out.
A few more deep breaths steadied her for now. She’d escaped Cutty Wren Lodge; sectioned or not, she’d break out of here too, even if she’d no idea how, as yet. Jenna threw the sheets back and slid clumsily out of bed. Her legs tremored. Jesus. But she steadied quickly enough. She’d retained her fitness as best she could while confined at the cottage, as her escape had proved; two weeks flat on her back had taken something out of her but not too much, and at least she wasn’t burdened with the pregnancy any longer. She squatted a couple of times, testing her strength.
She’d be able to run, Jenna decided; she could fight too, if it came down to it. She made her way over to the window, peering out over the dim-lit lawn. She was about three floors up, or so she calculated, and the side of the building was flat and painted smooth, with no gaps sufficient for hand or toeholds. Not that she’d likely be able to climb, in her state, even if she’d been willing to risk it, which she wasn’t. The window was shut anyway, and the handle locked; it wouldn’t turn. So she couldn’t even get out to try.
You’ve got to think of something, though, else you’re fucked.
Across the room, the lock clicked. The door swung open. Jenna stumbled back towards the bed, groping for the carafe.
Someone appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the corridor light, then stepped into the room, swallowed by the dark again as the door swung shut. Jenna grabbed the covers and heaved them in the intruder’s direction.
The intruder was cursing and throwing the covers aside as Jenna moved towards her. If she was quick, and lucky, she could get in a kick, or a strike to the throat.
But she knew the voice, had recognised the silhouette. She knew who it was.
The intruder reached back through the open doorway. There was a click, and the lights came on.
“Hey, babe,” said Holly.
35.
She wore a backpack over a hooded top and a pair of cargo pants. When she brushed the wing of hair back, Jenna saw both her eyes were glistening. Tears. What the fuck?
Holly tried to smile, mouth trembling. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered. She moved forwards, arms outstretched, but Jenna moved back, hands raised ready for combat – weak or not, she’d fight.
“Get back, you fucking–”
Holly looked as though she’d been slapped. “Jenn? Jenn, it’s me. It’s Holl.”
“I know who you are.”
“Show some fucking gratitude, then.” That was the Holly Jenna knew – the tears were gone as though they’d never been, replaced by sudden anger, and her hands were on her hips. She threw the backpack at Jenna. Jenna ducked to avoid it and moved to launch a kick in response, but her legs betrayed her and she grabbed at the bed for support.
“You okay?” said Holly. Jenna didn’t answer, just glared. Holly shook her head. “Hurry up and get dressed for fuck’s sake.”
“What?”
“Jesus, Jenna, how doped-up are you? I’m trying to get you out of here.”
A shrill electronic tone sounded, a klaxon of some kind, deafeningly loud. Holly looked ceilingward and mouthed “Finally”, then returned her gaze to Jenna. “Come on, for Christ’s sake!” she was shouting now, over the alarm. “Get dressed.”
No time to dither; only a moment to decide. Jenna bent and fumbled at the backpack. Couldn’t be real. Had to be a trick. But the bag contained a sweatshirt, jogpants, trainers, underwear, a bra.
Fine. She’d go along for now.
She flung off the hospital gown, pulled on the pants and top and donned the trainers, grimacing at the alarms’ clamour as she laced them up. It would get her away from Whitecliffe, anyway. And she could find out the truth about Holly. If she was on the level after all, well and good–
Oh come on, you don’t really believe that.
And if not, Jenna would have a chance of escape. And if necessary, for revenge.
