The Hollows, page 9
The Famu-whatsit girl sobbed and screamed through her gag, staring up at Liz. Red eyes, full of tears. But she wasn’t family, so she didn’t matter. Nothing would, soon.
Liz strode back into the kitchen. “What happened?”
“Told you,” Paul said. “They drove up while I was checking upstairs at the Bell and Little Miss High-And-Mighty started kicking off. Couldn’t just leave ’em, could I? Have the pigs down on us again.”
Like it or not, that was hard to argue with. “What about their car?”
“Eh?”
“They drove up, you said. Where’s their car now?”
“Uh,” said Paul, and looked down at the table. Liz closed her eyes.
“Oh,” she said, “you stupid cunt.”
12.
The windows were broken and the door smashed down. A silver car sat in the Bell’s forecourt, doors open, and two sets of footprints led through the snow to the doorway. A third set, and maybe a fourth, approached the doorway from the other side.
There were tyre-marks too. Big, heavy ones: a tractor, Ellie guessed, but not Bert Annable’s: he’d driven back to Barsall as soon as he’d seen the state of Wakeman Farm. Someone else had cleared the rest of the hill road, and the North Road as far as the pub.
The Harpers; had to be. Anyone coming from outside would have cleared more of the North Road, and no-one else nearby owned a tractor big enough for the job. Although they weren’t normally so public-spirited, unless they were being paid.
The car was a silver Audi with a personalised plate. DAV3C1: Dave Chapple, of course, either picking up Charlotte or bringing her back. Utter insanity, slipping out in this weather, but Dave was used to getting away with everything, and Charlotte was in love with him, or thought she was. Ellie had done things every bit as stupid at that age.
She grunted, and looked again at the scene. There was a mark on the wall above the doorway; she wasn’t surprised to see it was the same as the one at the Becks’. The Harpers’ work? Some kind of response to the one by Tony’s body? But if there was a feud, how had the Becks and Famuyiwas been pulled in?
The tyre tracks were fresh; they’d been made that morning, after the snow had stopped. And, since the bar’s floor was covered in snow, presumably after whatever had happened there. So the Harpers might not have caused the damage; even so, they couldn’t have missed it.
There were footprints on the bar floor. Ellie took out her phone and photographed the scene; she really needed SOCO here, the full circus, but there’d be no chance of that till the roads were clear.
Whoever was responsible for what had happened here and at Wakeman Farm last night could have lingered to capture Dave and Charlotte too, along with whichever Harpers had shown up at the pub. But then the tractor would still be here. Ellie sighed; no point second-guessing herself to death. She took a deep breath, and went inside.
The snug was empty. Thin drifts of snow glittered on the carpet. Some of it might be glass. The pendulum clock lay in pieces, and the stuffed pike, free at last from its glass case, had been torn in half, stuffing strewn across the floor. Its glass eye stared ceilingward, jaws gaping in a last protest. The charcoal symbol was on the wall above the fireplace.
Ellie’s feet crunched in snow and splintered glass. The row of optics glinted behind the bar. She went through the snug and past the pool table. Cold wind blew in her face. The door by the toilets, the one marked PRIVATE, had been smashed down. At the end of the passage beyond it, another doorway gaped open into the back yard. There was snow on the floor.
Be thorough, she told herself. Be methodical. She checked the toilets, then went down the passage and checked the kitchen. All were empty. No sign of anyone, or – except for the doors and windows – of a fight.
More glass crunched as she climbed the stairs; when she reached the landing, a door clicked shut at the end and Ellie went very still. There was snow on the landing carpet. Ellie breathed out. Only the wind.
But she should make certain. As she went towards the closed door, Ellie saw blood on the carpet outside it. Two or three spots, nothing more. But all the same, it made her wish – yet again – she’d brought her shotgun.
Ellie shoved the door wide and stepped back, just in case. But the room was empty. More glass and snow, this time sprayed across the single bed by the window, over the bright yellow duvet. A laptop on the floor, snapped in two like plywood. Books. Posters on the wall: pop stars, film stars.
Charlotte’s room. There was another of the marks, on the wall above the bedhead. But no blood.
There were five rooms upstairs. Ellie hadn’t been up here in years but remembered the layout clearly enough: four bedrooms, one bathroom. When Ellie checked them she found all the windows broken, front and back. One bedroom had been an office: filing cabinets, a desktop computer. The computer had been overturned, the monitor smashed. Another bedroom was bare and empty. More glass and snow on the floor. She left Joda and Barbara’s bedroom until last, nerving herself for whatever she might find.
Empty windows, gaping open to the sky. Clean cold air had blown in, that didn’t smell of anything. Under it were whiffs of soap, air-freshener, perfume and shampoo. The room was dim. Ellie flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. Torn sheets on the floor; blood spots on the mattress. And that mark yet again, scratched on the wall.
Ellie was still for nearly a minute, thinking of Joda as she’d last seen him, the weary sorrow in his eyes, and of Barbara as she had been. She clenched her fists, then opened them. Then she pulled out her phone and took pictures of each room, before going back downstairs.
Outside, it had started snowing again, and the tyre-tracks and footprints there were already fading.
Ellie studied the ones in the snow inside the bar. There were her own, and another set, made by large, heavy boots. The kind a farmer wore.
Harpers. They’d been here, and at Wakeman Farm. Dave and Charlotte had arrived while they were at the Bell; Dave and Charlotte were no longer here. Their current location wasn’t hard to guess. Which meant Charlotte Famuyiwa was almost certainly with Paul Harper.
Ellie’s fists were clenched. Hello fury, my old friend. It had been close to slipping its leash last night, and now here it was again.
Deep breaths, Ellie. Control yourself. Think it through. Go in half-cocked, you’ll make it worse.
Ideally, she’d have Tom call for back-up from outside, up to and including an armed response team. But in an ideal world the roads would be clear, and they weren’t. Of course, an ideal world wouldn’t contain Paul Harper to begin with. Either way, she’d have to work with what she had.
So: back to Barsall, liaise with Tom, and plan the next move. Whatever happened, chances were she was going back to Thursdale again. She climbed back into the Land Rover, and reached for her AirWave.
13.
“Jess,” said Liz, “make us all a brew.”
The girl dashed away from the wall towards the kitchen range. Keira, more from habit than anything else, feinted a swipe at her as she went.
“Quit it,” snapped Liz. “No time for that now.”
She sighed, unfastened her coat and hung it over the back of the chair, then sat and began to roll herself a cigarette. She normally preferred tailor-mades, but always kept a tin of baccy and papers in case she ran out. She hadn’t, but it gave her fingers something to do, and that relaxed her.
Paul mumbled sulkily. “Pardon?” Liz glared.
For a moment, she thought he’d pretend to have said nothing, but instead he scowled. “What was I supposed to do?”
He always sounded like he was whingeing, and doubly so just now, but he had a point – he’d done as he was told and checked the Bell out. Nobody else’s fault the Famu-whatsit girl hadn’t been able to keep her legs together last night. They’d have gone screaming to the police, and Liz didn’t want to see Ellie Cheetham’s face again any time soon.
She licked the cigarette paper, sealed it, then tore a piece of cardboard from the Rizla packet for a roach. If she didn’t see Cheetham’s face in the next two days, she never might again, not if those markings in the Hollows told the truth. But even if they hadn’t been seen clearing the roads, it wouldn’t take Cheetham long to guess who had.
Yesterday, the day before, Liz would still have been raging about that. But not today. The rules had changed. They’d worse than the pigs to worry about.
She poked the roach into one end of the cigarette, sparked up and took a long deep drag, held it then breathed out. First fag of the day, always the best; after that it was all diminishing returns. “So. Looks like we’ll have callers soon.”
“Fuck,” muttered Keira.
“We’ll handle it,” said Liz.
Keira stared. “How? The pigs are gonna be round – what you gonna do, shoot ’em?”
Liz shrugged.
“Have you gone fucking –”
Liz stared Keira down, daring her to finish. Keira looked away; Liz had known she would. “Sorry.”
“You don’t believe it yet,” Liz said. “That’s all right, Keira. Don’t blame you for that. It’s a lot to take in. Wasn’t easy for me, either. Paul, fetch the scanner.”
Paul rooted in a kitchen drawer, took out a radio scanner and plugged it in. He switched it on, but all they heard was a mush of static. “It’s fucked.”
“No, it’s not.” They’d last used it a few days earlier – before Tony’s death had changed everything – to listen for chatter while Dom was setting up a dog-fight, to make sure the pigs hadn’t been waiting to jump in. They hadn’t been; retard or not, Dom was always careful setting things up. “They’re doing it.”
Keira made to speak, then subsided.
“You saw what they did at Wakeman,” said Liz, “and you’ve heard what they did at the Bell. Wasn’t fairy stories did that, Keira Lucas. Not me going mad. Or d’you think I sneaked out last night and did it?”
“No,” Keira said at last.
“Well, then.”
“Can’t get the pigs on scanner anyway, now,” said Paul. “They’re all encrypted and shit.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Liz. “No bugger’s talking to anyone, that’s the point. Now,” she turned back to Keira, “something’s out there. You admit that? Not robbers, ‘cos they took nothing. Not some gang, cos they’d’ve come after us, fucked with something we gave a shit about. Yeah?”
“All right, but Liz – even still, shooting at the pigs?”
“Tell you what,” said Liz. “Pigs come round, say you were a hostage too. Tried to stop us, but we tied you up. We’ll all say the same.”
And Keira would be out if she did, and nowhere else to go. Liz saw her looking to Frank and was proud to see the stone face he showed; when you came down to it, Frank always put blood first.
Keira shook her head. “No. Whatever needs doing, I’ll do it.”
“Good girl,” said Liz, and meant it. She’d have broken Keira if she’d had to, but the girl was loyal. She might not be a Harper by blood, but she was in every other way. This had tested her, but she’d stick. Long enough to see all Liz said was true.
The scanner crackled and squealed. Liz gestured, and Paul switched it off. “They won’t be calling any of their pig mates in,” she said. “So it’ll just be Cheetham and Tom Graham, and he’s about as much use as a concrete parachute. Maybe a few locals, if they’re feeling hard enough. Nothing we can’t handle till it’s dark. And after that –” Liz pictured Ellie Cheetham’s face when she saw what she was really up against, right before she died, and smiled “– they’ll have a sight more than us to worry about.”
She looked at the others, daring them to challenge her. No-one did.
“What about those two, then?” Keira motioned to the kitchen door.
“Come tomorrow we won’t have to worry about the pigs or anyone else. All we’ll have to worry about after tonight’s Them. We’ll take the boy to the Hollows in the morning. Give ’em the girl the next day. They’ll want more than piglets now. We wanna keep Them happy.”
“No!” Everyone jumped: the cry had come from the last place anyone had been expecting to hear a peep from. “You can’t do that,” said Jess. “You can’t.”
“Shut up, you thick cunt,” Keira said.
“It’s murder.” Jess’ face was red, her eyes glistening.
Keira gave a jagged, cawing laugh. “Ooh, no. Listen to the little cry-baby. Mustn’t do anything against the law. That’d be dead naughty and we’d get in trouble.”
“By tomorrow it won’t be murder,” said Liz, as if Keira hadn’t spoken. “It’ll be sacrifice. Survival.”
A big leap, she knew, but one they’d all have to make, as a family, else they’d never survive.
“But the police –”
“Fuck the pigs,” said Keira. “Right? Right?”
Dom laughed. “Fuck the pigs.”
“Two days,” said Liz. “That’s all that’s left. Tonight, then tomorrow night it’s the Dance and –” she ground out her cigarette “– police won’t matter anymore.”
“Mum, you can’t. They haven’t done anyth–”
“Just shut up,” Liz snapped, all patience gone. “Enough bloody snivelling. The boy goes down tomorrow, the girl the day after. End of story. Fuck everyone else, Jess. This is about the family.”
And normally that’d have had Jess slinking away like a whipped dog, but she wasn’t just scared or sad any longer – for the first time Liz could remember, she was angry. The red face, the tears, weren’t grief or fright but rage. “You wanna give Charlotte and him to the fuckers who killed our Tony?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Liz was angry too now, and raised a clenched fist. Good thing the shotgun hadn’t been in reach. “This isn’t about wanting, you stupid little cow. I told you, it’s survival. Tony’d no business going out at night. It was his own stupid fault.” Her voice cracked. No; no tears. She mustn’t cry. “If it hadn’t been him, They’d have found someone else.”
And if They hadn’t? Would They have taken it as a sign that the time wasn’t yet? If Tony had stayed in night before last, would they have been spared all this?
No point thinking on that – the past was past and done. What mattered now was dealing with what came next. Liz knew from the family Bible what that was, and what to do.
She made her voice a shout. “What’s gonna happen’s gonna happen. Our job’s getting through it, and we won’t do that by whining. We’ll do it by doing what’s gotta be done. Giving Them what we’ve got to give Them. We do that, we’ll live.” And more than just live, too. She knew what the old parchments – as old as any Bible if not older – promised those who kept the faith. Adore Tony though she had, this was about the whole family now.
Jess had hunched back, bright red in the face, head down, humiliated. “All right?” said Liz. “Then shut up.”
“Ha-ha,” sang Keira – a last little jab at her sister-in-law, and the straw that broke the spine of Jess’s restraint; the girl spun and, with surprising skill given how ineffectual Liz had always thought her, punched Keira in the face.
It sent Keira flying, as much due to the element of surprise as to its actual force, and she’d have gone sprawling if Paul hadn’t caught her. She kicked free of him, shouting, “Keep your fucking hands to yourself, pervert,” (in fairness, Liz was sure she’d seen Paul’s fingers groping towards Keira’s breasts), in a muffled voice. Her mouth and chin were slick with blood. “Fucking bitch!” she shouted, and lunged for Jess.
Frank stepped between them and Paul grabbed Keira from behind; she yelled and thrashed, kicking. Liz grabbed the big shotgun and jacked the slide, hard. “Enough!” The harsh shucklack of the action froze everyone in place; there’d been a cartridge in the chamber and Liz heard it tinkle on the stone flags.
“We’re a family,” she said. “We stay together. Not fight each other, at a time like this. Keira, get yourself fucking cleaned up.”
Keira elbowed Paul aside and stumbled from the kitchen. “Thought she’d knocked me fucking teeth out, the bitch...” she mumbled. “If she had I’d fucking...”
Liz almost smiled at Jess: Might make a Harper of you yet. “Paul, do one thing, eh? Get some plastic sheeting down under them in the front room. They’ll be pissing all over the carpet ‘fore we know it, and probably worse. Rest of you, get on watch and be ready. We’ll have guests soon.”
14.
“Matlock from Sierra Four Five, urgent call, over. Matlock from Sierra Four Five, urgent call, over.”
The radio’s only answer was a hissing, mushy scream of static. Ellie checked her smartphone again, but there was still no network.
Beyond the windscreen, veils of snow blew across the Height. The Land Rover’s wipers beat, wiping away the flakes that accumulated between each arc. The lights of Barrowman Farm, down in Thursdale, gleamed through the snow. So close; so distant.
She wouldn’t think of that. Or Charlotte Famuyiwa. Nor Dave Chapple, although that bit was easier. Serve him right if something bad happened to the smug little sod; God knew it would be about time.
No way for a copper to think. You protected all the public, not just the ones you like. Even so, if it came down to either getting Charlotte out of there intact, or Dave…
Well, it won’t. Your job’s to make sure it doesn’t.
“Matlock from Sierra Four Five, urgent call, over. Matlock from Sierra Four Five, urgent call, over.”
