This Is What Happened, page 19
“I mean yes, Scotland. It was a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Nearly two years.”
“How much money did you give her?”
“Six hundred pounds.”
“That’s a lot,” said Meredith. “That’s a lot of money to give somebody you met in a park.”
“It was a loan. She promised to pay it back.”
“And has she?”
“Some of it,” Broom said. “Every month, she pays ten pounds into my bank account. Every month. So she’s fine, okay? Your sister’s fine.”
“Not every month,” she told him.
“. . . What?”
“I went to Quilp House,” she said. “I met Joshua.”
“Well then, you know I’m telling the truth. He’s the security guard, right?”
“Yes. But he didn’t strike me as the sort of man you’re saying he is.”
“But you can never tell, can you? That just proves it. Some men—stalkers. They’re never the ones you expect.”
“I think sometimes they are,” said Meredith. “Do you still have this postcard?”
“No. I don’t think so. It was from Edinburgh, I think.”
“That’s a pity. The police will want to see it. And your bank statements, too, I expect. So they can trace where these payments are being made from.”
“Actually—no, you know what? I think I do have that postcard. I think it might be on top of the fridge. Give me a minute.”
“No. I’m going now.”
“I just need to—”
“No. I’m going.”
He strode into his kitchen anyway, but Meredith was already on her way to the door. A postcard? An image of a playing card came into her mind instead. He’d built this tower of lies, each story flimsier than the last, and it had no more substance, no more strength, than a house of cards. She wasn’t going to wait around to see what he came up with next. A flutter of panic blew through her, the same gust that had blown his house down. He was mad. Who knew what he was fetching from the kitchen—another lie, another faked history? A weapon? She was scared now. Crazy coffee. Yellow scarf. What had taken her so long?
Maggie, she thought. Oh, Maggie. I hope to God—
She was at the door, and all but gone. But before she turned the handle, Dickon Broom came out of the kitchen and struck her on the head with a wooden hammer.
There.
He knelt beside her. Her eyes were open but there was nothing in them, no life, no noise. He looked at the meat mallet. It seemed clean. The blow hadn’t broken skin, though there was blood trickling from her ear. He had used the smooth side of the mallet’s head, but this hadn’t been a deliberate choice. He had simply swung his arm. There’d been little premeditation.
She was a stupid, stupid woman. If she’d simply had the grace to take his word, she’d have walked out of here twenty minutes ago, and he wouldn’t be in this mess.
But there was no reason to think everything couldn’t still be contained. There would be more work to do, more effort, but if he kept his head down, sweated through it, it would all be fine.
He wasn’t sure, though, that she was dead.
She wasn’t moving, true. And didn’t seem to be breathing. And when he put a hand to her throat, he couldn’t find a pulse. But his own heart was beating so fast, it might be interfering with the signal: there was enough blood pounding his veins to keep two people alive. He’d have to calm down before he could be sure. But how could he do that, halfway through the job? She had doubled his workload at a stroke. Of course his heart was beating. He raised the mallet again. The first time he’d hit her, it had made a hollow thwock. If he did it again, and kept doing it until the results were liquid, he’d know for certain she was gone.
Just bring it down, hard on her head, again and again and again.
Don’t think about it.
Do it.
Although there was no point to it now, although light and noise would make little difference, Broom left the landing dark as he made his way downstairs. The only illumination spilled from his own flat, the door to which he’d left open. The bag of tools was where he’d left it, by the hall table. He’d get to that in good time. Stuff in there he needed, definitely, but right now the mallet was all. There was a woozy quality to his thoughts, but that was the stress of the moment. He was in control. Knew what he was doing. He worked out which key he needed from the familiar ring in his pocket, and let himself into the basement.
“Harvey?”
And there it was, the name she knew him by that wasn’t even his, that he’d plucked from two sheets on a notice board, a poet and a ballet. It was true they’d been through a lot together, but really: how could finishing this relationship be wrong, when she didn’t even know his name? By any civilised standard, it was the proper thing to do.
“I’m here,” he said.
She appeared at the foot of the stairs, coming fully into view as he descended. She’d had a bath and changed her clothes while he’d been gone. The sweatshirt she was wearing was his old one. It had been too big for her when she’d appropriated it, but she filled more of it now than she had then. Another reason.
“What’s that in your hand?” she asked.
He was holding the mallet, of course, because that was part of the plan. From here on in, everything was according to the plan.
“Just something I’ll need later. Not important. Are you ready to go?”
“Now?”
“Now this minute, yes.”
“Yes, I’m ready.”
He reached the bottom step and she flung her arms around him and squeezed him tight.
“I’m so excited, Harvey. I thought today would never come.”
“Well, it has.”
“. . . What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.”
She released him and took a step back. “You sound different. Has something happened?”
“Nothing’s happened.”
He realised then that he’d forgotten to change his clothes, that he wasn’t wearing the tracksuit.
“Damn!”
“What is it, Harvey? What is it?”
“It’s—damn. It’s nothing. It’s all right. Everything’s all right.”
Just one more thing to do. He’d have to burn these clothes afterwards, that was all. Or change immediately once this part was done.
Maggie said, “That’s a meat tenderiser.”
“What?”
“What you’re holding. It’s for tenderising meat. Why do you need one of those, Harvey? What are you doing with it later?”
He said—
He said—
He said—
But nothing came. It didn’t matter. There was nothing more to say.
He raised the mallet above his head, and swung.
There was something wrong with Harvey.
Earlier he’d been tender and good, and when he’d told her about Dickon Broom he’d done so with such sorrow that Maggie knew Dickon had been not just an agent but close to his heart. And when he had spoken about the new house, the life they were to have, it had been like old times in the park café, when they’d sat at a table together, and there had been sunlight and fresh air and the song of parakeets.
But that had disappeared in the hours he’d been gone. Now his face was a mask she couldn’t read, worse even than when he was angry with her, because now he was simply blank and cold, as if somebody else had moved into his head. And she thought—it filled her with terror—she thought that the worst had happened, that he’d been caught by Lin Hua or someone like her, and she’d scrambled his brain, turned his mind inside out, and he was no longer Harvey Wells but an enemy come to destroy her.
Given a minute, she knew, she could bring the old Harvey back. She would paint him such a true picture of Harvey Wells that all the poison he’d been fed would seep away and he’d be his own self once more. But that minute burst like a bubble. It was already over. She stepped back. Harvey’s teeth were showing, the tips of his incisors, the way they did when he smiled, but he wasn’t smiling. He changed his grip on the mallet.
When he raised it above his head, she screamed.
When he swung it, it caught the light fitting, and the bulb exploded with a bang and plaster rained down.
All the lights in the basement died at once.
Hot.
Cold.
Floor.
Ceiling.
Fingers.
Head.
Eyes.
Open eyes.
She opened her eyes.
Pain.
Light.
Dark.
Pain.
Blood.
Blood?
Blood.
The blood was on her fingers.
The pain was in her head.
No,
The pain was everywhere.
No,
The pain was in her head.
When she moved her head it went everywhere.
Otherwise, it was just in her head.
Somebody screamed.
Meredith closed her eyes.
When the darkness came he swore loudly and swung the mallet again, but its head thunked into the staircase. A hollow sound echoed through the basement. He could see nothing, but a slithering, beady noise suggested she’d passed through the curtain into the kitchen. That was small and enclosed and the last place she needed to be. Then again, it was the last place she was going to be, so that seemed tidy enough.
“Maggie?” he said.
No reply, but someone was whimpering.
He needed a moment, so his eyes could adjust. Things were not going the way they were supposed to, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be reclaimed. All he needed was to keep his nerve. Soon this would be over, and he would tidy up, and all would be well.
“Maggie?” he said. “I’m sorry. But it has to be done. It’s the only way out. For both of us.”
She didn’t reply.
Broom could hear London in the distance. London was always there, always breathing. There was always traffic. There was always something.
He thought that a kind thing to do would be to show her she wasn’t alone.
“I’ll be coming with you, Maggie. Afterwards,” he said. “I have some pills. I’ll take them all. I’ll follow you.”
Still she said nothing.
His scalp felt scratchy, and when he rubbed it with his free hand his fingers flamed with pain, shards of lightbulb glass impaling their tips. He tried to shake them free, then rubbed them against his jeans. It felt like he’d dipped his hand in a bucket of razor blades.
Forgetting to put on the tracksuit was a blip. But the important thing was, he’d avoided the bigger mistakes. He could have crushed Sue’s head, but that would have been messy—he needed to collect his shopping first, and spread the bin liners around, to contain the leakage. It was fine: she wasn’t going anywhere. Besides, if he’d come downstairs with the meat mallet dripping blood and brain, Maggie would have thought he was a maniac.
Maggie, Maggie.
“Come on out, Maggie,” he said.
Was she in the kitchen? Or had she brushed the curtain on her way past?
His dark-vision was adjusting. He knew this basement flat, had lived in it for years. Did she think she could hide from him? He took a step forward and extended an arm, felt with the tip of the mallet the beaded curtain he’d always hated. Like stepping through a dry waterfall.
If she wasn’t here, she was nearby.
The single blow to the temple was looking less and less likely, but she had no one to blame but herself.
Maggie, Maggie.
She had scrambled into the tiny kitchen because it was the nearest different space, and her animal instincts had urged her somewhere small and dark. But Harvey was right outside, near enough to touch, and she could hear him muttering and brushing at something, could hear the angry noises he made without moving his lips. Something had possessed him. It had taken no time at all. She imagined him strapped to a chair, head in a clamp, Lin Hua opening him up and tinkering with the connections. If his hammer hadn’t caught the light she would be dead now. She would be dead.
He was calling her name.
Maggie was on the floor, clutching her knees. He had left the door unlocked, and if she could get past him and up those stairs—then what? She wouldn’t survive in the Collapsed world without him. But he wanted her dead. She had nowhere to be.
“I’ll be coming with you, Maggie. Afterwards. I have some pills. I’ll take them all. I’ll follow you.”
His voice was the same as ever—how could Harvey have changed into someone else, and kept the same voice?
“Come on out, Maggie . . .”
Maybe that would be best . . .
The thought winked on then off then on again. They should take the pills together. They should lie on her bed and go the quiet way home, peacefully slide into nowhere, while the safe house cobwebbed round them. Years from now they’d be found hand in hand, shadows of their current selves, surrounded by brambles.
Something made the curtain shiver, and the noise the beads made was like a wave hitting shingle.
“Maggie . . . ?”
An outstretched arm made its way into the darkness.
Somebody screamed.
Meredith opened her eyes.
There was this awful pain, like trying to wheel a heavy suitcase using only her mind.
Dickon Broom had hit her with a hammer.
Really?
Yes,
Dickon Broom had hit her with a hammer.
Her thoughts were clustered on one side of her head, like words hugging a margin.
What had just happened?
Somebody screamed.
Maggie.
Maggie?
Maggie.
She had heard Maggie scream.
There were doors and doors and stairs and doors, but somewhere was Maggie, and she’d just screamed.
Don’t let go of your sister’s hand.
Meredith closed her eyes.
She opened them again.
It was her own fault, she knew. If she hadn’t killed Joshua. If she hadn’t been Maggie. If nothing had happened, she wouldn’t be here.
And she could leave now. That was what Harvey had promised earlier. And he had come to keep that promise, though not in the way she’d expected.
But really, what difference did it make?
The country had Collapsed. There must still be people—thousands of them—millions—who wanted only quiet lives, the pretence of normal, the ordinary day. To continue as if life remained the same. But she wouldn’t be allowed to join them. She would have to answer for the things she’d done, and maybe it was best if it all ended now, just her and Harvey. Here in the safe house, which had become her home.
The curtain rustled, and he was in there with her.
Broom stepped through the curtain. Maggie was a dark shape on the floor, whimpering. He put his free hand on her head and felt her brain pulsing through her scalp. Maggie, Maggie.
It would all be over soon. He didn’t wish her any harm, he just wanted her dead. And then he would make Sue—Meredith—dead too, and once the unpleasant business of disposal had been dealt with, his life could start again. It would be lonely, but not for long. He wondered where Lin Hua was now. Perhaps they could start over.
“Maggie, Maggie,” he said, and raised the mallet.
Hands and knees.
Crawl not walk
Floor then door.
Door then stairs.
At the top of the stairs Meredith stopped.
It was dark.
There were noises.
She heard:
A crash,
A shriek,
A clatter.
Broom’s voice saying:
“Maggie, Maggie.”
Meredith’s head hurt.
She arched her neck.
Like a wolf.
She screamed:
“Maggie!”
Maggie felt Harvey’s hand on her head, and waited for the blow.
It wouldn’t hurt, she thought. Or if it did hurt, it wouldn’t hurt for long.
Or if it did hurt for long, it was going to happen anyway.
She closed her eyes, and for a moment imagined life with a different ending, in a world where the Collapse hadn’t happened. There’d be more sunshine, more fresh air. There’d be happier voices. She wouldn’t let go of her sister’s hand.
“Maggie!”
The scream came from nowhere, as if she’d conjured it out of darkness.
She jerked backwards, and the blow that should have crushed her temple slammed into the cupboard door. On the rebound the mallet slipped from Harvey’s hand, and flew into the opposite wall.
Meredith . . .
It didn’t sound like Meredith—sounded harsh and animal, as if it were being scraped through a grater—but it was Meredith, she knew it was Meredith, because you always know your sister’s voice—you always know your sister.
Harvey swore and threw a punch which hit her shoulder. Without thinking she seized his hand and bit. He cried out and she scrambled past him, through the beaded curtain and into the hallway.
He was after her immediately, shouting again, Maggie, Maggie, but still scrabbling—on all fours—she launched herself up the narrow staircase. The door at the top was unlocked, and if she could reach it, if she could open it, perhaps her sister was on the other side . . . Harvey grabbed her sweatshirt, bunching it, pulling her back, but she tugged free as she reached the top. He grunted, lunged forward and took hold of her once more, and there was a sickening crack, something like a chair leg splitting in half, and suddenly his grip came loose and there was a moment during which a heavy object found its balance, wavering upright with no energy keeping it so. The moment passed, and Harvey Wells, whose head had come into contact at speed with the low ceiling by the basement door, tumbled backwards down the staircase and made no further sound.
“How long?”
“Nearly two years.”
“How much money did you give her?”
“Six hundred pounds.”
“That’s a lot,” said Meredith. “That’s a lot of money to give somebody you met in a park.”
“It was a loan. She promised to pay it back.”
“And has she?”
“Some of it,” Broom said. “Every month, she pays ten pounds into my bank account. Every month. So she’s fine, okay? Your sister’s fine.”
“Not every month,” she told him.
“. . . What?”
“I went to Quilp House,” she said. “I met Joshua.”
“Well then, you know I’m telling the truth. He’s the security guard, right?”
“Yes. But he didn’t strike me as the sort of man you’re saying he is.”
“But you can never tell, can you? That just proves it. Some men—stalkers. They’re never the ones you expect.”
“I think sometimes they are,” said Meredith. “Do you still have this postcard?”
“No. I don’t think so. It was from Edinburgh, I think.”
“That’s a pity. The police will want to see it. And your bank statements, too, I expect. So they can trace where these payments are being made from.”
“Actually—no, you know what? I think I do have that postcard. I think it might be on top of the fridge. Give me a minute.”
“No. I’m going now.”
“I just need to—”
“No. I’m going.”
He strode into his kitchen anyway, but Meredith was already on her way to the door. A postcard? An image of a playing card came into her mind instead. He’d built this tower of lies, each story flimsier than the last, and it had no more substance, no more strength, than a house of cards. She wasn’t going to wait around to see what he came up with next. A flutter of panic blew through her, the same gust that had blown his house down. He was mad. Who knew what he was fetching from the kitchen—another lie, another faked history? A weapon? She was scared now. Crazy coffee. Yellow scarf. What had taken her so long?
Maggie, she thought. Oh, Maggie. I hope to God—
She was at the door, and all but gone. But before she turned the handle, Dickon Broom came out of the kitchen and struck her on the head with a wooden hammer.
There.
He knelt beside her. Her eyes were open but there was nothing in them, no life, no noise. He looked at the meat mallet. It seemed clean. The blow hadn’t broken skin, though there was blood trickling from her ear. He had used the smooth side of the mallet’s head, but this hadn’t been a deliberate choice. He had simply swung his arm. There’d been little premeditation.
She was a stupid, stupid woman. If she’d simply had the grace to take his word, she’d have walked out of here twenty minutes ago, and he wouldn’t be in this mess.
But there was no reason to think everything couldn’t still be contained. There would be more work to do, more effort, but if he kept his head down, sweated through it, it would all be fine.
He wasn’t sure, though, that she was dead.
She wasn’t moving, true. And didn’t seem to be breathing. And when he put a hand to her throat, he couldn’t find a pulse. But his own heart was beating so fast, it might be interfering with the signal: there was enough blood pounding his veins to keep two people alive. He’d have to calm down before he could be sure. But how could he do that, halfway through the job? She had doubled his workload at a stroke. Of course his heart was beating. He raised the mallet again. The first time he’d hit her, it had made a hollow thwock. If he did it again, and kept doing it until the results were liquid, he’d know for certain she was gone.
Just bring it down, hard on her head, again and again and again.
Don’t think about it.
Do it.
Although there was no point to it now, although light and noise would make little difference, Broom left the landing dark as he made his way downstairs. The only illumination spilled from his own flat, the door to which he’d left open. The bag of tools was where he’d left it, by the hall table. He’d get to that in good time. Stuff in there he needed, definitely, but right now the mallet was all. There was a woozy quality to his thoughts, but that was the stress of the moment. He was in control. Knew what he was doing. He worked out which key he needed from the familiar ring in his pocket, and let himself into the basement.
“Harvey?”
And there it was, the name she knew him by that wasn’t even his, that he’d plucked from two sheets on a notice board, a poet and a ballet. It was true they’d been through a lot together, but really: how could finishing this relationship be wrong, when she didn’t even know his name? By any civilised standard, it was the proper thing to do.
“I’m here,” he said.
She appeared at the foot of the stairs, coming fully into view as he descended. She’d had a bath and changed her clothes while he’d been gone. The sweatshirt she was wearing was his old one. It had been too big for her when she’d appropriated it, but she filled more of it now than she had then. Another reason.
“What’s that in your hand?” she asked.
He was holding the mallet, of course, because that was part of the plan. From here on in, everything was according to the plan.
“Just something I’ll need later. Not important. Are you ready to go?”
“Now?”
“Now this minute, yes.”
“Yes, I’m ready.”
He reached the bottom step and she flung her arms around him and squeezed him tight.
“I’m so excited, Harvey. I thought today would never come.”
“Well, it has.”
“. . . What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.”
She released him and took a step back. “You sound different. Has something happened?”
“Nothing’s happened.”
He realised then that he’d forgotten to change his clothes, that he wasn’t wearing the tracksuit.
“Damn!”
“What is it, Harvey? What is it?”
“It’s—damn. It’s nothing. It’s all right. Everything’s all right.”
Just one more thing to do. He’d have to burn these clothes afterwards, that was all. Or change immediately once this part was done.
Maggie said, “That’s a meat tenderiser.”
“What?”
“What you’re holding. It’s for tenderising meat. Why do you need one of those, Harvey? What are you doing with it later?”
He said—
He said—
He said—
But nothing came. It didn’t matter. There was nothing more to say.
He raised the mallet above his head, and swung.
There was something wrong with Harvey.
Earlier he’d been tender and good, and when he’d told her about Dickon Broom he’d done so with such sorrow that Maggie knew Dickon had been not just an agent but close to his heart. And when he had spoken about the new house, the life they were to have, it had been like old times in the park café, when they’d sat at a table together, and there had been sunlight and fresh air and the song of parakeets.
But that had disappeared in the hours he’d been gone. Now his face was a mask she couldn’t read, worse even than when he was angry with her, because now he was simply blank and cold, as if somebody else had moved into his head. And she thought—it filled her with terror—she thought that the worst had happened, that he’d been caught by Lin Hua or someone like her, and she’d scrambled his brain, turned his mind inside out, and he was no longer Harvey Wells but an enemy come to destroy her.
Given a minute, she knew, she could bring the old Harvey back. She would paint him such a true picture of Harvey Wells that all the poison he’d been fed would seep away and he’d be his own self once more. But that minute burst like a bubble. It was already over. She stepped back. Harvey’s teeth were showing, the tips of his incisors, the way they did when he smiled, but he wasn’t smiling. He changed his grip on the mallet.
When he raised it above his head, she screamed.
When he swung it, it caught the light fitting, and the bulb exploded with a bang and plaster rained down.
All the lights in the basement died at once.
Hot.
Cold.
Floor.
Ceiling.
Fingers.
Head.
Eyes.
Open eyes.
She opened her eyes.
Pain.
Light.
Dark.
Pain.
Blood.
Blood?
Blood.
The blood was on her fingers.
The pain was in her head.
No,
The pain was everywhere.
No,
The pain was in her head.
When she moved her head it went everywhere.
Otherwise, it was just in her head.
Somebody screamed.
Meredith closed her eyes.
When the darkness came he swore loudly and swung the mallet again, but its head thunked into the staircase. A hollow sound echoed through the basement. He could see nothing, but a slithering, beady noise suggested she’d passed through the curtain into the kitchen. That was small and enclosed and the last place she needed to be. Then again, it was the last place she was going to be, so that seemed tidy enough.
“Maggie?” he said.
No reply, but someone was whimpering.
He needed a moment, so his eyes could adjust. Things were not going the way they were supposed to, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be reclaimed. All he needed was to keep his nerve. Soon this would be over, and he would tidy up, and all would be well.
“Maggie?” he said. “I’m sorry. But it has to be done. It’s the only way out. For both of us.”
She didn’t reply.
Broom could hear London in the distance. London was always there, always breathing. There was always traffic. There was always something.
He thought that a kind thing to do would be to show her she wasn’t alone.
“I’ll be coming with you, Maggie. Afterwards,” he said. “I have some pills. I’ll take them all. I’ll follow you.”
Still she said nothing.
His scalp felt scratchy, and when he rubbed it with his free hand his fingers flamed with pain, shards of lightbulb glass impaling their tips. He tried to shake them free, then rubbed them against his jeans. It felt like he’d dipped his hand in a bucket of razor blades.
Forgetting to put on the tracksuit was a blip. But the important thing was, he’d avoided the bigger mistakes. He could have crushed Sue’s head, but that would have been messy—he needed to collect his shopping first, and spread the bin liners around, to contain the leakage. It was fine: she wasn’t going anywhere. Besides, if he’d come downstairs with the meat mallet dripping blood and brain, Maggie would have thought he was a maniac.
Maggie, Maggie.
“Come on out, Maggie,” he said.
Was she in the kitchen? Or had she brushed the curtain on her way past?
His dark-vision was adjusting. He knew this basement flat, had lived in it for years. Did she think she could hide from him? He took a step forward and extended an arm, felt with the tip of the mallet the beaded curtain he’d always hated. Like stepping through a dry waterfall.
If she wasn’t here, she was nearby.
The single blow to the temple was looking less and less likely, but she had no one to blame but herself.
Maggie, Maggie.
She had scrambled into the tiny kitchen because it was the nearest different space, and her animal instincts had urged her somewhere small and dark. But Harvey was right outside, near enough to touch, and she could hear him muttering and brushing at something, could hear the angry noises he made without moving his lips. Something had possessed him. It had taken no time at all. She imagined him strapped to a chair, head in a clamp, Lin Hua opening him up and tinkering with the connections. If his hammer hadn’t caught the light she would be dead now. She would be dead.
He was calling her name.
Maggie was on the floor, clutching her knees. He had left the door unlocked, and if she could get past him and up those stairs—then what? She wouldn’t survive in the Collapsed world without him. But he wanted her dead. She had nowhere to be.
“I’ll be coming with you, Maggie. Afterwards. I have some pills. I’ll take them all. I’ll follow you.”
His voice was the same as ever—how could Harvey have changed into someone else, and kept the same voice?
“Come on out, Maggie . . .”
Maybe that would be best . . .
The thought winked on then off then on again. They should take the pills together. They should lie on her bed and go the quiet way home, peacefully slide into nowhere, while the safe house cobwebbed round them. Years from now they’d be found hand in hand, shadows of their current selves, surrounded by brambles.
Something made the curtain shiver, and the noise the beads made was like a wave hitting shingle.
“Maggie . . . ?”
An outstretched arm made its way into the darkness.
Somebody screamed.
Meredith opened her eyes.
There was this awful pain, like trying to wheel a heavy suitcase using only her mind.
Dickon Broom had hit her with a hammer.
Really?
Yes,
Dickon Broom had hit her with a hammer.
Her thoughts were clustered on one side of her head, like words hugging a margin.
What had just happened?
Somebody screamed.
Maggie.
Maggie?
Maggie.
She had heard Maggie scream.
There were doors and doors and stairs and doors, but somewhere was Maggie, and she’d just screamed.
Don’t let go of your sister’s hand.
Meredith closed her eyes.
She opened them again.
It was her own fault, she knew. If she hadn’t killed Joshua. If she hadn’t been Maggie. If nothing had happened, she wouldn’t be here.
And she could leave now. That was what Harvey had promised earlier. And he had come to keep that promise, though not in the way she’d expected.
But really, what difference did it make?
The country had Collapsed. There must still be people—thousands of them—millions—who wanted only quiet lives, the pretence of normal, the ordinary day. To continue as if life remained the same. But she wouldn’t be allowed to join them. She would have to answer for the things she’d done, and maybe it was best if it all ended now, just her and Harvey. Here in the safe house, which had become her home.
The curtain rustled, and he was in there with her.
Broom stepped through the curtain. Maggie was a dark shape on the floor, whimpering. He put his free hand on her head and felt her brain pulsing through her scalp. Maggie, Maggie.
It would all be over soon. He didn’t wish her any harm, he just wanted her dead. And then he would make Sue—Meredith—dead too, and once the unpleasant business of disposal had been dealt with, his life could start again. It would be lonely, but not for long. He wondered where Lin Hua was now. Perhaps they could start over.
“Maggie, Maggie,” he said, and raised the mallet.
Hands and knees.
Crawl not walk
Floor then door.
Door then stairs.
At the top of the stairs Meredith stopped.
It was dark.
There were noises.
She heard:
A crash,
A shriek,
A clatter.
Broom’s voice saying:
“Maggie, Maggie.”
Meredith’s head hurt.
She arched her neck.
Like a wolf.
She screamed:
“Maggie!”
Maggie felt Harvey’s hand on her head, and waited for the blow.
It wouldn’t hurt, she thought. Or if it did hurt, it wouldn’t hurt for long.
Or if it did hurt for long, it was going to happen anyway.
She closed her eyes, and for a moment imagined life with a different ending, in a world where the Collapse hadn’t happened. There’d be more sunshine, more fresh air. There’d be happier voices. She wouldn’t let go of her sister’s hand.
“Maggie!”
The scream came from nowhere, as if she’d conjured it out of darkness.
She jerked backwards, and the blow that should have crushed her temple slammed into the cupboard door. On the rebound the mallet slipped from Harvey’s hand, and flew into the opposite wall.
Meredith . . .
It didn’t sound like Meredith—sounded harsh and animal, as if it were being scraped through a grater—but it was Meredith, she knew it was Meredith, because you always know your sister’s voice—you always know your sister.
Harvey swore and threw a punch which hit her shoulder. Without thinking she seized his hand and bit. He cried out and she scrambled past him, through the beaded curtain and into the hallway.
He was after her immediately, shouting again, Maggie, Maggie, but still scrabbling—on all fours—she launched herself up the narrow staircase. The door at the top was unlocked, and if she could reach it, if she could open it, perhaps her sister was on the other side . . . Harvey grabbed her sweatshirt, bunching it, pulling her back, but she tugged free as she reached the top. He grunted, lunged forward and took hold of her once more, and there was a sickening crack, something like a chair leg splitting in half, and suddenly his grip came loose and there was a moment during which a heavy object found its balance, wavering upright with no energy keeping it so. The moment passed, and Harvey Wells, whose head had come into contact at speed with the low ceiling by the basement door, tumbled backwards down the staircase and made no further sound.
