Chapter 4 #2
Though if that is the case, he’s half-assing it. Things could be a lot worse for me here. I could be treated like William. Poor William.
I feel bad for the kid, but there’s nothing I can do for him that won’t land me in trouble.
Later that evening, he comes to sit beside me in the dining room. I glance at him but don’t speak. Philip, still limping, puts his food in front of him. He stares at it.
‘Eat, William,’ Crewes says from across the room.
I eat my meal staring straight ahead with my back straight, glad I got here in time to choose it myself. It’s a grilled chicken breast with carrots, peas, and potatoes. It’s all bland and dry, but at least it’s hot.
Could be worse. That’s my mantra for The Heath.
I watch William pick at his food, not touching the broccoli or beans they’ve given him. I don’t particularly enjoy those vegetables, and clearly he feels the same.
After I finish my plate, I notice that he’s practically inhaled his apple crumble. So, he likes sweets.
When the Blanks aren’t watching, I quickly switch his tray with mine, giving him the second dessert. He briefly looks at me, then digs in.
I start to force down his meal, though I don’t want it. It’s better than watching them zap him again. But Crewes sees that my crumble is gone before my chicken and gives me two demerits.
Worth it.
After that, I slide my tray into the trolley for washing up and head back to the common room where I sit and doodle, wondering if I’ll be able to get out of here before I actually go nuts. It’s going to be a close one…
Shade
‘Aye, that's the place,' Douglas murmurs, his binoculars trained on the manor house I can see in the distance on the hill.
I shift in the passenger seat in the man's nondescript silver Corsa, circa 1998. The weather is cold and damp and it's raining again, not pouring, just an annoying drizzle. The sky is overcast and it’s windy as hell. I feel like I haven’t seen the sun in months.
The landscape is green and yet the desolation that permeates this place is acute.
At the pub we’re staying at, the wind whistles through the eves all the time. Plus, Mav and I are pretty sure it’s haunted as fuck. Weird noises. Creaks. I swear I heard a kid laugh in my room last night.
Blake thinks we’re full of shit.
I glance back at him. Even his love of the UK seems to be waning slightly in the face of its relentless bad weather, the darkness, and the fact that he can't get a good Wi-Fi signal at the pub. That last one is probably the real reason. He hates feeling disconnected.
Mav, silent and stoic as he has been since we got here, just keeps going on runs. He hasn't spoken much since we arrived, except to mutter about the haunted pub and complain about the fact that, while it's nowhere near as cold here as it is in Connecticut, he's constantly shivering.
Douglas chuckled when he overheard, telling him that it's the damp.
‘Gets into your bones,' he said.
He hands me the binoculars.
'You see there?' he says, gesturing at the house.
'Where am I looking?' I ask.
'Beyond the car park. The main doors.’
‘They look old,' I say.
'Aye. Sixteenth century, thick as a witch's cunt.’
I give him a look, not sure what that means.
‘But it’s sealed shut anyway. The smaller one in the middle. You see it? That’s on the button in reception. Always locked unless they buzz you in.'
He wrenches the binoculars to the left and I scowl. 'The fence there, you see it?'
'Yeah,' I grind out. ‘What about it?’
Blake taps my shoulder and I hand him the binoculars. He takes them, training them in the same direction.
'That's the boundary. There's not much security other than the cameras on the main gate. The ones in the building…,' he shrugs. ‘Well, systems have needed updating for years. Most of them don't work, but the good doctor prefers to spend the money on his research.'
Douglas rolls his eyes.
'There are orderlies. Always there. Three shifts a day. They aren't security guards, but don't let the uniforms fool you. A couple of them can pack a wallop, and they're stronger than they look. Crewes in particular. He’s a real cunt and I know he done a long stint at Her Majesty’s pleasure.'
‘What does that mean?’ I ask.
‘Jail, sonny,’ Douglas says with a fake American accent. ‘Don’t know the details, but it was at least two years, so he must’ve done something very naughty indeed.’
'Noted,' I say, squinting. 'So, what’s the best way to get in?'
Douglas snorts. 'It ain't the Bank of England, lad. It won't be difficult to get in. The trick will be getting out and away before the cops get ya,' he says, again in his fake American accent. ‘They’ll be called as soon as she’s missed.'
'And you,’ I say, searching his face. ‘What do you get out of this?’
'A bit of revenge.' He shrugs. 'Got nothing better to do at the moment. Plus, I always liked Marguerite. Good at following instructions.' He frowns a little and shakes his head. ‘Not right what they do in there. I never held with it.’
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone. Get it shut down?’ Mav asks quietly from the back.
Douglas snorts and glances back at Mav. ‘Stoke has backers. Powerful ones. Rich cunts with deep pockets. Police aren’t going to listen to the likes of me.’
Blake puts down the binoculars, nodding. 'Where will they keep her?'
'Her room, if it's the same as before, and I don't see why it wouldn't be. It’s the fifth window from the left at the bottom there. Can't remember her room number, but that’s the one from the outside.
Blake raises the binoculars again, looking at the house.
'Can we go in that way?' I ask.
Douglas shakes his head. ‘Too small. My advice is to go in the side door. Where the bins are.'
He thinks for a moment.
'Dumpsters. They're hidden from view, so you should be able to sneak through behind the wooden fence, and around there is a door that leads into the kitchen after ten.
At that time of night, the orderlies usually leave it open because that's where they have their fag breaks.
You know, cigarettes,' he mutters as my eyes widen at the word.
The English sure have some weird words for stuff.
'It'll be unlocked,’ he continues. ‘It always is.
You go in there, through the kitchen. That'll lead you to the canteen.
Through there, beyond the double doors, you'll find a hallway.
Go right all the way down, and then right again.
You'll see a common room. Her door is…,’ he shuts his eyes, 'the fourth on the left. '
'And if she's not there?'
Douglas shrugs. 'You go in the night, that's where she should be.’ He winces. ‘I mean, unless she's being corrected.'
I look sharply at Douglas. 'What the fuck does that mean?'
The others behind me in the back seat are tense. Douglas senses the shift in our demeanors. He side-eyes me and sighs.
'There's...some rooms downstairs in the cellar. Padlocked. Quiet rooms they call them. I suppose they are quiet, but really, they’re just bare cells.'
'Why would she be put in one of those?'
Douglas leans back in his seat, and it creaks a little. 'Various infractions. If she hasn't been following the rules or got too many demerits, they might put her down there. But it's unlikely. Marguerite was one of Stoke's success stories. He cured her, he said. She always did as she was told.'
Mav leans forward, his jaw tense, his hands clasped in his lap, knuckles white. 'All that motherfucker gave her was PTSD. He didn't cure shit.'
He doesn't say anything more, though there's plenty more we could say about the state of our girl because of that place.
I think back to when she first arrived at the KIP house.
Her movements so careful, so controlled, barely speaking.
The way she'd sit straight with her legs crossed at the ankle. How she wouldn’t argue and didn't advocate for herself.
Because she wasn't able to. She didn’t even know how.
That place tried to break her. I see that now.
How could we have ever thought that she was in a spa for all those years, when we were met with the evidence with our own eyes, when I saw the changes in her?
I silently berate myself. I’ve failed my best friend and the girl I love at every turn, and I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself.
'Let's get the fuck out of here,' Blake snarls.
Douglas nods and turns the key. The engine sputters to life, and we leave the side of the country road where we've been sitting. He drives us back into the village.
'When are we doing this?' Blake asks. 'Tonight?'
Douglas shakes his head. 'Friday night would be better.'
'Why?' Mav asks, clearly thinking, as I do, that we want to get her out of there as quickly as possible.
'Because Fridays are when the orderlies on duty usually have a bit to drink.'
My mouth falls open. 'Do you English ever not drink?' I snarl.
Douglas shrugs. 'I'm not saying I condone it. I'm just saying that's what they do. The younger ones are there on the weekends when Stoke's not around and the reception is closed. The mice play when the master's away. Now, sling yer hooks.'
I look at him in confusion.
'Get out of me bloody car,' he mutters. 'I'll be in touch. I'll pick you up here on Friday at nine in the evening. Wear black. I'll get you some balaclavas.'
‘What the fuck are balaclavas?’ I mutter as we all exit the gruff asshole’s vehicle.
‘Ski masks, I think,’ Blake answers with a frown.
We go into the pub, the warmth from the open fire warming us up instantly. The barman gives us a nod and asks what we want to drink.
Blake asks for a pint of his new favorite drink; the same pale ale the barman gave him the other day. Mav, now partial to a Strongbow, has a pint of alcoholic cider. I take a whiskey double, straight-up. I down it in one, and I get another.
It's starting to get dark. I check my watch. We've got two more days of this before we can take our girl home.
My phone buzzes. I know who it is before I even look at it.
My father is asking where I am. I message him to say that I'm busy with school and that I'll see him next week, hoping it'll be enough and that he doesn't get wind of where we are, what we're doing.
He doesn't reply. I hope he doesn't call me.
I sit at the table with the guys in silence. Blake tries futilely to get a stable internet connection but shuts his laptop with a curse after a few minutes.
'It's the weather, lad,' the barman says. He points vaguely upward with a finger. 'Old wiring.'
Blake looks unimpressed.
'Where is there a place with a better connection?' he asks.
The barman thinks for a minute. 'Public library. There's one in the nearest town, about twenty minutes by car. Or you can get the bus, though it only goes twice a day from outside the church.'
Blake shakes his head. 'Maybe tomorrow.'
I finish my drink. Wanting to be alone, I go up the narrow, steep wooden staircase to the small room I’m staying in. The floor is uneven. I guess that's normal for a building that was built in 1567, so says the plaque on the front of the building. It blows my mind how old this place is.
So haunted.
I lay on my bed carefully, looking at the floral-patterned wallpaper and the antique furniture. I suppose it's quaint, though I can't shake my desire for a decent five-star hotel.
I lay on top of the covers and close my eyes, trying to relax, but all I can see is Daisy in my head, the way she looked just before we lost sight of her in Sauvage’s club.
The more I find out about The Heath, the more horrified I am. We need to save her.
Two more days.
I remind myself that she's a survivor, that she was in that place for over ten years. She survived Joe and the nurse. Just two more days. She can make it. Two more days.
It’s a cold comfort.
She shouldn’t have to make it. She shouldn’t be here, she never should have been here at all, and my father is going to answer for what he did back then, for trying to pawn her off onto the Bandervilles now, for ruining her life over and over again just because he can.
I’m going to make sure he pays for all of it. I need to even if it’s just so I can look myself in the eye.