Chapter 9
It was business as usual in the Matthews household.
The porridge bowls had been emptied and cleaned, school bags were lined up in the hall and the twins were putting on their school uniforms. Their mother, Eileen, chided them as she always did—it was amazing how long these boys could spin out getting dressed.
When they were little they’d loved the status that their smart school uniforms had bestowed upon them and they’d hurried to put them on, desperate to appear as grown-up and important as their elder sisters.
But now that the girls had left home and the twins were teenagers, they viewed the whole thing as an awful drag, delaying the inevitable for as long as possible.
If their father was around, they’d snap to it, but when it was just Eileen, they took the mickey—it was only by threatening to stop their pocket money that she got them to do anything these days.
“Five minutes, boys. Five minutes and we must be out of the house.”
Time was ticking by. The register would soon be called at Kingswood Secondary, the independent school that the boys attended, and it wouldn’t do to be late.
The school was very hot on discipline, sending terse letters to parents they perceived to be tardy or lax.
Eileen lived in fear of these missives, despite the fact that she had never received one.
As a result, the morning routine was rigidly mapped out, and usually they would have been out of the door by now, but today she was at sixes and sevens.
Her chivvying of the boys was more out of habit than conviction this morning.
Alan hadn’t come home last night. Eileen always worried about his being out after dark.
She knew it was for a good cause and that he felt a duty to help those less fortunate than himself, but you never knew who—or what—you might run into.
There were bad people out there—you only had to read the newspapers to see that.
Normally he would return around four a.m. Eileen would feign sleep, as she knew Alan didn’t like the idea of her waiting up for him, but in reality she never slept a wink until he was home safe and sound.
By six a.m., she couldn’t hold off any longer, so she got up and rang Alan’s mobile phone—but it went straight to voice mail.
She’d thought about leaving a message, then decided against it.
He’d be back soon enough and would accuse her of fussing.
She made herself breakfast but couldn’t face eating it, so it sat on the breakfast bar untouched. Where was he?
The boys were ready now and staring at her.
They could tell she was anxious and they weren’t sure whether to be amused or worried.
At fourteen, they were the classic mixture of man and child, wanting to be independent, grown-up, even cynical, yet cleaving to the familiar routines and discipline that their parents provided.
They were waiting to go, but still Eileen hesitated.
A strong instinct was telling her to stay put, to wait for her husband to return.
The doorbell rang and Eileen bolted into the hallway.
The silly so-and-so had forgotten his key.
Perhaps he had been robbed. It would be just like him to help some ne’er-do-well and get his wallet pinched in the bargain.
Composing herself, Eileen opened the door calmly, her brightest smile painted on her face.
But no one was there. She cast about for Alan—for anyone—but the street was quiet. Was it kids playing silly beggars?
“I’m surprised you haven’t got better things to do,” she called out, silently cursing the unruly children who lived at the cheaper end of the street.
She was about to slam the door shut, when she noticed the box.
A courier’s cardboard box left on her doorstep.
A white label adorned the top and on it was written The Matthews family and then their address—misspelled in spidery, crabbed handwriting.
It looked like a present of some sort—but it wasn’t anybody’s birthday.
Eileen stuck her head out once more, expecting to see Simon the postman or a courier’s van parked up on the double yellow lines—but there was no one in sight.
The boys were onto her immediately, asking her if they could open it, but Eileen held firm.
She would open it, and if it was appropriate, she would share it with them.
They didn’t really have time—it was eight forty already, for goodness’ sake—but better to open it now, put the boys out of their misery and then get on with their morning.
Suddenly Eileen felt cross with herself for dawdling and she resolved to get on with things—if they hurried they might just make it to school on time.
Pulling a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer, she sliced a line down the duct tape that bound the box together.
As she did so, her nose wrinkled—a strong odor emanated from inside.
She couldn’t put her finger on what it was, but she didn’t like it.
Was it something industrial? Something animal?
Her instinct was to reseal the package and wait for Alan’s return, but the boys were nagging her to get on with it .
. . so gritting her teeth, she threw open the box.
And screamed. Suddenly she couldn’t stop screaming, despite the fact that the boys were clearly terrified by the noise.
Tearful, they hurried to her, but she pushed them angrily away.
When they fought back, begging her to tell them what was going on, she grabbed them by their collars and hauled them roughly out of the room, screaming all the while for someone—anyone—to help.
The offending box was left alone in the room. The top lolled lazily backward, revealing the legend Evill written in dark crimson on the underside. It was the perfect introduction to the box’s awful contents. Lying within, in a nest of dirty newspaper, was a human heart.