CHAPTER 44
Ella
I wait until the movement above dies down, unsure if Immi will burst in and catch me in the act of escaping. When no one appears, I move my leg. The key shines up at me.
Benji is helping me.
I wish I asked why. But then I think back to Immi in front of me. Her eyes glazed and her mouth moving in a whispered conversation with herself. She’s not OK anymore.
I have to get out of here.
Shuffling on my knees, I work the key into the lock at my wrists. Half an ear listens to the door, waiting for the telltale sound of someone coming back. It takes a few tries as the key slips from my trembling hand. Finally, a soft click indicates my freedom as the lock falls away.
It can’t be that easy, can it?
There’s no time to think about it. I rise, my knees buckling beneath me. My wrists are chafed and raw and a smattering of little red grooves runs across them. My foot crumbles under me as I try to take a step forward.
“Dammit,” I say, inhaling. I need to get out of here, but my body has nothing else left.
Nate comes to mind.
I have to do the right thing, for Nate and Robbie and now Jude.
Perhaps I’ve never done that, the thing that doesn’t best serve me.
In a way, it was easiest to paint the selfish option as selfless.
I thought it was selfless putting Henry away, but wasn’t that just juvenile revenge?
Was the podcast nothing more than a way to make myself feel better?
My feet and clothes are stained with the blood of my only true friend.
None of this served me very well. What would Nate do? I shake my head. What should I do?
I push my hands into the ground, rising to my feet before stumbling forward.
My left hand traces along the wall, using it to support my weight.
It takes a few tries but finally I find my feet, shuffling towards the door.
Pushing it, I find that it opens out to a staircase, the same one we were dragged down, I assume.
I sigh, turning my head to where Jude lies.
“I’ll come back, OK?” I say. Then I make the slow climb up, not knowing what I’ll find when I get there but knowing I’ll have to fight whatever it is.
The door at the top of the stairs is newer than anything in the basement, varnished with a gorgeous brass knob and achingly familiar.
I push my shoulder against it to get the strength to go through, my body screaming back at me.
All I can see is Immi’s vacant eyes and the look in Benji’s.
This is my mess to fix, and this time round, I have to.
A ripple of pain sears across my thigh as I step over the threshold, eyes drawing up to find myself spiralling through time.
The room opens, and I’m greeted with a bare kitchen.
The layout is exactly like home, the door to the garden on my right and an archway to the rest of the house on my left.
The tacky floor lino is now heavy, cold tiles, and the old brown units that creak when you opened them are grey with slim black handles.
This isn’t my childhood home, but it’s eerily similar. A shiver pushes me forward.
I place a foot over the threshold. My stained, bloody fingers leave shaky marks on the white walls.
Each step is cautious. I lean forward, checking the room before I enter.
The place is so small, and there’s nowhere to hide, but still, I press my body against the left side wall in case Immi appears.
Outside, a small patch of grass sits at the far end of a patioed garden.
I reach for the back door, the frame rattling but nothing budging.
Whipping around, I yank open the cupboard doors, searching for something weighty enough to break the glass.
Just above the sink, time folds in on itself.
I see myself as a small child, dancing in the kitchen as Mum stands with her hands elbow-deep in sudsy water, the radio playing, and Dad working in the garden somewhere.
I grip the edge of the counter, inhaling until the nostalgia fades to the back of my mind.
This is what Immi wants. This isn’t my home.
Nausea hits me square in the belly, and I yank the tap handle, thrusting my wide mouth under the faucet.
Nothing comes out. I pull again, manoeuvring it this way and that, but it’s out.
It’s all for show. I stumble towards the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen and press the light switch. Nothing.
There’s no water or electricity.
My first thought would be to find a phone, but I need a neighbour, a person who can help us.
My phone must be somewhere here if Benji and Immi are too, but the idea of trawling through the house, bloodied and bruised, feels as sensible as going back down into the basement.
I think of all those people in the movies who choose the stupid option when trying to outrun the killer.
The hallway is bare and painted a deep pink, the space under the stairs holds shelves and the hooks by the door are empty. There’s no life here, I need to leave.
The stairs are to my left, and the door to the living room is on my right, with the front door dead ahead.
The stairs aren’t an option, and all I would find is suffering, but something draws me towards the living room.
As I enter, I hear it, a soft release of air close to a groan.
It’s moderately decorated here. A slim-looking navy sofa faces the fireplace, and a large television is mounted on the wall.
The sound comes again, a definite groan.
As I move through the room, I see why. There, sprawled on the sofa, lies Benji, his eyes moving around the room, flickering rapidly.
My feet stop. My throat closes, the air trapping itself and refusing to budge.
If he’s here, then where is Immi? Benji’s eyes catch mine, an unsteady hand reaching forward.
He looks slimmer since we last spoke, his face going gaunt.
His eyes remain steady on me for a moment, and then they are lost, rolling into the back of his head.
I lurch forward, a gasp pushing out of me. “Benji, what’s happened?”
He opens his mouth and blood tumbles free, a wash of it as he tries to talk. “Huu ghuu.” It’s nothing but sounds. My eyes drop away from the blood, nausea drawing my lips tight shut. My fingers work over his body, trying to find out where he’s hurt.
His shirt is slick with sweat. Something is wrong. His abdomen spurts blood that seeps into the cushion clutched to his side.
“It’s OK, Benji,” I say, ripping off the bottom of my top and placing pressure on the wound. He swipes at me, barely knocking my arm. There’s no power in his movement, and he’s paling fast.
“Guhhh,” he says, and more blood falls from his mouth.
“Benji, what happened?”
He raises a hand and makes the motions of scissors cutting inches from his mouth, which fills with blood as he opens it.
My hand reaches for my own mouth as bile rises in my throat.
I steady myself as I take his hand; his wrists are marked with rope marks.
Sadness washes over me. She’s cut his tongue.
“My God…” My voice sounds far away and terrified. I am terrified.
I bundle my top up and press it hard into his stomach. His eyes roll again.
“Open your eyes,” I hiss, my full weight leaning into him.
The same hot itching crawls over my body, just as it did when Nate’s coffin lowered into the ground.
My mum swayed next to me, sober for once, but drunk on emotions.
I squeeze my eyes shut and only find myself face-to-face with Robbie’s ghost. And then it morphs into Henry.
And last of all, Jude. A sob hiccups out.
I’ve always said that death is not in isolation, and it’s never easily forgotten. But neither are my actions in it. I was there when Robbie died. I was there when Nate disappeared, and I couldn’t stop it. I was there when Jude was killed, and all I could do was hold her.
“We need to get help.” I push one of the display pillows under Benji’s head. He leans back with a horrific roar of pain.
“I’m sorry, but we need to keep you upright,” I say, but I don’t even know if that’s right.
Benji folds forward just enough for me to stuff a few cushions behind him, propping him up slightly. Then, I rest his head back in a way that seems comfortable. I need to keep him conscious, but I also need to get help.
“I’m going to have to leave you,” I say to him. There’s an erraticness to his breathing. I shake him as I speak.
“Hey, stay with me. I’m going to get help, but you need to stay conscious for me, Benji. Do you have a phone?”
It takes a moment for him to respond, his limp finger pointing towards the fireplace.
There, in shards, lie the smashed pieces of his phone.
Great. No phone. I weigh up my options, and as I see them, there aren’t many.
Go outside and search for help, leaving Benji alone and Immi free to escape.
Or search the house for Immi, putting myself in more danger.
Benji lets out what seems like another involuntary groan, his shoulders drawing back as he does.
I need to get help. My feet work fast as I head to the front door.
There are a series of locks running down the side, all of them new additions to the door.
Adrenaline kicks in, and my fingers work fast over each one.
Yanking, twisting, and pulling until the locks have been undone.
The last deadbolt is sticky to push across, and so I lean whatever energy I have left into it.
My fingers wrap around the door handle and push down, but nothing happens.
The door remains locked. Nothing moves. From behind me, I hear Benji groan again.
A good sign, if not a terrifying one. It’s a trap.
I’ve spent the last few minutes of depleted energy working on something that would never open.
I bang my head on the door, the muscles in my jaw tightening.