Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

and see the truth. Has scared herself imagining locking eyes with one of the killers in her care and being met with a knowing smile. There are days when she feels she must have ‘killer’ carved into her forehead. And yet, nobody knows. There is nobody on her trail. The only person to have implied some knowledge about her crime is Griffin Cox. She suppresses a shiver as she thinks upon him again. Feels a sudden heat inside herself, low down: a twisting sensation, as if her innards are tying themselves in knots.

‘I suppose I should let you get your rest,’ says Rufus, making a show of looking at his watch. ‘I’m going to have a gander at the hand-ins and call home, see what’s going on. Am I OK to potter in the kitchen if need arises? Forgive me for how pitiful it must seem, but if I don’t get a warm milk before I lay down then my acid reflux has me wishing an early death on myself.’

Annabeth grins, wildly delighted to know this little titbit about a man who, until recently, was merely her favourite author. It feels positively surreal to have him here, confiding about his medical grumbles, asking permission to use her microwave.

‘Please, help yourself,’ says Annabeth, slithering off the sofa and making a show of standing up. ‘If you hear anyone moving about, don’t worry. It’ll just be Ethan coming down for one of his fifteen bowls of cereal. If you need anything, knock on the door.’

He nods, grateful. Locks his fingers and stretches. Takes off his glasses and tucks them into the top of his shirt. ‘He’s a really good kid,’ says Rufus, and seems to mean it. ‘Not all teenagers are people you’d want to spend time with. It’s pleasing to see somebody his age who doesn’t mind demonstrating that they love their mum, y’know? I sometimes wonder if mine are a little spoiled. I love them, but they’re hard to like. And you can see how proud he is of you. Has it always been just the two of you?’

Annabeth feels her insides clench. She searches for one of her pre-prepared answers and can’t seem to find anything that works. Her mind is all static and drink. She has a sudden, mad impulse to grab him and pull his mouth on hers, just so he won’t ask her any more questions. Instead she mumbles something about it being a story for another day, then offers a swift smile and a ‘good night’ before all but scampering up the stairs.

She stops on the fifth step, her heart pounding. She tells herself to go back. To grab a glass of water or make a show of locking the back door so she can try again. Kiss his cheek, say ‘sweet dreams’ and go to bed like a woman in control of her life and not somebody with a closet full of secrets.

There’s a creak at the top of the stairs. Ethan. Bed-headed. Childlike in his pyjamas, too short in the leg. ‘You OK, Mum?’

She tries to hold onto her strength: to tell him that she’s fine, just tired, just a little tipsy. Tries to tell him not to worry about her and to go back to playing with his friends. He can read her too well for any of it to work. So he comes, quietly, down the stairs. Helps her up. Holds her to him and eases her up the last of the stairs and into her cold, dark bedroom. She loves the nearness of him: that smell of sweat and freshly-mown grass; sticky drinks and laundered clothes.

The lights flare. She’s bone tired, suddenly. Needs to sleep. To rest. Everything aches. And yet as Ethan helps her slither beneath her quilt cover, she hears herself talking. Hears herself telling her son about the day, tears in her voice. Were there a mirror on the ceiling, she would see a little girl.

‘… don’t know if I can do it any more … the hiding, the lies … all that pain … I don’t know if I can let it all back in, or stop the bad stuff spilling out … and he’s too clever, cunning – like, is he playing a game with me … the drawing, a snow globe, I mean, it couldn’t be clearer, and with these detectives asking questions, I mean, maybe that’s his whole plan from the off, and I can’t judge any more … even Rufus seemed to sense something, asking about your dad …’

She yelps as she feels his fingers squeeze her knee through the blankets. She hears her own muffled apologies. He has never allowed her to call the dead man ‘Dad’.

He leans over her. Presses his forehead against hers: somehow trying to vacuum out the bad thoughts. Up close, their eyes are a mirror image. There is nothing of his father in him, and there has never been a day when she hasn’t been attentive for any indication that he may be carrying bad blood. She is so grateful for him. To him. Feels better just for the nearness.

‘It will be OK, Mum. I swear. This is what you wanted. This life – and it’s a better life than you’ve ever had before. Just sleep, OK? I’ll be here.’

She believes him. Lets herself drift away. Lets sleep engulf her like warm snow.

The last thing she hears before she drifts into blackness, is the soft snuffling sound of her son, stroking her hair and singing the same lullaby with which she used to hum him to sleep.

‘… there was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile, He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile …’

And she sees him. Griffin Cox. Sees him digging, moonlight striking the silver of his spade. Sees a dead girl at his feet, and a tall man in a long black coat by his side.

Rolls over, and sees the newspaper clipping on the floor by the bed.

Gives herself up