Forecast (34 page)

Back in the familiar territory of St. Ives, having been gone for several hours, they both felt a sense of homecoming as they came abreast of the elevator shaft.

The first time around, Sutcliffe didn’t notice it.

The second time around, they both noticed it.

Upon the hill, there were three crosses marking three graves. A third grave? Who else had died? The new grave either belonged to Faraday, Matthews or Gable. Hennessey prayed the grave didn’t entomb Faraday. They had become inherently close over the past year and she couldn’t face losing her only female companion in the world. They hurried to the top of the hill. At the graves, they read the names carved into the wooden crosses. The first grave belonged to Fred Farrell who had taken his own life using his pistol. The second grave belonged to Keith Burch when the gangrene in his foot had spread through his leg and shut down his heart. With radiation sickness followed by pneumonia, Burch hadn’t stood a chance. The third grave, according to the name on the cross, belonged to Trev Gable.

“He seemed alright last night before we slept,” said Hennessey.

“Nobody’s alright, Jen. We don’t know what state our bodies are in.”

“I know but…it just doesn’t fit.”

Instinct, he had learnt, was one of Hennessey’s most reliable virtues.

“I have a really bad feeling,” she added.

“Yeah, me too.”

They climbed down the rubble of the shaft and Sutcliffe helped Hennessey down through the hatch until she had two feet firmly on the stepladder. Then he followed, treading wearily down the steps rung by rung. Inside the elevator, he took her by the hand. “Listen, before we go in, Jen, I just want to say thank you.”

“For what?”

“I feel like you’re the only one I can count on to get us through this.”

“You’re the one keeping this all together.”

Sutcliffe smiled.

They crossed the door bridge and veered off into the corner of the lobby to drape their spacesuits over the steel bar. Hennessey, although happy to be back, felt the tension she had earlier discarded rebuilding, the prodding of her conscience warning her to remain vigilant.

They both swung around, hearing a strange noise from inside the White Room.

A gasp, a shriek and a woman’s voice.

Faraday screaming.

Hennessey charged through the door, Sutcliffe close behind. What they saw shocked and appalled them. The room was candlelit and Matthews was wrestling with Faraday on the floor. They were quick to notice her underwear down at her ankles and Matthews pinning her down by the shoulders.

When he realised Sutcliffe and Hennessey were back in the room, Matthews released his cousin and scrambled to his feet with his hands raised, his belt undone and trouser zip lowered. Faraday frantically redressed herself, stood up and faced him. The slap she dished out was forceful. The second one, the one that left a burning handprint on his cheek, was struck sweetly, though not quite as perfect as the one that followed.

“What’s going on?” Hennessey was looking at Faraday when she asked the question.

“None of your business!” shouted Matthews.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Then talk to me and I’ll tell you it’s none of your business.”

Hennessey persisted. “Claris?”

Faraday sat down and pulled her knees to her chest. She was shaking. She shook her head.

“Did he rape you, Claris?”

Matthews exhaled sharply in irritation.

“Claris, did he rape you?”

The humiliation and fury inside Matthews activated a button and he clicked. Approaching Hennessey, he took her by the throat with a machine-like grip and pinned her to the wall by her neck. “You fucking traitor!”

Sutcliffe staunchly defended her and pulled Matthews away. “Hey!” he yelled. “You’re out of line.”

Hennessey bent over to catch her breath, but quickly pulled herself upright and endeavoured to regain her self
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control.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

Sutcliffe hesitated.

“Well?” Matthews persisted.

Sutcliffe needed to think quickly. He could have strong words with Matthews and hope to get through to him. Better still, he could punch him in the face; that would make everyone happy. All his senses were on high alert. Everything seemed to be falling apart and Matthews had broken laws already. He wouldn’t hesitate to break a couple more. So shocked was he that he didn’t see Matthews’ hand had reached to his belt for a weapon he had concealed. His hand moved slowly and nobody in the room noticed.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Simon?”

Matthews was hearing but not listening. Anger besieged him, a ticking bomb with a self
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destruct button. With his hand behind his back, he fished out his Black Prince dagger and began slicing the air with it, stopping and pointing it at Sutcliffe’s belly. “I said what are you gonna do about it?”

One of the debt collectors held a Bowie knife at his belly while the other one ransacked his house. They had broken in and they weren’t leaving until they were paid. The man with the knife was a good few inches shorter than Matthews, but more than made up for it in breadth. His arms, neck and chest were all muscle. Matthews kept his eyes on the Bowie knife.

“Take your t
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shirt off,” the man said.

Matthews hardly moved a muscle.

“You heard me, take it off before I show you what your guts smell like.”

“You take it off for me.”

“I’ll take it off your corpse, sweetheart.”

Matthews pinched the bottom of his T-shirt and lifted it up to his chin, trembling with fear and fury. Once the T-shirt was up over his face, he would be blind and vulnerable, bearing a fleshy target of meat. The sound of breaking furniture had subsided and everything that could break had been broken. Now, two angry debt collectors stood before him, teasing him with sharp Bowie knives. Tightening the muscles in his stomach, hoping it might limit the amount of damage inflicted by a knife, Matthews pulled his T-shirt over his head obscuring his vision for a microsecond and an awful pain tore threw his stomach.

“Last warning,” one of the collectors said in a calm voice. “We would like our fucking money, please. Either give us what we want or we give you a coffin, we clear?”

Matthews, coughing and breathless, looked at his stomach and got a shock. No blood. They hadn’t stabbed him, they had punched him. The men left and Matthews observed the state of his house. The floor was littered with everything he owned, his collections and his valuables. Amongst the debris he found the Black Prince Dagger, a medieval dagger with a double edge and a small pointed tip used by Middle Age soldiers for personal protection during warfare. The glass box encasing it had been knocked off its nail and had smashed to the floor. He picked it up and slashed the air with it. He pocketed it. There it would stay. Next time, if anyone approached him, he would be ready. He would be armed and he would kill anyone who threatened his life again, especially the thugs from Cornish Financial Services. Who did they think they were anyway? Fuck them.

“Fuck you.”

Matthews spun the dagger with a rehearsed flip of the fingers and caught it in midair. He had an unnerving skill with it. His eyes were hard to look into, Sutcliffe thought. Cold, dark spheres with no hint of the light of his soul, like a man besieged by an evil spirit. And the cavalcade of abuse that followed from his mouth disgusted everyone in the room.

“Put it down, Simon. Don’t be stupid.”

Matthews said nothing and moved closer.

“Simon, think about what you’re doing for just a second.”

Matthews stepped further forward with the dagger poised in his grip.

They eyed each other, hatefully. Sutcliffe cautiously stood his ground, thinking about how he could disarm him. He had to get the weapon out of his hand. Then Matthews attacked him, swearing as he jabbed the dagger at his chest, but Sutcliffe swivelled and then pressed his back into his opponent’s stomach. He took his arm in a tight embrace. They fought for the weapon. Sutcliffe attempted to uncurl Matthews’ fingers and managed to force him to drop the dagger. It fell to the floor and Sutcliffe kicked it away. It skittered under the bench. Matthews ducked and ploughed into Sutcliffe’s midsection, upending him with brute force. Sutcliffe fell back and felt the full force of Matthews on top, pinning him down. Matthews threw the first of several punches and Sutcliffe tried to defend himself. One nailed him above the eye causing his brow to split open. One punch cracked him in the jaw and burst his lip. A tooth in blood spilt from his mouth to the floor.

Hennessey screamed at them to stop while Faraday moved to the other side of the room where she sat crying.

Sutcliffe yelled out as another blow struck him in the face, his whole complexion throbbing. He rolled Matthews over and used the weight of his knees to pin him to the floor by his upper arms. But Matthews kneed his opponent in the testicles, shrugged him off and on the other side of the room opened the display cabinet, pulling out another weapon from the shelf. In his clutch he had the pistol. It had one more bullet left. One shot. It was all he needed. He walked to within a few feet of Sutcliffe and, pointing the pistol in his face, pressed the trigger. Sutcliffe instinctively closed his eyes.

The pistol clicked, nothing came out.

“I took the bullet out months ago,” bellowed Hennessey. “I knew you couldn’t be trusted with it.”

The mockery only angered Matthews further. He went looking for another weapon, stumbling all over the place like a drunk. He swaggered into the display cabinet, in turn rocking the burning candle wedged into an empty champagne bottle. Sutcliffe could only watch as the candle and the bottle toppled and green glass scattered across the floor when it struck. In an instant, an insulation blanket caught fire and the flames began to crawl up the wall. Matthews ignored the fire. He’d found another weapon, a triangular shard of glass from the champagne bottle, which he picked up and slotted into his clenched fist. His rage and his hatred would end someone’s life that day. And if not Sutcliffe’s, then it would be his own end and it would be a blessing.

“Come on,” he said, beckoning Sutcliffe to him.

Hennessey flew across the room to deal with the fire while Matthews made steady strides towards Sutcliffe. As they crossed paths, Hennessey stretched out her foot and tripped him. He fell forward into Sutcliffe’s instinctive skyward punch. Matthews’ head wrenched back sharply on his shoulders, the blow so forceful the skin on Sutcliffe’s knuckles punctured. Matthews fell hard and hit his skull on the floor. He fought unconsciousness with stubborn determination, then went still.

Sutcliffe’s mind clouded up and for several seconds sharpness and clarity left him. When it passed, he looked at the lifeless body on the floor. Matthews would be unconscious for a bit, he thought. It would do him no harm. Perhaps a collision with a hard floor would knock some sense into him. He was out cold, but Sutcliffe didn’t feel victorious or satisfied. There were no winners. On his awakening, Sutcliffe decided he would try and talk to him with authority and rationality. Then he changed his mind and thought it would be best for everyone, especially Faraday, if Matthews was evicted from the White Room to fend for himself. Some food and drink would be given to him and he could take a couple of insulation blankets. But he couldn’t stay.

In the meantime, Sutcliffe turned to the fire. Inside the smoke, Hennessey had dropped to her knees coughing out her lungs. He thought he saw her vomit, but she had choked. He grabbed another blanket and beat the flames until they went out. Then he opened the door to the White Room and watched as the smoke whisked out like a ghost. He assisted Hennessey to her feet. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yeah, the guy’s a frigging moron,” she said between coughs. “How about you? That cut looks nasty.”

Sutcliffe’s face was smattered with blood from various cuts. His tongue mechanically touched on the gap in his teeth oozing blood. “I’ll be fine.” He checked on Claris. “Are you alright?”

She didn’t respond immediately.

“Claris?”

Her head twitched. Shock had left her speechless.

Hennessey handed Sutcliffe a small bandage to hold against the gash on his brow, then assisted Faraday on the other side of the room. She wrapped her up in an insulation blanket and whispered words of consolation to her. Matthews had been sexually assaulting Faraday and Hennessey felt guilty for not detecting the signs earlier. She shouldn’t have left them alone together.

Matthews lay spread
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eagled on his back and Sutcliffe pondered over what to do with him as he dabbed the bandage at his bleeding face. Hoisting Matthews up onto the bench, he set his head back against the wall. It wasn’t until his head lolled forward that Sutcliffe noticed a dark smear of blood on the wall. On closer inspection, he saw a large piece of glass embedded in the back of Matthews’ head. Sutcliffe fingered his wrist for a pulse, which was weak and seemed to stop as soon as he touched it. And Simon Matthews was dead.

Claris Faraday had been bullied as a child. School kids had heckled her because she eschewed the normal explorations of teenage
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hood. She never tried makeup, never wore jewellery, her two best friends were boys and she liked most sports. In her free time she wore tracksuits and sportswear. She never told her parents about the bullying because she knew from the silences at the dinner table and her father’s long absences that they had their own problems. At fourteen, she started doing naughty teenage things: painting graffiti on walls and intercity trains, street drinking and low classification drugs.