M. Arlidge - Eeny Meeny

They were now in the shabbier suburbs of South London. Before long, Chatham Tower came into view. It was designed as a sixties Utopia, but was now earmarked for demolition. The dream had turned sour. Arrow Security, who kept the site secure, had been contacted but even so Helen had to wait for someone to arrive with the key. The grumpy guard unlocked the wooden site door, whilst Helen quizzed him about security breaches to the wooden boards that surrounded the derelict building. He insisted there hadn’t been any – kids were too busy stabbing each other at the local shopping centre to bother coming out here – but even so Helen did a full tour of the perimeter fence probing for gaps or weaknesses. Eventually, she conceded it was secure and they headed inside. Could someone scale the boards with a ladder? Possibly.

The lift was off limits, so they walked to the eleventh floor, Helen marching, her companion trudging behind. Before she knew it, Helen was standing outside number 112. She put her hand on the wall to steady herself as the security guard tried the door. It wasn’t locked and swung gently open. He was about to enter when Helen stopped him.

‘Wait here.’

The security man looked surprised, but relented:

‘Knock yourself out.’

And without another word, Helen stepped into the flat and disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the darkness inside.

‘We’ve got to keep strong, Mark. If we keep strong, if we keep united, she won’t win.’

Mark nodded.

‘She’s not going to beat us. I won’t let her,’ Charlie continued.

Mark clambered to his feet, aided by Charlie, and together they explored their surroundings. If they were at the hospital, there was no way anyone would hear them. The council had been trying to flog the building to developers for years with zero success. It stood alone in a run-down, forgotten part of town.

They were surrounded by concrete walls. There were no windows and the door had been recently and extensively strengthened – renovation that sat at odds with the otherwise dilapidated room. They tried to get at the hinges, but without a tool of some kind it was hard to gain any purchase. Still it was something to work at. If they could somehow loosen the hinges, then…

Mark ignored his pounding head and rising temperature to work away at the hinges, whilst Charlie battered at the door with her fists. She punched it again and again. Harder and harder, screaming all the time at the top of her lungs, begging for help. She was making enough noise to wake the dead – but was anybody listening?

Already great swirls of dust were kicking up, enveloping them both, creeping into their ears, their eyes, their throats. Charlie’s voice was cracking but she didn’t give up. On and on they went, challenging each other not to give up, but after over an hour of fruitless exertion, they collapsed to the floor, exhausted.

Charlie refused to cry. They were stuck in the middle of the worst nightmare they could possibly imagine but they had to keep their spirits up. That was crucial if they were to have any chance of surviving.

‘Do you remember Andy Founding?’ Charlie said as brightly as she could, her cracked voice belying her jaunty tone.

‘Sure,’ Mark replied, confused.

‘Apparently he’s suing Hampshire police. Claiming he’s been the victim of sexual harassment by female officers.’

Mark snorted a brief laugh in response. Andy Fondling, as he was affectionately known, was a desk sergeant in Portsmouth whose wandering hands were legendary, especially where junior female officers were concerned. Charlie continued her anecdote and though Mark craved sleep, craved some peace, he responded to Charlie’s offering, knowing too that they must fend off despair.

As they swapped stories, neither of them mentioned the gun that lay on the floor between them.

I was sure they would wake up and stop me having my fun, but it’s amazing what seven pints of cider will do. My father had always been a heavy drinker – beer, cider, anything he could get his hands on really – and Mum had followed suit. It made the beatings more bearable and stopped her thinking. If she’d been sober long enough, she’d have realized what a cesspit her life was and put her head in the oven. I wish she had in some ways.

I’d planned this moment so many different ways. In my dreams, I always used a knife. I loved the idea of severed arteries, of blood splattering the walls, but in reality I didn’t have the nerve. I was worried I’d mess it up. Not strike hard enough, miss an artery. When I did it, I had to do it right or I would be dead and no mistake. Bastard would take his time too – God knows what he’d do to me – so I had to get it right.

I found some gaffer tape stockpiled in the caretaker’s office and took three rolls. In the end I only used one but I was nervous and wanted to be sure I didn’t run out. I did him first. I picked up his wrist and wrapped the tape gently round it. It almost felt affectionate, as if I was binding a wound. Round and round it went, then I lifted his arm and placed it next to the iron bedhead, looping the tape round and round the metal post, until his arm was securely tethered to it. I then did the same with his other arm.

My heart was beating fit to burst. My dad was already stirring, getting uncomfortable, so I had to work fast.

I did my mum’s left arm quickly, but whilst I was doing her right arm, she woke up. Or at least I think she did. She opened her eyes and looked straight at me. I like to think she saw what was happening and gave in to it. Agreed with me. Whatever, she closed her eyes again quickly and I had no more trouble with her.

They were both now secure, so I ran to the kitchen. It didn’t matter if I was noisy now. It was all about speed. I grabbed the cling film and jogged back into their bedroom. I’d seen this in a film and always wondered how it would be for real. I pulled off a large sheet of it, then double-, triple-strengthened it with some more. Then I climbed on to the bed, straddling my sleeping father’s torso and gently lifted his head. I slipped it over his face, then quickly passed it round the back, again and again, until his eyes, nose and mouth were completely encased in the springy, tense plastic.

And now he started to struggle like fuck. He opened his eyes and stared at me as if I was mad. He tried to shout, tried to wrench his hands free. I had to fight hard to stay on as his body cavorted, but I wasn’t going to be denied my triumph. I pressed down harder. His eyes were bulging now, his face puce. Next to him my mother was slowly rousing, irritable and sleepy.

Now the fight was going out of him. I pressed down even harder. I was gripping the edges so hard my hands were aching. But I had to make sure it wasn’t a trick. Had to finish the old man off.

Then suddenly he was still. My mother was awake now and was looking at me with a look of complete confusion. I smiled at her, then pressed the cling film over her face. Only one sheet this time. I wasn’t expecting much of a fight here.

It was all over pretty soon. I got up and realized I was drenched with sweat. I started to shiver. I didn’t feel happy, which was disappointing – I’d thought I would have. But it was done. That was all there was to it.

She was standing in the bedroom, looking at the devastation around her. The tatty posters and secondhand furniture that used to be here were long gone – now there was just the detritus of the vagrants and junkies who had passed through since the building was condemned.

There were so many memories in this room. Good, bad, horrific. Every time she pictured this room in her mind’s eye, Helen remembered her fear, her confusion, her sense of helplessness as she lay stock still, listening to her sister being raped on the bunk bed below. These thoughts swirled around Helen. She had been so powerless, so helpless for so long as a child that it felt profoundly weird to be standing here now as a grown-up woman – a grown-up woman with a gun in her hand. How she could have done with her older self then . Someone who could create order, ease suffering and administer justice. Maybe all this could have been avoided if someone – anyone – had listened to her cries for help.