Dan Waddell - Blood Atonement

Maggie's hands were shaking. She stared at the picture, appalled.

She was terrified, poor mite. But it was the only way. She would thank her later.

'Some of them were no older than you,' she said.

She closed her eyes. Another stab of pain. She groaned again.

When she reopened her eyes the little girl was still holding the picture, her face leeched of all colour. How long had she been staring at the awful picture of slaughter? Long enough, she hoped.

The and your grandfather were responsible for that,' she whispered, a rattle in her throat. 'May the Lord forgive us! It was an accident, I swear. But the kin of those poor souls burned alive will come for atonement and nothing will stop them. Nothing! Not even my passing. Save yourself my sweet. Get yourself safe.' She sucked in air. Never, ever have children. For as sure as the sun rises and sets they will keep looking and they will seek atonement; all those who stem from my loins will be killed and baptised into the faith.

Protect yourself as if from the Devil himself! When you sleep, they will scour the earth for you. All in the Lord's name. Hide yourself!

They will never relent!'

When she next came to, the girl had gone. The photo was lying on her chest, the box by her side. She placed the photo back inside and locked the box, then wrapped her arms around it and held it to her chest. She would take it with her. There was no more to be done. She had done her duty to her granddaughter.

It was now in the wounded hands of the Lord.

The sky was darkening. A light rain fell, the angry clouds pregnant with more. Foster stood on a grimy yet quiet backstreet in Bethnal Green, staring at the door of number 17. A phone call of his own to a telecommunications contact gave him the number Mrs Ashbourne had dialed -- that of her daughter's, or so the old woman had said. It was ex-directory, but belonged to this terraced house, the stone bricks still flecked with soot from the days of coal-burning, industrial grime and pea-soup fogs.

He ambled up the path. Darkness and silence. No one there. In the distance he could hear the ratde of trains on their way into Liverpool Street and the bustle and noise of Bethnal Green Road. But on this innocuous side street there was nothing.

He turned away from number 17 and went next door.

No one in. The same with number 13. At number 11, light peered out from behind the curtains and he could hear the muffled noise of a television. He knocked. The door opened almost immediately. A teenage girl, a sneer of contempt and boredom on her face, still in school uniform, stood there.'

What?' she said.

Charming, he thought. Must be the famous East End hospitality he'd read about. 'Is your mother home?'

'Mum,' she screamed, and went upstairs leaving the door open and Foster on the threshold.

What?' an impatient voice cried. A woman in a pair of slippers emerged from a room at the back -- a kitchen, presumably, given that she was wearing lurid yellow washing-up gloves. She looked angry. 'Yeah?'

'I'm fine, thank you.'

You what?'

'Never mind. Number 17, the lady who lives there.'

'Lady? Number 17? Not any more.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, old Edith passed on a few years back.'

'Edith?'

'You deaf or summat?'

'So who lives there?'

'Some posh bloke. Not in, is he? Nah, he never is. Think he must have another place somewhere else. He comes and goes but keeps himself to himself. It's changed a lot round here recently, people from the city moving in, prices going up. I can't complain because we moved in seventeen years ago, so I'll have done all right when the kids leave and I sell up. Why you interested?'

'Just a courtesy call,' he said.

He thanked her and she closed the door. A second later he heard her bawl at her daughter to get her bloody arse in gear, now.

He walked back down the street, mulling over what the woman had said. At the door of number 17 he stopped, looking up at the house, still in darkness. Nothing moved.

Then, inside, a phone rang. It continued to ring. Then stopped. Too short for an answer service to kick in. He thought he might have heard a voice but wasn't sure, given the background noise. There was a doorknocker. He grabbed it then pulled it back, letting it thud heavily against the door.

There was a thump from within. A door shutting, perhaps? It was more muffled than that. He stepped back and looked at the houses on either side. No, it had definitely come from number 17. What was it, though?

He went to the front window. It was slightly ajar, perhaps ten inches or so. Curtains blocked any view into the room. From inside he swore he heard another noise.

Someone was in. He went back to the door and was about to let go of the door knocker when he heard another noise. A voice this time?

He eased the window open a few more inches, bit by bit, until there was enough space to squeeze through. He climbed in, parting the heavy curtains. He stood there for a few more seconds. The house was completely silent.

With the curtains shut and overlapping, the room was dark, so much so that it took a while for his eyes to adjust.

There was a smell he recognized but he couldn't think from where. Then it came to him. The fusty smell of old paper. The room smelled airless. Not unlike his own sitting room, the one he had barely used or entered since his parents died. As his eyes grew accustomed, he could see an old battered armchair in front of a gas fire with rings, a large, bulky television, an old piano against the far wall, a table festooned with piles and piles of paper. He tiptoed over and picked one item up, an unopened envelope addressed to Edith Chapman. He went over to the mantelpiece; he could almost smell the dust it was so thick. There was a black and white picture of an old man in an armchair. Then one of a prim old lady outside a church, too self-conscious to smile. Edith Chapman, he presumed. On the floor by the fire was a copy of an old TV listings magazine. He picked it up, the corners curling and crisp. He checked the date. It was more than three years old.

The whole room was like a mausoleum, frozen in time.

Again he felt a hint of recognition. He knew all about that. He hadn't even redecorated since his father died. He slowly pulled his radio from his pocket and called for back-up. Something here wasn't right.

He found another picture. In colour, free of dust. A tall man, dark hair, good looking, troubled, not making eye contact with the camera, beside him a woman perhaps a year or two younger, fresh-faced and healthy, smiling broadly in marked contrast. Was this man Anthony Chapman? If so, the picture appeared to be the only imprint he'd made on this room. Beside it was a cross, also free of dust. Maybe that belonged to him, too.

He went to the door and opened it slowly. He was in a small hallway, stairs in front of him. The house was entirely dark, but his eyes had adjusted. The narrow hall led to a kitchen, from which an odd smell wafted. To the left of that entrance was another door.

There was a sound. Footsteps, perhaps. Wouldn't surprise him if it was mice. The place was probably teeming with them -- or rats. He stood still, not knowing which way to go, desperate to switch on a light, but not wanting to draw attention to himself. There was the sound again.

A light pitter-patter. It's coming from behind that door next to the kitchen, he thought, though in the impenetrable darkness it was easy to lose track of where the sounds came from.

He reached the door. He tried it as gently as he could.

Upstairs there was a heavier noise, a thud. Then a muffled scream, as if it was coming through a radio. He dragged himself up the stairs as quickly as he could, pains shooting down his injured leg, ignoring the fire in his shin.