Sam Carrington - I Dare You

What on earth had he done to make them so nasty?

Sunday 14th July

At first, Anna assumed the banging on the door was Auntie Tina, but as she lifted her head from the pillow and checked the time on her mobile, she saw it was only six a.m. Who would visit at this hour on a Sunday? Then she heard quick footsteps promptly followed by a scream.

What the fuck? She launched herself from the bed, crashing against the doorframe in her rush to get out the bedroom.

‘Mum, Mum! What is it?’ Anna tore down the stairs, her pulse pounding in her neck almost as loud as her feet were on the treads.

Red liquid, from what appeared to be a burst plastic bag, pooled on the doormat.

‘Is it real? Is it real blood, Anna?’ Her mum was backing away as she repeated the words over and over.

‘I – I’m not sure, Mum.’ Avoiding the mess, Anna unlocked the front door, yanking it open quickly, hoping to catch the culprits red-handed. Literally. She peered out. No one was in sight, but as she drew her head back, she saw what had been hammered to the door. She didn’t want to worry her mother further, but she couldn’t exactly hide it either.

‘What is it this time?’ Muriel asked. Anna looked at her, taking in the frail woman whose shoulders were hunched in fear. This wasn’t on. Someone was taking joy in terrorising a vulnerable woman and it angered her. This felt different from a kid’s game. Personal.

‘It’s a doll’s arm,’ Anna said.

‘This is ridiculous. Stupid kids – bags of blood shoved through the letterbox, things hammered to the door – what do they think they’re playing at?’

‘Mum, listen,’ Anna said as she stepped back inside, over the red-stained mat. ‘It’s six in the morning – on a Sunday. How many kids do you know who’d be up this early? I don’t think it’s kids, I really don’t.’

‘So you think it’s him ?’

‘I’m not saying that either. I mean, why would he? To what end? And why you? I haven’t heard of anyone else receiving these doll’s parts, have you?’

‘No, no. But the timing …’ Muriel carried on mumbling to herself, her thumbnail rammed in her mouth making the words indecipherable.

Yes, the timing was odd, she had to admit that; these things happening literally days after Billy Cawley’s release surely couldn’t be coincidental.

‘Look, you go get a bucket of warm, soapy water and I’ll take this outside.’ Anna pointed to the doormat. ‘See if I can salvage it.’ Opening the door, then lifting both ends of the mat together in attempt to prevent the liquid running off the edges, Anna shuffled outside. It was runny, not gloopy or sticky-looking, so she was hopeful it wasn’t real blood. She carefully walked with it down the side of the house to the back garden and laid it down on the lawn. Then she tilted it to let the liquid drain off. She watched as the red mess trickled into the green grass, staining it. Some had got on her hand; she wiped it in the grass too, but a pinky tinge remained. It was dye. Possibly just food colouring. She deposited the now-empty plastic bag in the wheelie bin as she went back to the front door and pulled at the doll’s arm. The nail had been driven through the upper part of the plastic arm. She had to twist it several times before it loosened. She pulled at it harder. It gave a pop as it came away and Anna stumbled backwards with the arm in her hand. The nail must’ve been hammered in with some force.

Anna turned the arm over in her hands, then frowned. There was something inside it, stuffed in the hollow. The opening was too small to get her fingers inside. She ran into the kitchen, almost knocking Muriel over, the water slopping out of the bucket she was carrying.

‘Anna! Be careful,’ she scolded, putting it down on the floor.

‘Sorry,’ Anna said. With the arm held on the worktop, she poked a metal skewer inside. After a few failed attempts at grabbing it, Anna finally pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper. Under her mother’s watchful, and – she sensed – fearful gaze, Anna unravelled the paper, revealing bold red lettering.

SOMEONE HAS BLOOD ON THEIR HANDS

Anna and Muriel exchanged uneasy glances.

What was that supposed to mean?

Lizzie hadn’t attempted sleep until gone three a.m. After eating the meal provided by Gwen, she’d soaked in the beautiful claw-footed bathtub. Then, wrapped in the fluffy white bathrobe that had been hanging on the back of the door, she’d sat at the desk overlooking the garden and set about researching Mapledon and some of its residents. She’d found nothing on Anna. There was plenty of information about William Cawley, though: news articles about his conviction and the fact he’d put in a late plea bargain to the charge of the abduction and murder of Jonie Hayes, other articles about the evidence found in his truck, and the devastation felt within the ‘small, tight-knit community of Mapledon’.

Lizzie struggled to read them. It was too close – too raw, even now. But she knew she had to. She’d compartmentalised all of it for years, pretending it had happened to other people – people she didn’t know or care about. If she tried hard enough, she could detach herself again now, read it all as an outsider, someone with no involvement or investment.

Having had a stern word with herself, she’d continued scouring the articles for names and had noted down those that appeared most frequently: Tina Hayes , obviously as she was the mother of the victim; a source close to the family, Nell Andrews ; family friend Muriel Fisher and local vicar, Reverend Christopher Farnley. She’d also been surprised to learn that a key piece of evidence was from a witness to the abduction – Jonie Hayes’ ten-year-old friend, named only as ‘ Girl B ’ for legal reasons. She hadn’t remembered this. But then, she’d avoided this kind of search before, not feeling the need or desire to delve into the past.

Now, having woken with a headache and dry mouth, Lizzie reluctantly peeled herself from the comfortable double bed, stumbled to the tea tray on the unit in the corner and popped the kettle on. The names from the articles still swirled in her mind. Muriel Fisher’s had come as no surprise. Hers was one Lizzie did remember. And once she’d seen Reverend Farnley’s name, that too had sparked recall. But Nell Andrews wasn’t one she remembered. The problem was that Lizzie could never be sure if any of the memories she recalled were truly her memories, or ones she’d taken on and remembered from what other people had told her over the years. She wondered if she’d ever really know which were hers.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Lizzie called Dom. He’d only sent one text yesterday to which she’d replied a brief ‘all’s fine’, and she got the impression he was pissed off. She had upped and left at short notice. While he did understand her job might take her somewhere abruptly, usually she’d have at least spoken to him before leaving rather than merely leaving a brief note.

‘Hey, babe – so sorry for leaving in a rush.’ She got her apology in quickly, before he’d even said hello.

‘Well, I was disappointed when I got home to find you gone, and without a call, or even a text …’ His voice was distant, and it immediately set Lizzie on edge. She hated to think she’d upset him; hated the thought he was mad at her even more.

‘I know, I know. I didn’t have much time, sorry – once the decision was made, I didn’t want to hang around—’

‘Really, Lizzie? You took a few minutes at least to find the paper and write a note, but didn’t have time to hit your speed dial and call me? You know there’s a little button on your phone that means you can be hands free and everything, so you could have packed your bag whilst speaking to me or even called from the car.’ Sarcasm dripped from his words. Lizzie had no argument, so she said nothing. The silence stretched. She heard him sigh.