The Winter Foundlings (34 page)

58

When I woke again there was a freezing draught around my feet. My tongue rasped across the roof of my mouth, and the sheets were scratching my skin like sandpaper. An odd chemical taste hit the back of my throat, bitter as diesel. The bed was rocking violently from side to side, and a wave of panic hit me. I was no longer in Judith’s guest room. I was lying on cold metal in the back of a van. It was rattling across the tarmac, streetlight falling through a smeared window. The most terrifying thing was that my limbs were refusing to follow instructions; I couldn’t move a muscle. It was impossible to surface and I was so terrified that I lost control, a flood of urine gushing down my leg. When the van juddered to a halt my body slid sideways, head crashing against the wall.

The impact must have knocked me out, because my skull burned when I came round. My surroundings had changed again, and the panic rose even higher. Yellow light ebbed from a lamp behind me, the room almost as small as the broom cupboard. I tried to move but nothing happened. My hand remained flat on the mattress, heavy as lead. My eyes were all I could rely on as I dragged stale air into my lungs. The room was silent and windowless; nothing to explain where I was, or how I’d got there. All I knew for sure was that I was lying on a bed, staring at whitewashed brick walls, a patch of damp spreading across the ceiling. The air smelled of mushrooms and fresh sweat, and my skin felt like it was on fire, perspiration soaking through my dress.

Shock or exhaustion must have sent me back to sleep. It was the sound of a man’s quiet voice that woke me; the room was empty but I could hear someone whispering. His tone was refined and courteous. It sounded like he was standing outside the door, trying to comfort me. I called out for help, but even my voice had stopped working. Sentences formed perfectly in my head, but the noise I produced was a raw moan, like an animal in pain. After a few minutes the man’s voice grew louder. I could make out individual words, the sound tender and hypnotic, as though he was crooning a lullaby.

‘I wish I could be with you, Alice, but let’s not waste time on impossibilities. I’ll explain what happens next. My helper will arrive soon, to set up a camera. He found your address book at your cottage, and the film will be sent to your mother and your brother. I knew this was your destiny the moment I looked into your eyes. Purity comes from despair, Alice. You will see a whole world of pain, before you find joy and release.’

My heart rate tripled, but I was too weak to scream. Every atom in my body fought to propel me to my feet, but I still couldn’t move. The voice belonged to Louis Kinsella, and it was fixed on a permanent loop. All I could do was lie there, listening to him repeating my death sentence. I was so terrified that my eyes darted around the room, looking for distractions, and I caught sight of a row of images taped to the wall. Girls’ faces blurred then came back into focus: Kylie, Emma, Sarah, and Ella. The last one was of me, staring back at the camera, resentful about having my image stolen. I knew immediately where the picture came from. It was the one Brian Knowles had insisted on taking when I visited the Foundling Museum.

59

Ella’s locked in the attic. It’s the first time she’s stood inside a room like this, thin beams holding the roof in place, the window too high to see through. Early light drifts over the bare floorboards, and she stands in a patch of sun, letting it bathe her. It feels like months since she went outside. When she glances down again, her white dress looks even dirtier than before, the fabric blackened by dust.

The room is filled with tables, bookshelves, and crates. There’s no escape route, and the handle on the trapdoor refuses to twist. She spots an air vent in one of the walls, a square piece of concrete punctured with holes. When she peers through she can see into another room. It must belong to the house next door. The vent shifts slightly as she pushes her finger into one of the holes, releasing a cloud of mortar. Ella wants to scream for help through the opening, but the man’s feet are tapping on the steps of the ladder, so she waits by the trapdoor, preparing her smile.

‘Get down here, Ella. I’ve got a job for you.’ He’s babbling so fast it’s a struggle to understand. ‘Listen, princess, we need to be quick. We can leave as soon as we’re done here.’

‘Did you catch the girl?’

The man ignores her question. ‘I can’t do it on my own. You’ve got to help me.’

‘I’ll do whatever you say.’

‘I have to go out for an hour. You can clean her up in that time, can’t you?’

‘Of course.’ She shows him her smile again.

He leads her to the kitchen and an unfamiliar voice echoes up the stairs, static hissing between the words. She wants to ask why he’s left a radio playing, but the man pushes her through the door so forcefully that she lands on her knees. The key scrabbles in the lock as she recovers.

Her eyes struggle to adjust to the semi-darkness. A girl is lying in the middle of the mattress, blonde hair tangled across the pillow. It looks as if she’s asleep, because she’s so still, but her eyes are wide open. Ella’s breath catches in her throat. This one is nothing like the others; lines of black eye make-up are smeared across her cheeks. The creature in the torn red dress is a woman, not a girl.

60

I didn’t recognise her at first; her frizz of curls was all that remained from the photos on the news. Ella had lost her puppy fat, and her cheeks were pinched with hunger, round-framed glasses smeared with dirt. There was a look of fierce concentration on her face as she stared down at me. I opened my mouth, but nothing emerged except a rush of air. My thoughts were clearer than ice, even though speech had deserted me, and I knew I’d been poisoned. The toxin had brought on fever and paralysis, but left my thoughts intact. The panic in my chest was increasing by the minute. Feeling was returning to my hands and feet, but not movement, so I focused all my energy on trying to speak.

‘I’ve been looking for you, Ella. My name’s Alice.’ My words were so slurred I was afraid she wouldn’t hear, but she came nearer, listening intently. ‘Your sister sends her love.’

I thought she might cry, but her self-control clicked back into place instantly. When she looked at me again it was like gazing into an old woman’s eyes.

‘He wants me to get you ready. This is your dress.’ She pointed at a length of white cloth draped across the table and my heart pounded.

‘He’ll kill me if I wear it. You know that, don’t you?’

She stood completely still. ‘I have to do what he says.’

‘Not any more. I’ll take the blame, I promise. Do you know his name?’

‘He won’t tell me. It’s against the rules.’

She looked so anxious that I tried to give her a reassuring smile, but even my facial muscles had stopped working. She looked deep in thought, weighing her loyalties.

‘You’ve been so brave, Ella. But you’ll have to be even braver now. Have you tried getting out of here?’

She gave a quick nod. ‘The door opens sometimes, but the other locks don’t work.’

‘Try them all. Go upstairs and break a window. If you don’t, he’ll kill us both.’

‘But I’ve got to stay with you.’

‘Forget what he told you. When d’you think he’ll be back?’

‘Soon.’

‘Suzanne’s waiting for you, Ella. You have to do this.’

She vanished from my line of vision and at first I couldn’t work out where she’d gone. Then I saw her attacking the lock with a pair of scissors, jaws clenched with determination. It seemed incredible that she was just ten years old.

‘Keep going, sweetheart,’ I hissed under my breath. ‘You want to go home, don’t you?’

Ella hesitated, then her thin fingers gripped the handle. She twisted the blade into the mechanism, again and again.

61

The door swings open suddenly, and she’s on the threshold, unsure whether to stay or go. The man will be back any minute, and the woman on the bed is trying to speak. Her mouth trembles, like she’s attempting to smile.

‘Find a way out, Ella,’ she whispers. The woman is in the same position, red dress torn to the waist, arms limp at her sides. It feels wrong to leave her, but her eyes are blazing.

The idea of home drives Ella upstairs. She gulps down a deep breath and tries to think clearly. Thumping her fists against the kitchen window has no effect – the glass doesn’t even vibrate, so she runs to the next floor. The first room is empty apart from a bed and a wardrobe, the frosted glass window locked tight. Then she spots a bathroom with a small window set high in the wall. Ella stands on the cistern to reach it, and when the glass drops open, cold air breezes past her face, goose bumps rising on her forearms.

It’s a sheer fifteen-foot drop to the snow-covered ground, but the woman’s quiet voice echoes in her head. She pushes her shoulders through the narrow opening, and all she can see is whiteness, stretched out below like a carpet. She crouches on the sill, bare feet starting to freeze. The whine of a car engine passes and her heart ticks louder in her chest. She grips the window frame even tighter. It would be impossible to climb back inside, she hasn’t got the strength.

The wind tugs at Ella’s dress, trying to wrench her from the face of the building. Then she hears the sound she remembers: a voice singing, each note drifting on the breeze. She knows there’s no other choice. Ella keeps her eyes wide open as she launches herself into the air, aiming for the deepest pile of snow.

62

Kinsella’s voice seemed even louder after Ella left. There was a minute’s reprieve between each message, and I tried to shut out his words, desperate for a sound from upstairs, but there was nothing except the rush of blood pounding in my ears. Either she’d escaped, or the killer had caught her red-handed. I couldn’t believe that the man behind all this was Brian Knowles; he’d seemed like nothing more than a lonely fantasist with a creepy manner. I gritted my teeth and tried to lift my right arm above my head. My hand fluttered a few centimetres into the air then dropped down again.

My mind was working overtime. How had I ended up here? Last night I’d drunk no more than three glasses of wine, yet I’d fallen into a stupor. Someone had waited until the middle of the night before coming for me, strong enough to carry me downstairs to his van. The killer had to be someone I knew.

Suddenly the house fell silent. All I could hear was a car door slamming, and music playing in the distance – proof that the rest of the world was going about its business, while I waited for some freak to attack me. By now Kinsella’s words were so deeply engrained that I could recite them: purity and despair, a whole world of pain. He was intent on breaking me, even in his absence. It was like Chinese water torture, droplets falling on your forehead, slowly driving you insane. My only defence was to stay calm, instead of melting into hysteria. I tried not to remember the pleasure on Kinsella’s face when he warned me that the next victim would be blinded. I blocked out his words and pictured images from the past: kids I’d known at primary school; my father, relaxed and handsome, before the drink took hold; Lola taking her first bow.

A new sound filtered through the floorboards. Someone was walking around above my head, the footsteps much heavier than Ella’s, and a jolt of panic travelled through me. The killer had returned and I still couldn’t move a muscle. I gathered my strength to lift myself from the bed, but the effort overwhelmed me. The light faded from yellow to black as I lost consciousness.

63

Ella pitches forwards and pain sears through the heel of her foot. The low drone of the man’s van is returning, but there’s nowhere to run. He’ll see her from the kitchen window. She searches the garden frantically, but the fences are too high. Then her eyes catch on a wheelie bin and she drags it to the boundary wall. The first time she falls backwards into the snow, but on the second attempt she manages to climb up onto the lid. Raw bricks graze her hands as she scrambles over the wall and drops to the ground.

At first she’s too scared to move, because the man could be a few steps behind, but the singing is closer now. A radio’s playing, the woman’s voice following the tune. Ella can see her through the French windows, running a paint roller across a wall. The pain in her foot is growing worse, and it takes forever to wade through the snow. She smashes her hands against the glass, and when the girl turns round, Ella sees that she’s not much older than Suzanne. The girl’s roller drops to the floor, streaks of yellow paint splattering her clothes. Ella’s breaths come in ragged spurts, waiting for the man to grab her from behind, and drag her back over the wall. The girl stares at her ragged dress, mouth open in amazement. She makes no attempt to open the door.

‘Please, you have to help me,’ Ella calls through the glass.

The girl still doesn’t move, and part of Ella feels relieved. If she rushed over too quickly or tried to touch her, it would be more than she could bear. But she can’t forget the woman in the torn dress, lying there, unable to move. Ella presses her hands against the glass, and when she looks over her shoulder, the red smear of her footprints is daubed on the snow.

64

The prickling feeling under my skin was still there when I came round. There was a loud rasping sound above my head, as if he was dragging something heavy across the floor. I could squeeze my fingers into fists, but that was the extent of it. I was locked inside a useless body, and the thing that scared me most was that Ella might already be dead. Her body could be lying in its cardboard coffin, and once he’d finished with her, I was next.

My mind spiralled around the killer’s identity. A sea of faces swam at me, and all I could hear was a throng of voices, as though I was back in the Rookery. I could even smell the odour of beer and exhaustion. I remembered Garfield sitting opposite me at the pub. He was the closest person to Kinsella, and his mellow voice was the only relaxed thing about him, as though he carried secrets too important to share.

Kinsella’s message was tattooed on my memory, even though the recording had stopped playing: soon his helper would arrive, and the film of my torture would be sent to my family. I screwed my eyes shut and tried not to imagine Will’s reaction. Sweat poured from my skin; pent-up terror escaping through my pores. My mind flashed back to Gorski, his behaviour a master class in passive aggression. Then my thoughts scrambled into place. Maybe Tom was the person wandering around upstairs. All of his unresolved grief had flipped over into psychosis. He could have been lying when I saw him at the Foundling Museum; he’d pretended it was his first visit, but he might have gone there dozens of times.