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  That was definitely not what he wanted.

  Her brothers had been quick – but that was only so he could get to her. The crappy starters before the glorious main.

  “Please…” she continued to beg.

  Why?

  Why beg?

  Don’t disgrace yourself.

  Don’t bemoan yourself a good death.

  A good death is a reward. It is a unique thing that only comes to those deserved.

  And she was deserving.

  She went to plead again, but he rendered her unable by hitting her head three times, hard, against the door, and dropping her unconscious body to the ground.

  44

  “Amber, wake up,” came the eager voice of Elsie Michaels.

  “What?” Amber replied, rubbing the fuzz out of her sleepy eyes.

  “Amber, it’s your birthday.”

  Was it?

  Since when?

  What?

  “Come on, Amber, wake up.”

  Feeling her mum pulling on her arm, Amber sat up and turned, placing her feet down and watching the tufts of carpet find their way between the gaps of her tiny toes.

  Her pyjamas had pictures of dinosaurs on them.

  All the boys at school always took the mickey out of her boyish interests, as did her brothers, but she liked dinosaurs and not barbies and so why shouldn’t she wear dinosaur pyjamas?

  Only, she hadn’t worn these pyjamas for almost ten years.

  “Come on,” Elsie said, grabbing Amber’s hand and taking her down the stairs.

  She was half the size of her mum.

  Her mum, dressed in her suit for work, her blond, spritely hair tied back, her makeup subtly applied. The power-woman, the business woman – the role model every young girl should have.

  She entered the kitchen where a cake waited for her.

  She counted the candles.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

  Nine.

  This was her ninth birthday.

  But she didn’t feel nine.

  “Are you going to blow them out?”

  She looked uncomfortably from herself to her mum, who looked back so enthusiastically, so desperate for this day to be special.

  But Amber didn’t understand.

  She wasn’t nine.

  This wasn’t her birthday.

  Seeing the expectant look on her mum’s face and not wanting to upset her, she blew out the candles and went to sit – but Elsie pulled on her arm again.

  “No time to eat it yet, you have presents to open!”

  She led Amber through the hallway and into the living room.

  It was incredible.

  Balloons covered the entire room, bouncing between Luke and Gray. Luke still played with them, but Gray was sat in the corner with his arms folded like the grumpy teenager he was becoming.

  S Club Juniors were playing in the background. Amber had loved them at nine, but outgrew them at ten.

  A mass of presents took up so much of the room. So many presents.

  Her mum was usually sat asleep in the corner of this room, but there she was, in her thirties, vibrant, sparkling. Showing Amber into the room full of presents, full of gifts that Elsie was so insistent Amber deserved.

  “What do you think?”

  Amber didn’t know what to say.

  “I just wanted your day to be perfect.”

  Her day?

  She wasn’t nine.

  It wasn’t her day.

  Her mum was sick. Ill. Dying desperately in the confines of a cold, empty house they could no longer afford.

  “Mum,” Amber said, her voice a child’s voice. “What is happening?”

  “What do you mean, darling?”

  “I just…this… This isn’t right…”

  “Oh, you are becoming a big girl. Come here!”

  Elsie pulled Amber close and fastened her arms around her.

  Her mum’s hugs had always been the best hugs. So warm and tight. They practically suffocated you but that’s what Amber loved about them. So many people hugged because they had to, just perching their hands on someone’s arms and briefly embracing them. Mum was the complete opposite. If she hugged you, she wanted you to know you’d been hugged.

  As much as Amber wished to object, she couldn’t.

  She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed these hugs.

  She put her arms around Mum too, holding on, her fingers sticking into her back as she gripped her and refused to let her go.

  But she was crying.

  Amber was crying.

  “Amber.”

  She hadn’t realised it, but she was.

  Why was she crying?

  But she knew why.

  “Amber, wake up.”

  It’s because she was right.

  She wasn’t nine.

  This wasn’t her birthday.

  And Elsie Michaels was still sat in her chair, dying in a home without heating.

  “Amber, come on, you’re being rude now.”

  And, as Amber’s eyes opened, she saw the reality of where she was.

  Then it got worse.

  45

  She even wept when she slept.

  It was like he couldn’t get a break from it.

  He’d knocked her unconscious for a moment’s peace from the whining and the begging and the pleading and the whinging, just so he could do what he needed to do, but no.

  I mean, he was planning a surprise for her.

  A surprise!

  An elaborate ruse he’d been desperate to get ready for her awakening.

  But the whole way through it this – this ungrateful… ungrateful little… ungrateful little bitch just wouldn’t shut up with this and that and this and that and oh dear God!

  “Elsie…” she moaned, pushing her head to one side, then back to the other.

  It was about the only thing she could push. It wasn’t like any other part of her was moveable.

  “Elsie… No… Elsie…”

  Elsie?

  “I’m not nine… not nine…”

  He laughed.

  The weird things people dream…

  “It’s not my birthday…”

  He laughed again.

  He had a girlfriend once who was insistent that he spoke in his sleep. Not just spoke – but had full on conversations with no one and shouted out random things. Apparently, once he had even woken her up by biting her. She had screamed but he hadn’t noticed and wasn’t aware of it until the following morning when she filled him in.

  “Elsie… The cake…”

  He studied her for a moment. Her peaceful eyes as unpeaceful as one can get. She should be asleep, unconscious, at one with silence – instead she was rattling on her nonsensical ramblings.

  He’d arranged the scene as he wanted it.

  As he would hope she would want it.

  This was going to be perfect.

  He had planned it perfectly.

  Ever since he’d seen her in the reflection of the tap, skew-whiff yet perfect, he’d known.

  He’d always wanted to do this – he’d just never had the opportunity. His women had always been alone, never with others.

  He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face.

  “Elsie…”

  She was crying.

  Actually, properly crying.

  In her sleep, her eyes shut tight, but with snail trails running down her cheeks.

  She looked fucking ugly when she cried.

  Don’t we all?

  The scene was arranged.

  The surprise was ready.

  He took his seat. He clasped his hands beneath his chin and watched Amber, waiting for her to come around and see the perfect world he’d created.

  “Amber,” he said.

  She continued to toss back and forth, one side to the other, her head twisting and by George if she doesn’t pull a muscle she’d be lucky.

  “Amber, wake up.”

 
; She winced and struggled more.

  Her eyes began to flicker.

  There she was.

  He waited.

  And waited.

  “Amber, come on, you’re being rude now.”

  Her eyes opened.

  She looked at him first and he saw the recognition in her face. A frantically tired recognition, a resolve met with horror.

  He wondered if she’d rather the nightmare.

  Then she looked at her surprise.

  He couldn’t help but beam as she screamed.

  And boy, did she scream.

  She screamed like no other ever had.

  He’d heard screams before, don’t get me wrong – he’d heard a lot of them.

  All kinds of screams.

  Loud ones, quiet ones.

  High-pitched, low-pitched.

  Gutteral, manly, womanly, odd, bizarre intonations, flexing tones, distant, close, elongated and short.

  But he’d never heard a scream like this.

  And, in her bewildered eyes, he decided it was all worth it. The effort he’d put into her elaborate awakening all fell into place, and that look of meaningless terror she had, that look like things couldn’t be worse and then she suddenly realised they damn well could be – that look would stay with him forever.

  It was the favourite look he’d ever seen.

  “Who’s–” he went to ask, but the screaming started up again.

  He waved his arms and leant back.

  “Fine, I’ll just wait until you’re done.”

  She looked around herself, as if purposefully trying to give herself a reason to scream, then her voice went, turned into a cry, and she finally shut up.

  “Lovely,” he said, and waited another moment to see if she was going to start again.

  She didn’t.

  She just dropped her head and wept.

  He could finally ask his question.

  “Who’s Elsie, Amber?”

  46

  She knew the house she was in.

  She knew the smug face that sat across the table from her.

  But she hadn’t expected this.

  He looked so happy about it. So pleased, like his terrific plan had formed into a monumental image he knew would horrify the final moments of her existence.

  She screamed.

  What else could she do?

  She kept looking between them.

  From Luke’s face.

  To Gray’s face.

  And back again.

  Propped up at the table.

  Luke to her left, Gray to her right.

  On the table was a spread of food with a floral teapot and empty cups beside plates laid out before her, him, Luke and Gray.

  Luke and Gray both wore bibs.

  Gray’s face was already white. He sat upright without support, his body already with enough stiffness to hold him still. His eyes were held open with duct tape but his pupils did not correspond with each other, both of them falling to the opposite corner of his eyes.

  Similarly, Luke sat upright, but was held in place with rope. His head flopped but she could still see the hooks pulling his mouth into a wide grin. A playful grin. Like he was enjoying the tea party.

  Like they all were.

  And him. The man. The owner of this fortress of a mansion.

  He sat opposite, his head resting on his clasped hands, his face still grinning that same fucking grin that hadn’t left his face since she first saw him.

  She tried to look away from them.

  From her brothers.

  “Who’s–” the man went to speak.

  She screamed.

  She didn’t want to hear it.

  She made herself look at the cold faces of her brothers coerced into this sick position to intentionally fill her up with fear, to help create a scream that would outdo the volume of his voice.

  He waved his hands like she was being unreasonable.

  “Fine, I’ll just wait until you’re done.”

  Eventually, her voice went.

  She felt it dissipate back into her throat, felt her neck tighten, and found that all she could do was cry.

  She let her head drop.

  Her dead brothers stared at her.

  Watched her with judgemental eyes that just seconds ago seemed like they were having such a nice time at this…

  Whatever this was.

  This sick, twisted tea party.

  What the fuck is this…

  Her mum, sat at home, dying and alone, popped into her head in a subtle image that caused her to weep some more.

  “Who’s Elsie, Amber?” he asked.

  She lifted her head. How did he know that name?

  “Who is Elsie?” he repeated.

  “How do you…”

  “You were saying it in your sleep. Over and over. Rather repetitive, but it intrigued me. Who is Elsie?”

  She considered whether to tell him, then thought that maybe she could suffer one last attempt to reach any heart that may beat inside this man’s chest.

  “She’s our mother,” she said, spitting it out, each word an angry struggle.

  “Your mother?”

  “She’s dying.”

  “Oh dear, I am sorry to hear that.”

  She wanted to snap at him, to demand how he could ever understand what it’s like to be hurt by someone else’s death when he surrounded himself with it and celebrated it so dearly.

  “That’s why we are here,” she said instead, hoping he would understand. “Our only chance is a drug trial… It costs thirteen thousand pounds…”

  “Ah!” He clicked his fingers and swung his arm like a sudden moment of clarity had become him. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

  Why didn’t I say so?

  What did he mean?

  “I offer money to many causes like yours,” he said. “If you’d have just asked, or applied for a grant via my business’s website, I’d have happily helped.”

  “What…”

  Was she hearing this right?

  He would help?

  She could have applied for a grant?

  “I said I would be happy to help, Amber.”

  “You would?”

  “Of course. I promise that I will see to it your mother receives the treatment she requires. What was her name again?”

  “Elsie… Michaels…”

  “Elsie Michaels! What a lovely name to besmirch such an unfortunate woman. Well, Amber, here is what I’ll do – I’ll give it a day or two for this to die over, then I will go visit her and give her the money she needs.”

  “You will…”

  Was he toying with her?

  Somehow, this was the cruellest torment yet.

  “Of course, of course! I mean, you’ve all been such lovely guests.” He raised his hands to indicate the two corpses propped up beside him.

  She shook her head. Cried. Wept.

  “Stop it…” she said, closing her eyes and dropping her head to one side. It was only now that she realised she was bound by rope. Funny how she hadn’t thought to move until now.

  “I’m being serious, Amber. Deadly serious. Do you not know who I am?”

  “No…”

  “My name is Gerald Brittle, my dear. Surely you’ve heard of me?”

  Gerald Brittle.

  The name sounded so familiar.

  Gerald Brittle. Gerald Brittle.

  Then the recollections hit her.

  He owned the Brittle empire, a business that ran so many other businesses, from security firms to shops to therapists to warehouses to manufacturers to… well, just about anything.

  And they did have a grant.

  The Brittle Grant.

  It was famous for helping people like her.

  He was someone who could help.

  “Do you understand now? Your mother is going to be fine.”

  Amber seemed to forget where she was and what was happening for a moment, and she smiled, a grateful, happy smile.


  “Unfortunately,” Gerald said. “You will not be around to see it.”

  47

  Gerald watched the smile fade and the lights go out in Amber’s eyes.

  He watched any contentment or hope fade from her body.

  He would be true to his word.

  He would save her mother.

  And she would not be around to see it.

  He stood, made his way across the table, and loitered behind her. She tried turning her head to see him but she couldn’t turn it enough.

  A box, connected to the wall, hung beside the door. He hit a code, it opened, and he flicked a switch.

  Slowly, every shutter that surrounded the house lifted. The early morning sun illuminated the room in a happy haze, casting a loving glow on his homely kitchen.

  He placed his hands on his hips and gazed out upon his garden.

  His watch beeped.

  His morning alarm.

  He was going to be late for work.

  “Oh, shucks,” he said, his body dropping. “I was hoping to take this slow…”

  She was looking around herself so quickly, so hopeful, so pleased to see the sun.

  It was so sweet.

  Bless her.

  Bless her in her little cotton socks, as his grandmother used to say.

  He was going to have to get this over with.

  “Are you – are you letting me go?” she asked.

  Did she not just hear what he said?

  “I literally just said you are going to die, Amber.”

  He shook his head.

  Impudent girl.

  Rubbing his eyes, he made his way to the coffee maker. He was going to need caffeine. He’d been up all night, and he hadn’t been particularly restful. He could hardly skip out on work – he had a big deal potentially going ahead. Not only did he have to go in, he was going to need all the energy he could get.

  He looked at the two brothers propped up at the table.

  How had he lost track of time so much?

  He was still going to have to clean this all up…

  He took the phone off the wall and dialled a number.

  “We are sorry, but the outgoing call function has been disabled at this time.”

  He pressed a button.

  “Outgoing call function enabled.”

  “Hi, Brad, I’m going to be half an hour or so late, please tell the clients to wait… Thanks a bunch, you’re a star.”