“I am going to move you to another place. You will be safe there.”
“Safe from your brother?” she asked quietly.
He nodded.
“The Scribbler?” she asked carefully.
The man looked blank-faced.
“The Scribbler,” she repeated, watching him closely.
“My brother,” he answered finally.
Carrie wanted to have this conversation before he finished his cigarette and moved her. This was her best chance of understanding. Making a connection. Getting this child-like man on her side. Surviving and getting away. She had to be quick – but careful as well.
“Your brother … the man who hit me …”
He nodded slightly, glancing at her and away.
“He …” she searched for what to say. She wasn’t trained for this. “He kills … he takes the lives of gay … homosexual men.”
He looked at her for a long time and then answered quietly, almost a whisper. She had to lean forward to hear him.
“Bad men … bad men who hurt children.” He stopped. As if he shouldn’t have spoken.
“Gays or paedophiles?” she pressed. “They’re not the same at all.”
He seemed uncertain, as if he had not quite heard what she’d said.
“Paedophiles. Small boys and girls?” The thought made her feel sick. She had to blank out thoughts of Noah.
He nodded again, then looked down, dragging on his cigarette.
“Do you help him? Do you kill the bad men who hurt children?” She spoke softly, as conversationally as she could. As if she were talking about going shopping or some other humdrum matter.
“I did once …” he answered before touching his scarred face. He sighed suddenly, unexpectedly, long and hard. “Now I bury them. The bad men. The baddest of bad men.”
Carrie was not sure what to say to that, thought perhaps she should ask where he buried them. But guessed it was somewhere on the farm. Maybe even the place he had talked about moving her to. She struggled to quell a rising sense of panic again. Knew she must not show it.
He finished his cigarette, stubbing it into the ground with his boot as he stood up.
“We are good boys. We are Mother’s best boys. We are superheroes,” he said firmly, as if he were proud.
Carrie looked up at his slow, simple face, still not sure what to say to this man who spoke in such a measured, child-like way.
He moved towards her, taking out the knife and then a cloth of some kind from his pocket.
Gagged her again. Cut her arms free from the post. Retied her wrists, a little tighter this time. Pulled her up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. Bent down again to pick up the lantern with his right hand. And then headed out of the small barn.
She wondered if he was now carrying her to her grave.
Had a terrible vision of being buried alive. By The Scribbler when he returned at any moment.
Made to dig her own grave. Climb down into it and lie still as he shovelled the soil on top of her.
* * *
“What is this place?” Carrie asked, after the man with the melted face had put the lantern on the ground, sat her down gently against a wall and removed the gag from her mouth.
He did not bind her to the wall this time. That was good, she thought. She could take advantage.
She could move about a little. On her bottom. And she could roll over. She could probably stand up if she used the wall behind her for balance.
Even though her arms and legs were tied tight, it gave her a chance, she thought.
He shrugged. “Father used it.” He looked round the now-derelict structure, maybe twelve foot by fifteen foot. A rickety wooden staircase led to an upstairs area. Carrie could see moonlight, assumed there were windows up there, or maybe the roof had just rotted away. It stank of dirt and decay.
“No one comes here. Except me. I come to smoke and think. My brother will not know you are here.”
“What do you think about … when you’re here?” said Carrie. The light from the lamp shone on the undamaged side of his face. She thought, seeing mostly that side, that he had a surprisingly kind face.
He looked shy suddenly, dipping his head down.
“When you come here for a smoke, what do you think about?” she pressed, making herself look as interested as she could. Knowing she had to win him over, gain his trust.
“Things,” he said eventually, still shy. Carrie sensed he wanted to talk, to say more.
“What sort of things?” she pressed.
He did not answer. Would not meet her eye.
“Nice things?” she added.
Still he did not say.
“I’m going to think about nice things when I sit here,” she said. “Sit down next to me. I’m going to think about my little boy. He’s called Noah. He’s five.”
The man with the melted face sat down next to her. “Noah,” he said. “That is a nice name. A Bible name. He is five.” He repeated Carrie’s comment, as if to himself. “Five,” he said once more.
“Yes,” Carrie replied, hesitating for a moment, deciding what to say next. Which way to go. How hard to push.
“Is he handsome?” the man said unexpectedly.
“Yes,” Carrie answered, looking at the simplicity, the innocence, in the man’s face.
“I like children,” the man said.
“You’d like Noah,” Carrie continued. “And he’d like you.”
“Would he?” the man looked surprised and then pleased.
“Yes. Do you know why?”
“Why?” the man asked eagerly.
“Because you are a kind man who is being nice to his mummy. He’d love you for that.”
The man looks beside himself, thought Carrie. She was not sure how to handle this. Make him feel guilty? Get him on her side?
“He’s having a birthday party soon. Perhaps you can come to it.”
“Will there be cakes?” he asked.
“Yes, cakes and crisps and sausage rolls and sandwiches and orange squash and Ribena.”
“And games? Will there be games?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes, all sorts of games. Hide
