21

What have I done?

The consequences barraged Ben in a torrent of tales and warnings, all spoken in Sparling’s voice. Never had he felt so foolish nor so destructive. Worse still, the repercussions were not his alone to suffer. That he could have lived with.

‘Chloe,’ he called out.

When no answer came, Ben struggled to his feet. He found her dug into the blankets, like something broken beyond repair.

‘Chloe,’ he repeated, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

The excuse sounded more pathetic than he expected. How could she ever forgive him?

Chloe reached for his hand and drew him down beside her. The firelight gleamed atop the table, glinting through his glass and the bloody puddle above its stem. Ben felt sick. The wine had risen as far as his throat, but he forced it back down, burning like acid all the way.

‘It’s okay,’ Chloe said, squeezing his hand. ‘It’s not your fault.’

Ben imagined a missing person’s poster like Carol Fortune’s. Only now, Chloe’s face occupied the frame, pleading with everyone and anyone to find her.

Nobody would know their last movements or what had happened to them. No names, no places, not a single loose link to tie him to the terrible truth. They would vanish like the others and Alec Sparling alone would know why. He would live on to repeat the process all over again with another team. Ben took out his phone, hands twitching.

‘What are you doing?’ Chloe asked.

‘Barry,’ he replied, swiping through his contacts, trying to focus his mind to perform a task as simple as making a call. Ben didn’t know how he was going to explain it to him. But he had to try.

‘It’ll be okay,’ Ben said, drawing the phone to his ear.

He had no time to think. The phone rang twice and the man answered with his customary, ‘Barry.’

‘I need your help,’ Ben said, trying to temper his words. ‘I didn’t tell you because I knew you wouldn’t believe me, but it’s all true. Sparling tried to warn me.’

‘Slow down,’ Barry said. ‘You’re not making any sense. What’s the matter?’

‘He’s outside.’

‘Who’s outside?’

There was so much the detective needed to know for any of this to make sense. As panic-stricken as Ben was, he needed to decompress.

‘Who’s outside?’ Barry repeated impatiently.

That question would have to wait. Ben knew first-hand the intolerance of a sceptical mind.

‘We went to see him,’ Ben explained. ‘I was right. Sparling’s responsible for Carol Fortune’s murder. There were other teams, too, and they’re all gone, dead, missing; whatever you want to call it.’

‘Did you say Carol Fortune’s murder? You’re telling me that Alec Sparling killed her.’

‘No,’ Ben replied, ‘the one that killed her is outside. He’s standing outside the window.’

‘Benjamin,’ Barry said, ‘is this a joke? You do realise that it’s a—’

‘It’s not a joke,’ Ben interrupted, his voice raising out of his control. ‘We’re in a lot of trouble. We need your help. Please, I don’t know what to do. I thought it wasn’t real, but…’

‘Okay, leave it to me. Don’t contact anyone else. Not even the station. Do you understand? I’ll take care of this myself. Did you call anyone before me?’

‘No, you’re the only person I’ve spoken to.’

‘Good, let’s keep it that way.’

‘What do you want us to do?’ Ben asked.

‘Just stay where you are, and don’t contact anyone.’ Barry hung up.

Had he listened to a word Ben told him? The conversation seemed to end just as it had begun. And how did Barry know where he was? He’d never asked for Chloe’s address.

Ben sat on the couch – rigid, remote – staring vacantly at the flames, imagining everything he knew burning around him with the creeper standing atop the ashes. He might as well have just slouched into an electric chair. His life was over, and he would happily pull the lever himself.

The creeper would find his daughter. She would suffer those same eyes. The horror that had knocked Ben to the floor would be unleashed on the innocence of a three-year old; his child – the one human being in his selfish world that he was supposed to take care of.

If only he had told Sparling the truth, he would never have been recruited. Perfect candidates didn’t have kids.

Ben jumped back to his feet, legs wobbling on a floor that seemed to sway beneath them.

‘What are you doing now?’ Chloe asked him, drying her cheeks with the sleeves of her jumper.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied, staring at his phone. ‘I need to tell Jess. I don’t know how but she can keep Aoife safe.’

He dialled her number and roamed back and forth between the table and the fireplace. His eyes kept returning to where he knew the creeper still stood. It couldn’t have known about his daughter. Even the all-knowing Alec Sparling had been ignorant of her birth. He wanted to run, to scream, to shout, but all he could do was wait and listen to that dial tone.

‘Come on, come on. Pick up the phone.’

It rang and it rang, and eventually it stopped.

You have reached the voicemail inbox of…

‘Fuck it,’ he shouted, hanging up, squeezing the phone near to the point of fracture. ‘She never answers! What do I do?’

‘I don’t know,’ Chloe whispered, painfully aware of the one standing outside her window. ‘She still has time.’

‘Still has time?’

‘You have to see him three times. That’s what Sparling told us.’

‘Three times,’ Ben repeated, despairing, ‘and what happens then?’

Chloe spoke through trembling fingers, ‘Uh-oh.’

Ben lurched back to the couch and peered timidly over his shoulder, towards the thing that threatened to destroy everything he loved. He looked down at the phone in his hand, resisting the urge to fling it into the fireplace.

‘Do you want to call anyone?’ he said, holding it out to Chloe.

She shook her head.

‘What about your mum?’ he asked.

‘My mam died two years ago,’ she replied, sniffing back the tears.

Ben stared at her; breathless, speechless, hopeless.

How could he have been so selfish? It was as though no one else mattered. There were only his problems, his daughter, and his natural-born ability to let everybody down.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ben whispered, placing the phone between them.

That’s all he ever said, as if sorry could fix all the damage he had done. Ben held his head in his hands and waited for the tears that never came.

*

The curtains had lightened, as had the walls on either side, though only a keen eye would have noticed the change. Ben was sat on the edge of the coffee table, hands holding his heavy head upright like a marble statue, his countenance as stoic.

Chloe was asleep. One moment they were talking and the next they weren’t. He couldn’t remember the last thing she said. Her voice had lulled to a low whisper, the words trickling slow and few from her lips, and then there wasn’t a sound; just Ben’s thoughts, tangled and torn.

Detective Barry never showed up. After their conversation, Ben kept expecting his headlights to flash across the curtain. Seconds became minutes, and then hours. The longest of his life. Every call thereafter rang out. No response was still a response. Help wasn’t coming.

One day left and that didn’t include the night. Ben considered his options like a death-row inmate choosing his last meal. He was screwed either way. That much was a given. But fate had forced his hand to make a choice.

Driving to Donegal to see Aoife one last time was a hot contender. He could visit his parents on the way to thank them for all they had done for him and to apologise for all that he had not. The Benjamin French Farewell Tour wouldn’t be the worst way to close out his life.

Night would fall. He would die and the curse would remain.

Ben could have thrown himself at Sparling’s feet, begging for forgiveness, pleading with the man to grant them sanctuary. Any kindness on the doctor’s part was unlikely, especially after their last encounter. And even if the gates did open and he welcomed them in with open arms, Aoife was still out there.

Ben’s parents were creatures of habit. His father, especially, was predictable down to the minute. His mobile would be charging by his chair in the conservatory, where it lived tethered to the wall like a landline. Ben’s mother, on the other hand, kept her phone by the bedside, always available – the family’s twenty-four-hour helpline. He couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t answered one of his calls, and that fact alone stirred the tears in his eyes. How many times had he not answered hers? She was only ever calling to hear his voice. She got lonely like everyone else.

She would be so surprised to see his name flash up on the screen. And worried, of course, as was her knee-jerk reaction. He was calling to say goodbye, that’s all; to hear their voices one last time. The less he told them, the safer they were.

‘Ben?’ she answered croakily. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Yeah, Mum,’ he replied, holding his breath to keep from welling up. ‘Everything’s fine.’

‘What’s wrong?’ he heard his father ask, waking in the bed beside her.

‘Honestly, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m just calling to say hello.’

‘It’s a strange time to call, Ben,’ his mother said, as he heard her propping her shoulders up against a stack of pillows.

‘Does he need some money?’ his father was heard to say, not surprising considering the cause and effect of Ben’s usual phone calls.

‘I’m okay for money.’ He chuckled, sniffing back the sadness as best he could.

‘How’s your project going?’ his mother asked. ‘Your father and I can’t wait to hear all about it.’

‘It’s going good, Mum. It’s going really good.’

He couldn’t tell them the truth. Sparling didn’t know how to lift the creeper’s curse but he knew how to keep it contained. Silence was the key. And should that fail, solitude. The safest option was to simply disappear completely.

‘I’m sorry to call so early,’ Ben said, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, imagining their heads leaning in to listen. ‘I just wanted thank you. Jesus, I want to thank both of you so much. You’ve always been so good to me. And I’ve been so—’ he dabbed his cheek dry ‘—just so bad at saying thank you.’

‘You’ve always tried your best,’ his father put in.

If only that were true. But he knew the old man honestly believed it. There was no message he could pass to his parents that could save Aoife. The creeper was coming for her. Hopefully, his best would be enough to stand in its way.

‘This is going to sound a little strange,’ Ben said, ‘but if anything should happen to me, will you look out for Aoife? Maybe tell her about me. I’d be worried about what Jess says. She might grow up thinking that I didn’t love her. And if I disappeared, then…’

That’s enough, Benny Boy.

‘Whatever’s brought this on?’ his mother asked.

‘Nothing,’ Ben lied. ‘Sorry, I think I’m just tired, Mum, that’s all.’

‘Go back to bed,’ she said. ‘Sleep makes everything better, isn’t that right?’

‘That’s right,’ his father confirmed.

Ben laughed but he could feel himself falling apart. ‘I love you guys,’ he said, before it became too obvious.

‘We love you too.’

And that was that.

There was no choice but to return to Tír Mallacht. One day, one shot. That’s all Ben had left. He stood up from the table, every bone and muscle already anticipating the journey ahead. Light had edged further onto the wall and now leaked across the floor like spilled silver.

‘Okay,’ he said, steeling himself for the inevitable. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

After a whole night worrying about his daughter, Ben’s own wellbeing no longer concerned him. There was nothing like turning over a new leaf on the last day of your life.

He whipped the curtain open. Daylight blinded him. Such an ordinary sight and yet startlingly comforting in that moment. A misty rain spiralled soundlessly in the air. Ben pressed a palm against the pane, looking out at a world that had changed in a single night. His last unless he did something about it.

‘What time is it?’ Chloe asked, her squinty face emerging from the couch.

‘It’s time to go.’