He backtracked towards the front of the house, always in shadow. When he could no longer see the shed, he crept across the lawn and through the shrubbery that bordered the property. The Graham sisters next door were from an era when high fences were considered terribly gauche; fences prevented neighbours passing roses and teacakes across hedges to one another. Fences also ruined the parkland look of a neighbour-hood, they argued. Jamaal had long tried to convince Sebastian to erect a high wall between them and the old bats, but he was now pleased to have lost this battle, as he stepped over a creeping gardenia bush and onto the Grahams' property.
He knew that Beatrice would have been in bed with a gin bottle hours ago, but Ethel was a light sleeper. It was his job to know such things. So he stole slowly down towards the water's edge, the thick carpet of lawn and leaves muffling his footfalls. He was now more aroused than anxious – he liked to hunt. Besides, tonight had turned to his favour. Even his serendipitous choice of clothing, black on black, was a sign that he was meant to be victorious.
When the grass gave way to soft sand, Jamaal slowed. To his left sat the boatshed. He could hear nothing but the soft harbour waves and the hulls of the luxury boats gently slapping the water. He knew his footsteps made less sound than these noises. He moved around the shed. Jerome could not believe they would do this to him.
He was wearing slacks, for God's sake. And a belt! Shiny shoes. Oh my God, he thought, if Nathan ever saw me dressed like this… Nathan. Jerome sighed, and put his head in his hands. He sat on the edge of the bath in the bathroom off the basement. He felt really tired. And hungry.
The door opened and Tadpole walked in. Jerome cringed under his gaze.
'Oh, come on, Jerome. You don't look that bad!' Tadpole gave him a half-smile. 'I guess you've never worn anything like that before.'
A tear slid down Jerome's cheek.
'Look, I know you're hungry,' he said kindly. 'Mr Sebastian has just called down. It's time to go up to the party. You should see what they've got to eat up there. Chicken, chips, pies, everything. I could sneak you some beer. Let's go eat!'
'Couldn't you just bring me some food down here?'
'Jerome, everyone wants to meet you. It's time to go up.'
'I'm not going anywhere dressed like this. Let me put my other stuff back on.'
Tadpole sighed, and sat next to Jerome on the bath. A little too close. Jerome scrooched away a bit.
'Jerome, I'm gonna tell you like this. You get to go upstairs with me now, dressed like that, or Jamaal's going to come down here and make you come up.' He gave him a compassionate look. 'I'm not going to bullshit you, Jerome. Even I'm scared of Jamaal. I know you are, and you should be. I'm telling you as a friend – let's get out of here before he comes back.'
Jerome studiously avoided the mirror as he left the bathroom. At least there would be other people at a party. Maybe he could find a way to tell one of them he needed help. He'd already thought about writing a message on a paper napkin and passing it to an adult. He knew he had to be safer around a big group of adults than he was down here. Someone at the party would help him.
He followed Tadpole to the door. You see, that's another sign.
Walking carefully through the sand, Jamaal had kicked against a rocky outcropping at the base of the boatshed. Of course! He needed a weapon – a rock would do nicely. He bent and felt around in the sand. There were several large pieces buried, but he could not dislodge them. He felt the next one give a little, and prised with his fingers until it came free suddenly. He nearly fell. He steadied himself, carrying the baseball-sized rock, and continued on his way along to the far edge of the back of the boatshed.
Jamaal's mother had tried to teach him religion, but he'd never really taken to it. Tonight, however, had taught him to believe. A tiny glance around the corner of the shed at who waited there showed him that God had brought her here as a gift. He took a very deep breath and raised his eyes towards heaven.
With one stride and a silent lunge, Jamaal crossed the sand between himself and Jill and smashed the rock down on her head.
44
A pair of blinding headlights bore down upon Jill, filling her with a sense of urgency. Got to get out of here! The lights came closer, but she stood paralysed, pinned to the spot, frozen in the knowledge that she was about to be annihilated. The twin lights filled her vision; her brain burned with the heat of them. Any moment now they would smash her down, crush her completely. She moaned in pain, and the white-eyed girl woke her up.
The lights. Just her eyes – the white-eyed girl. Another nightmare was all. Jill tried to reassure herself, slow her breathing, open her own eyes.
What the fuck? thought Jill. It was pitch black. Eyes open or closed. Inside her head, the white-eyed girl nodded solemnly. You're blind too, she told Jill without speaking.
Jill sat up fast, shuffled backwards, trying to get away from the little girl in her head, from wherever she was, from the knowledge, deep down, that she was once again captive somewhere and that she couldn't see. She whimpered when her head struck an object, pain sending a rolling wave of nausea through her stomach. Head between her knees, a hard surface beneath her, Jill tried to take stock. What had she last been doing? It all came back, still-shots in her mind of the last hours that she could remember. The phone call from Mercy; the drive to Hunters Hill; creeping down to the water's edge; Mercy, on the floor, her chest blown out. Then blackness. It was completely and utterly black.
She raised a hand to the back of her head, the movement bringing back the seasick feeling. Her hand came away wet. Did she slip and fall, hit her head? Maybe she was in hospital? Scotty found her injured and brought her here. That's it, she lied to herself, knowing that she was sitting on a hard, cold floor, probably concrete, not a bed; aware that nothing in here smelled or sounded like a hospital. Mentally, she pushed hard at the doors in her mind, holding back with all her might the horror of knowledge that bulged behind them.
She felt she was in a large room; it sounded echoey, kind of empty. It smelled earthy, like underground. Like a basement.
The white-eyed girl was back, nodding wisely. We've got to face it now.
Jill scrambled for something to think about, anything. Not in the basement. Not for real. Wake up! She reached up to her eyes, put her fingers on her eyeballs, pressed. A flare of orange inside her head, then nothing. Her eyes were wide open, and there was no light. It was not just the darkness of a room, she was sure of it. She could see nothing at all.
The little girl was right. She was alone, blind, and in the basement.
Jill ignored the silent admonishment of the white-eyed girl and, curled into a foetal ball, gave in to terrified sobs. The last two decades were an illusion. This was real. She'd never been safe. She had no control. Nothing could be worse than this.
And then she heard footsteps just outside the room. Jerome had only seen houses like this on TV. When they got out of the cupboard, he stuck close to Tadpole, feeling minus-cule under the cavernous space of the three-metre-high ceilings. Through huge windows, Jerome could see it was very dark outside. His footsteps echoed on the shiny floors.
Where was the party? Was this another trick? When his parents had people over, every chair was taken and there were people in each room, talking and laughing, ruffling his hair when he passed by. Kids running through hallways, slowing to a giggling walk when they passed a group of adults, whooping and running again when they turned a corner. He couldn't even hear anyone talking. He looked up at Tadpole, and the man smiled down at him, his eyes glittery and weird. Jerome looked back down at his shoes, wishing his dad would come get him.