Backwards Into Hell

Part Four: Or Do They?

Abigail's Diary

Later

Caleb, far more certain on his feet, dashed toward the mini-carousel and babbled something to a perfectly turned-out little girl in a bright pink dress.

I watched him with a chuckle and leaned back on the bench. It was cold today, and the frost was beginning to settle.

We used to come here all the time: him, me and David, but David was gone, and with no information released by the police, I could only guess at Caleb's experiences in The Lodge.

Jacob's abrupt disappearance from police custody had stirred things for a while, but no one else cared much any more. The world had moved on. In the right corners of the internet, you could still find conspiracy videos and long-haired teens putting together the facts but none of them even came close.

The police found David's body buried in the ash once the fire was out, and all that was left of The Lodge was a barren frame. It had been knocked down and replaced, rather morbidly, by a nursery.

My phone buzzed. It was John.

Coffee next week?

Sounds good.

I had to take the ferry over last time, so it was his turn, and already my mind whirled with possibilities. Where could I take him? It couldn't be a big chain, not a Costa. Maybe that little one off the high street? The shop with the green sign?

As I ruminated, a man in a long, military-style, nineteen-forties coat sat on the bench. It creaked with his weight as he casually placed an arm over the back. Not knowing any better, I assumed he was hitting on me until I saw his face.

'They can never get these things warm, can they? Sit down, and you feel like your a—'

I screamed. Time stopped.

Jacob.

The Man who so recently had tried to kill Caleb was in the park, watching the birds and terrorising locals without a care in the world.

'I've got a job for you,' he sing-songed.

'No.' I went to get up, and he grabbed my arm, not violently, but firm enough to sit me down again. People were watching.

'It's not like that. It's an easy one—more of a favour, really.'

This, I had to admit, piqued my interest and when I fell silent, he knew he had me.

'I need you to publish something.'

'Publish?'

'Yes.' He produced a plastic Tesco bag from under the bench and placed it between us. 'Sorry it took so long—I'm not exactly a scholar.'

From the bag, he retrieved three books and laid them in front of me. They were each different in size and colour. The largest was intricately decorated, with silver embellishments and a thick black cover. Another was a standard notebook. It had a blue cover and a host of cartoon seagulls flying across the front, and the final one was a tiny sketchbook crafted from soft leather and string.

My stomach twisted as the thought of what they contained.

'Oh,' he continued. 'There's one more.'

Jake pulled the last book from the bag. It was a small brown notebook with a cross on the front, and he chucked it casually on top of the pile. 'That one's for you.'

'Me?'

Why was he doing this? Did he find it funny to give me a book with a cross on it?

I didn't understand.

'Read them. Then you will.'

After that, Jake left me. There was no point in trying to stop him: he'd said his piece.

As he sauntered away, hands in his huge coat, he glanced to the play area, eyes fixing on Caleb as my stomach turned to ice. But he did nothing.

Jake smiled sadly and continued on his way.

Once he was gone, I hurriedly shoved the books back into the bag and hugged them to my chest, feeling the pulse of my heart through the pages. It looked suspicious to be sitting there with them. Well, not suspicious, maybe, but strange.

Once I was sure no one was watching, I pulled out the blue notebook and cautiously, as if it was booby-trapped, turned the front page.

It was a diary. Years and years of content in long, untidy handwriting and there on the first page, someone had written a name: Anais.

My stomach dropped. Sapphire's son.

I ditched the notebook in the bag and took the next one.

Lily.

The young girl. She'd been less attentive in keeping up-to-date than Anais, and her work was neater, with only a few entries and each with a sketch beside it.

I would have looked at the final book, the black one, but it was clear whose it was. And something in me, something good, stopped me from reading it there in the park.

We went home. I cooked Caleb an early dinner, put him to bed, and got to work. It took me long into the night to finish reading the diaries, and I was horrified by what I found.

So with a rage only mothers can feel, I knew I had to publish it. The world had to see. Would people believe it, or would the books drift into nothing? Pieces of meaningless fiction?

It was nearing dawn when I opened the final book, my book.

My name was already on the first page, so I grabbed a biro from the kitchen, thought for a moment, and began to write.