Knife's Edge

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

My father had no tolerance for traitors. It was a lesson I learned without him having to teach me. And it's a memory that still haunts me every time I close my eyes.

The door is open.

I can see it at the top of the basement stairs, standing ajar. It's only a small gap, barely wide enough to let in a strip of light from the hallway outside. It filters through the opening and into our dingy bedroom, tiny specs dancing like fairy dust in the haze.

I frown at the door, confused.

It's not meant to be open when there are people over. It's not meant to be unlocked when there are people over. Not after the time I hurt my shoulder.

And there are people over tonight; I can hear the screams.

The screams from upstairs are louder than normal – a deafening, raspy sound that bounces through the house like a basketball. I wonder what game they must be playing, for it to be so loud.

Whatever game it is, I hope it ends soon. I hope the screams stop soon because Bailey is tired. So is Charlotte.

So am I.

Looking away from the door, I'm confused by the extra effort it takes as my head sits heavily on my shoulders. For some reason, moving has hurt more than normal over the last few days.

Turning my eyes to Bailey, I try to ignore the pain in my tummy and curl my lips into a smile.

Bailey sits on her ratty old mattress, looking small and scarily fragile. She stares back at me with wide, watery eyes, her hands held against her ears to try and block out the noise.

For some reason, Bailey's face looks wrong; it has for a while – too sharp, too thin. The shadows of the basement seep into her face now, hugging the hollows of her cheeks. It makes her eyes look odd, too big to fit the rest of her face.

Mr Bunny sits on her lap, offering what little comfort he has left to give. His one eye is falling off now, the black button hanging on by a single thread, and his brown fur is so tatty he's practically grey now.

Charlotte sits next to them both, curled up with Bailey on the mattress. Her bony arm is wrapped around the small girl's shoulders, her spindly fingers closer to claws.

Charlotte's face looks wrong, too. Her skin is too pale, her lips too thin, and her teeth look too big as she whispers something softly in Bailey's ear.

The screams don't stop.

"Aaarrgh! Aargh—AAARGHH!"

"Sweep," Bailey mumbles. She's been saying that word all night.

Bailey needs sleep.

But the screams are too loud and she doesn't have her music to mask them. She left it upstairs earlier, when we were allowed out of our room to watch cartoons on the magic box.

When it's only the man and our mummy's in the house, he doesn't care where we are as long as we're quiet and out of his way. We've gotten good at keeping quiet and out of his way.

We don't want to make him angry. The man is scary when he's angry. The man is scary when he's not angry.

The man is always scary.

"Aargh! AAARGH!"

"Sweep," Bailey mumbles again, her eyelids drooping low as she buries her face into the top of Mr Bunny's head.