Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

‘What about the cameras at the post office? Do you look anything like the real Timothy Blake?’

‘There’s a passing resemblance,’ I say. ‘But Sue probably only keeps the recordings for a week or two. There would be too much data to store otherwise.’

This is probably true, but I hope it isn’t. I want Sue to be suspicious enough that she calls the FBI to see if Timothy Blake is a real civilian consultant there. I want my name to ring alarm bells. I want the feds to come here and follow our trail all the way back to the house. If I don’t live long enough to save Thistle, I still want her to have a chance.

‘What’s in the box?’ I ask, as Kyle dumps it in the back of the van. It looks heavy.

‘The new cameras,’ he says.

I find myself taking a step back, as though the box is a time bomb. Today is Friday. The cameras I sabotaged on Monday night have been replaced.

The torture can start again.

In my head I see Donnie, spinning that battleaxe in his hands and whistling.

On the drive back, Kyle glances over at the magazine on my lap. The half-naked man on the cover.

‘So,’ he says. ‘You’re queer.’

It’s such an old man word, coming out of a young man’s mouth, that I’m taken aback. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I mean you’re part of the queer community,’ he says. ‘Right? I notice you don’t have any tatts yourself.’

‘Maybe I just like art.’

‘Relax. I’m cool with it.’ He smiles benevolently, like this makes him a saint.

I’m not sure why I don’t want Kyle thinking I’m gay. Maybe it’s some latent homophobia on my part. Or maybe he’s the only Guard I feel bad about lying to.

‘I didn’t even want the magazine,’ I say, dropping it on the floor between my feet. ‘I was just trying to give you some cover.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he says, not believing me. ‘Listen, you’re in good company. Donnie’s gay. Samson was too.’

‘I’m not gay. I … Wait, were Donnie and Samson in a relationship?’

‘Yeah. You didn’t know that?’

‘No.’ I hope this isn’t a dangerous thing to admit. But I certainly didn’t see any overt signs that they were together.

It makes sense, though. Cedric’s voice in my head: But when everyone else got up, Samson acted like nothing had happened. Samson didn’t want to own up to his night of passion with Cedric, because he was already in a relationship with Donnie.

Kyle looks wistfully out the window. ‘Love at first sight, Donnie always said. But then he’d flex his muscles, like he was talking about how Samson fell in love with him, not the other way around.’

The odds are shifting around in my head. If Donnie found out Samson had slept with Cedric, that might have made him angry.

Maybe angry enough to put a gun to Samson’s head and pull the trigger.

‘I’ll miss Samson,’ Kyle continues. ‘He was a great cook. He helped out with the inmates. And he didn’t try to compete for the only pussy in the house.’

He laughs, as though it’s fine to say that as long as you’re kidding.

‘Don’t say things like that,’ I say.

He scoffs. ‘What are you, my dad? I was joking.’

‘No, you weren’t.’

Kyle looks annoyed but says nothing. The way young men talk is always grating, but I find it particularly hard to take from Kyle. I want him to be better than the others.

‘Zara’s dangerous,’ I add. ‘If I were you, I’d steer clear.’

‘Oh, yeah? How about you follow your own advice?’

There’s a hint of bitterness in his voice. He’s interested in Zara, and he’s seen her flirting with me. Fred did say Kyle had been acting strangely—maybe that’s why.

Kyle is still talking. I tune in to hear him say: ‘Except for the old lady.’

‘Old lady?’ I say.

‘Yeah. The only other pussy in the house. Technically.’

I stare at him. ‘An old lady lives in the house?’

Kyle looks at me like I’m an idiot. ‘Duh. Who did you think was upstairs?’

CHAPTER 32

A writer from New York realises something and drops me. What am I?

Back at the house, I stand at the foot of the narrow stairs—the ones Fred told me not to go up. I think of the creaking sounds I’ve been hearing.

An extra person has been here this whole time. A suspect I hadn’t even considered.

Zara’s out harvesting yeast. Donnie is servicing the pick-up. Everyone else is installing the new cameras in the slaughterhouse. There will never be a better time to see what’s up here. I grip the polished wooden bannister and climb the stairs.

A sharp bend makes each step narrow on the left and wide on the right. It’s disorienting. Like I’m climbing up into another dimension, with different laws of geometry.

At the top of the stairs is a flimsy wooden door. There’s no keyhole. Whoever’s up here, they’re not locked in.

I tap my knuckles on the door. It quivers.

There’s silence. For a moment, I wonder if the ‘old lady’ is Kyle’s alter ego, or a skeleton in a cotton shift and a wig.

Then someone calls out, ‘Yes?’

A sharp voice. Female.

I open the door.

The bedroom beyond is lit only by a small window overlooking the driveway. There’s an old-fashioned bed with brass fittings. The ceiling is only inches above my head, its weight pressing down.

A woman in her early sixties is sitting at a writing desk, wearing a pale blue robe. Her hair is long and grey. Sunken green eyes in a round face. She swivels in her chair to face me.

‘Who are you?’ she asks.

I clear my throat. ‘I’m Lux.’

‘What brings you here, Lux?’

‘I arrived on Monday,’ I