The Scribbler by Iain Maitland (life changing books txt) 📕

brute of a father. A hard-faced mother. A brother who went out and killed men. It was no surprise he almost recoiled at the thought of kindness and a gentle touch. She changed her approach.

“Hold Charlie up to my face, Dennis.”

He looked uncertain but did as she asked. She breathed in. The bear smelled of dirt and dust and decay. It had probably been kept at the back of a drawer in a chest in a damp bedroom for years. She knew she had to look pleased, though. She pretended to kiss the bear.

“He’s so sweet, Dennis, so lovely.”

“He is for your best boy,” he repeated, as if making sure she knew. “For his birthday party. So I can come.” He sounded excited and anxious too, wanting confirmation.

“Of course you can come, Dennis. With Charlie. You can play all the games, and have some cake and—”

“Blow the candles out?” he interrupted in a quiet but urgent voice.

“Yes … and bring a party bag home with you, too,” she whispered back. “But you have to keep me safe and well. Will you do that, will you promise?”

Another glance upwards.

A flickering of the eyes back and forth.

Another nod, more emphatic this time.

She thought about asking him again to free her hands. Knew that this might be a step too far. Was pleased that he might, just might, protect her if – more likely when – the other brother turned on her as he surely would. Meantime, holding the shard of glass, she could continue working on the material that bound her wrists so tight.

A noise above, rustling, footsteps.

The Scribbler. Carrie expected him to shout, “What are you whispering about?” Suspicious, he’d come down, pull them apart, find the shard of glass, her best chance of getting away or at least defending herself.

Instead, he simply said, “They’re here. The police.”

* * *

“Bring her up. Where we can see her,” the smart brother instructed.

The slow brother stood up and moved towards her, bending down and pulling her gently over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. She did not struggle, just focused on covering the shard of glass with her hands. No matter what, she had to keep hold of that. And keep it hidden, too.

“Then go back and get your gun.”

Carrie looked around the upper part of the barn where the slow brother had sat her down. There was a window with broken panes at the front, towards the farmhouse. The smart brother stood to the left side of that, just out of her sight, peering through one of the broken panes, his gun ready.

To the back, another window, six small panes, all thick with dirt. She saw the slow brother knock one pane out with his gun, then crouch to see through, covering the back towards the trees and the fields.

She sat in the middle, to the side of the barn and against a solid enough wall, halfway between the two brothers. Below her, the floorboards, part-covered with straw, felt soft and spongy and she could see parts had simply rotted away. Easy to fall through, she thought, in the shadows. The moonlight, streaming in the holes in the roof, was all that lit the barn. It was chilly now, and she could see her breath. The brothers’ too. Cold as a morgue, she thought, then wished she hadn’t.

“They’re at the farmhouse,” the smart brother said, almost as if he were thinking aloud. “Two police cars. The headlights are on. Full beam.”

“I will come to the front,” the slow brother replied.

“No,” snapped the smart brother. “There will be more of them. At the back.”

“They cannot get in at the back,” the slow brother said, as if he needed to explain. “There is no door there.”

“They’ll circle around. Surround us from all sides.” The smart brother hesitated, wanting to clarify what he’d said. Make the other brother understand. “Like Custer and the Indians … in that cowboy film we used to watch when we were small … remember? Custer in the middle with the Indians on horses, all running around him, shooting at him with bows and arrows.”

Carrie looked at the slow brother, could see him thinking slowly, remembering, working things out in his head. Eventually, he spoke. “Custer died,” he said sadly. “The baddies killed him when he ran out of bullets.”

“They won’t kill us,” the smart brother answered. “We’ve plenty of ammunition. And we’re sharp shooters.”

“The smartest shooters …” echoed the slow brother before they chanted together.

“The rooting-tooting …”

“… super-duper …”

“… best-ever shooters in town.”

Dear God, thought Carrie. They think it’s some sort of game. She wanted to tell them again, over and over, to give themselves up. That this was it, their last chance. The final chance for all of them. Her too. But she knew they wouldn’t give in now. And that, with the police outside, they could not run either. Not that they wanted to do that. They wanted a shooting match. Some sort of heroic shoot-out as they’d see it.

She sighed. This is hopeless.

Sat back.

Shut her eyes. The madness of it.

The smart brother, as if sensing her mood, spoke to her, almost over his shoulder, as he kept watch towards the farmhouse.

“We will trade you for Mother,” he said firmly. “You won’t be here long. A policeman will approach soon and he will shout up at us, what do you want, he will say, and I will tell him. Mother! That’s what we want. Bring her back home. Our mother! And the policeman will reply, what do you have to trade, to trade for Mother? And I will tell him we have you …” He looked towards her, almost nodding, as if asking for her name.

“Brenda McButton,” she answered, surprising herself with the savage edge to her words. He did not seem to notice.

“And I will tell him we have Brenda McButton to trade. And they will go and fetch Mother from wherever they have taken her and bring her to us. And I will see her and