The Debt

TW: murder

Cerys awoke as the early sunlight filtered through the morning haze - the gentle caress of dawn easing her from the unreality of her dreams.  Owen was laying at the foot of her bed, still asleep, his body fringed with the ember glow that precedes the sweltering heat of a summer day.  It was rare that she slept through the night, let alone in the heat, for her mind remained vigilant even as her body lay in rest.  She slept better when Owen was close, a mother’s comfort perhaps. She sat a little longer indulging the fleeting moment of peace, barely noticing the photograph that had been carefully placed between her fingertips as she slept.

She drifted weightlessly for a moment more before her eyes fell upon it. Every muscle in her body contracted at once wrenching her hard into consciousness. She threw the photograph instinctively as though it were a hot coal, stifling a scream so as not to startle Owen. She clung to her knees and breathed deep trying to slow the staccato drum roll of her racing heart. When the paralysis of fear waned and her shaking body stilled, she reached down to the floor. Her fingers met the glossy surface of the photograph and she brought it up at arm's length before hesitantly studying the image - the inside of a derelict building, all rusted beams and shattered glass. She turned it over and read the familiar message scrawled on its back alongside an address: “Pay the debt - Warehouse 82, Harbourside”.

She mentally fought the idea, twisting and turning for excuses, loopholes, and escapes, but as always it proved fruitless. She wanted to run, to disappear, but it was never that simple. Tears ran down her cheeks as she submitted to the wave of despair, unable to process what she must do once again. She spun round reflexively as Owen stirred. She held him tight and kissed his forehead, whispered reassurances even though he knew nothing of what there was to fear.

“Mama has to go out quickly” she said, masking the anxiety in her voice “I won’t be long.”

“But it’s the weekend Mama, stay, please!” he said, still in the daze of sleep. She held back the tears and pulled him close.

“Owen, I have to. Please.” she said, almost pleading. Owen wiped the sleep from his eyes and looked up at her.

“Mama, you look sad, don’t go please.” She recoiled, not wanting him to see her bloodshot eyes or the fear that lurked within them.

“No Owen, I have to go. I won’t be long.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” she said, pulling her son tight one last time.

She dressed herself in silence as Owen drifted back to sleep, layering on the outfit despite the temperature outside. Satisfied that she looked suitably anonymous in her black slacks, cap, and glasses she filled a rucksack with the supplies she would need - thick gloves, bolt cutters, and a bottle of bleach or two. She considered bringing her old varmint rifle but thought better of it. Easier but too conspicuous. She tucked a carving knife into her belt instead, not sparing a moment to think about what she would have to do with it. She double locked the doors and made for the car, ready for the drive to Harbourside.

The low hum of the radio blended with the sound of the engine as Cerys’ early morning drive brought her closer to the unthinkable - soft ghost voices speaking of a world that she could not feel further from. A world she would have to earn her place in. She drove on past the sign for Harbourside, hands and feet moving automatically, her mind preoccupied with a thousand thoughts and yet wishing only to think of one. It was for Owen, or it was all for nothing. She wiped the sweat from her brow, pushed the doubt down, and kept driving.

All too soon she pulled up at the address that had been written on the photograph. Warehouse 82 sat alone in its lot, imprisoned by an encircling perimeter fence of razor wire. There was no number on the lot’s twisted metal gate, only a peeling sign condemning the warehouse, but she had no doubt that the disused building was her destination. She grabbed her rucksack and got out of the car into the heat before scouting the fence for a quiet entry point away from prying eyes. When she was satisfied that she was alone she set to work cutting a flap in the wire with her bolt cutters and she slipped beyond the perimeter. She wasted no time in the open, beelining straight for the warehouse and scrambling over the jagged shards of glass that lined the window frame.

The warehouse’s tin roof provided some shade from the sun but its inside was thick with muggy heat. By now sweat drenched her clothes both from the temperature and the anxiety, but she put aside any thought of removing them until it was done. She wandered the debris ridden halls, comparing each room with the one in the photograph, until she at last found a match. The photograph showed the loading bay populated only by long discarded crates and pallets, but as she approached, she knew she was not alone. She did not look at them for more than a glance - but she saw the blades and tools they wielded just as she had brought her carving knife.  She took her place in silence among the anonymous faces and waited.

He arrived. The weight of his stride on the concrete was a herald of its own, and with each pounding footstep her bones shook within her. She stood motionless, eyes cast downward, not daring to look for even a moment, her clothes sodden with sweat. A feverish miasma of smoke filled her lungs as he stepped into the circle - the stifling scent of pipe tobacco. She held her breath in spite of the foul taste and kept silent, praying that he would not choose her. A faint murmur became a whimper as he took his first choice, dragging them from the circle with ease. She could feel no relief until it was done and so she waited as still as she could hold her trembling body. And then she felt his hands reach from the smog and wrap around her own, drawing her in with a terrible strength.

He waited as the others left, their footsteps belying their relief, and when all was quiet he spoke.

“Your debt is called” he said, his voice a gritty rasp “life for life, death for death.”

She looked upon the other woman whom she could not know, but understood so much of.

“You both walk on borrowed time. Pay what is owed with blood.” he said finally, exhaling a cloud of smoke and stepping aside.

Primal instinct overtook her. Cerys drew the carving knife and charged through the smoke, point edged at the woman, her adversary. The woman raised her forearm to shield her face and the serrated edge sunk into the flesh, hungry for blood. Cerys wrested the knife free bringing it high and plunging down again but the woman was quicker this time, catching her wrist before it could cut her. She screamed in pain and drew back the claw hammer before swinging it forward, cracking Cerys’s ribs with the impact. Cerys fell on the concrete, the wind taken out of her, the woman looming above, hammer in hand. She breathed deep one last time and surged forward dragging the edge across the woman’s Achilles tendons before she could strike a final blow. With an inhuman screech she leapt upon the woman and stuck her over and over until at last her flailing, maimed body fell silent.

She caught her breath for a moment and sobbed there on the bloody warehouse floor, nauseous with shame, horror, and the throbbing pain of her crushed ribs. His footsteps approached again as he applauded her performance with a slow clap. The combination of his stench and sickening gesture proved too much and she could not stop herself from vomiting. He laughed before yanking her up to her feet by the scruff of her neck.

“Your debt is paid. The boy has 5 more years.” he said, throwing her back down hard into the concrete “I will see you soon.” and he walked away laughing, leaving her to her pain.

Her mind was empty as she made the final arrangements. She did not stop to think about any of it as she dragged the woman, now a bloody pincushion, into a shallow grave. She changed her clothes, burned the old set, and bleached and buried the knife and tools alongside them. Without so much as a whimper, she left the warehouse, keeping her composure long after she got back in the car. She drove in silence, without even the radio to accompany her, and made for home.

It was still early when she arrived, but she called for Owen as soon as she unbolted the door. For a moment there was no reply but before her heart could sink, she heard the faint grumbling of her son’s voice as he began to wake. She charged up the staircase and pulled him tight, startling the half-asleep boy, and she would not let go for anyone.