The Truth About Celia Frost (20 page)

The baying gang bounced around like they were on hot coals, grunting and howling as they whipped themselves up into a bloodlust.

Celia crouched in a ball against the wall as Razor pulled the dog in closer.

“What you think, Rocky?” he said. “How about a bite to eat?”

The whole gang joined in, trying to wind up the animal. They threw their cans at him, clapping in his face, whooping and taunting. “Kill! Kill! Kill!” they chanted, jabbing their
fingers towards Celia.

Rocky began to growl and snap.

“That’s more like it,” said Razor approvingly. He let out the chain. Rocky was so close she could see the dripping pus from the infection that had spread over his entire mauled
ear. His hot, stinking breath sailed up her nostrils as he bared his yellow pointed teeth. Celia buried her head in her knees, her hands over her head, rigid with fear, waiting for his jaws to
clamp down and rip into her. But things weren’t happening quickly enough for Razor, who yanked the chain viciously, snapping the dog’s neck back.

“Get on with it!” he roared, kicking Rocky’s festering ear.

The dog howled, throwing himself about, jerking Razor around like a stunt kite in the wind. The chain was torn out of his grasp. The gang backed away as the unfettered dog jumped up at Razor,
felling him to the ground and sinking his teeth into his thigh. Razor let out a scream as panic swept through his followers.

A couple of them ran at the animal, attempting to kick him off their leader, but Rocky deepened his bite, his teeth hitting bone.

“Stab him!” wailed Razor.

Shane brandished his knife at the dog, jabbing it towards him. The dog unlocked his jaws and turned on him. Shane took one look at Rocky’s blood-soaked mouth and backed off down the
alleyway. The rest of the gang followed, dragging the writhing Razor behind them.

Celia rose shakily to her feet, leaning against the wall for support. Sol edged towards her, not taking his eyes off the dog, who was charging around in front of them, shaking his head violently
and snapping at the air as his chain whipped the ground. But then Rocky paused, fixing wild eyes on Sol. Blood-stained slobber hung between his bared teeth. Every wasted muscle in his body
quivered, poised to attack.

Sol frantically looked around for some protection. In one corner he saw a broken shopping trolley and on the other side, among the sacks of stinking rubbish, he spotted a snapped broom handle.
Sol inched sideways and grabbed for the handle – but as he felt it in his grasp, Rocky ran at him, launching into the air with open jaws. Sol swung the handle with all his strength. It
delivered a blow to the dog’s chest that sent it hurtling to the ground.

Sol repositioned himself, standing with legs apart, hands gripping the ends of the broom handle like a Samurai warrior. He watched as Rocky rolled back onto his feet and started patrolling in
front of them, snarling in between deafening barks. Celia crept towards Sol, dragging the mangled shopping trolley.

“What’s that for?” Sol asked.

“We can trap him under it. It’s like a cage,” Celia answered quietly. Sol flashed her a look of incredulity. “Have you got a better idea?” she hissed. “Get
behind it. We need to get close enough to trap him.”

They slowly moved behind the three-wheeled trolley. Celia strained to keep it upright as it tilted forwards.

“Now what?” Sol asked.

“Get ready with your stick,” Celia warned, and she started shouting at the crazed dog: “Come on! Here boy!”

Rocky bolted towards them, but as they were about to tip the trolley onto him he swerved to the side, where Celia stood, unprotected.

“Duck!” screamed Sol as he swung the handle, narrowly missing Celia’s head but making contact with Rocky’s front legs. The dog fell backwards but instantly sprang up,
more aggressive than ever.

“Quick! Pull the trolley round to face him,” Celia rasped.

They dragged it around as Rocky leaped towards them again but Celia held her nerve, waiting for the perfect moment before she screamed, “Now!”

They grabbed hold of the bottom of the trolley and flipped it upside down. It landed right on target, stopping the animal in his tracks.

They stood back, watching as the trapped dog rammed his body against the cage, pushing his nose through the grids, his teeth chomping down on the metal. When this didn’t work he started to
paw at the concrete ground, his overgrown nails scratching the surface in a futile attempt to tunnel out.

“What should we do?” Celia asked, trembling.

“Get out of here, quick. I don’t know how long that trolley can hold him and we don’t want to be around if any of those bastards come back.”

She winced as she stepped forward. Blood oozed out of the flayed skin on her elbows and knees.

“Come on, Celia. We need to get you home and clean you up.” He reached out to her.

“It’s okay, I can manage,” she said, rejecting his hand and hobbling along the alleyway. “You’ve done enough for me already. I feel so bad that you got dragged into
that.”

“Don’t be stupid, Celia. It’s not your fault,” he said.

“You get home. I can make my own way back.”

“No way! I want to check you’re okay.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “I promise I’ll ring you once I’m back. Please, Sol, go home.”

He knew it was no use arguing with her. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “But you’d better phone me, or I’ll come round whether you want me to meet your mum or
not.”

Janice had been entertaining Frankie all evening, even if she wasn’t aware of it. She’d returned from work around six, by which time Frankie was already ensconced
in his car, ready to listen in to her every sound. The evening had started off well. Janice seemed in a buoyant mood, which he liked to think was due to his little phone calls. There was the sound
of the kettle being boiled, clattering in the kitchen, and singing along to the radio.

She’d phoned Celia and left a message: “Hiya, love. Make sure you’re home for seven. I’m making us a lovely chicken dinner. You know I can’t stand the sight of the
things after spending all day mopping up their guts, but it’s your favourite and nothing’s too much trouble for my girl.”

However, as the evening wore on and Celia didn’t arrive home, Janice had graduated from cups of tea to glasses of booze. She’d left several more messages, each one more rambling and
uptight than the last. She warned Celia that she was late, demanding to know where she was, pleading with her to phone back. Later on there was the sound of overzealous chopping, halted by a
screech. “Oww! I’m bleeding over the bloody dinner. Where are the bloody plasters?”

Frankie considered whether it was a good time to ring Janice. She was agitated and a little drunk; an ideal state to extract information from her. Anyway, even if she wasn’t forthcoming
with information, Frankie still enjoyed their little chats. It felt good to speak to someone who seemed so happy to hear from him, even if he knew it was all a charade. But as he rehearsed what he
would say to her, the sound of gentle snoring started filtering through his earpieces.

Janice’s snoring continued for over an hour until it was eventually replaced by coughs and splutters, followed by a shriek. There was frantic activity in the flat: the sound of the oven
door being flung open, taps turned on, trays being slung out onto the balcony – then tears and an angry call to Celia, who did pick up this time.

“Celia, where are you? The chicken’s burned to a cinder... The chicken I’ve been cooking for our dinner! I’ve left you loads of messages telling you to get
home... Don’t give me that. You’ve just been ignoring my calls. I’ve nearly sliced my finger off cooking this dinner and now it’s ruined... You’re damn right
you’re coming home now. Where have you been anyway? ...What do you mean ‘just around’? I want to know where... Who are you with? What have you been up to?”

The call ended without any goodbyes and Frankie could hear Janice pacing up and down the flat, calming herself.

“At least you know she’s all right,” she was mumbling. “She’s on her way home, so don’t jump down her throat as soon as she comes in, Janice. Let’s have
a nice, relaxing night. No more arguments, no more shouting. Everything’s fine.”

However, as an age seemed to tick by without any sign of Celia’s return, even Frankie began to get worried.

Celia had forced herself up every step to the twentieth floor, the grated skin on her knees and elbows oozing with each movement of her joints. By the time she appeared in the
doorway to their flat, blood was trickling down her limbs.

“Celia!”

“Mum,” Celia whimpered, grabbing hold of Janice’s hands.

Janice looked down. Celia’s blood-stained hands were wrapped around hers. “Let go of my hands!” she screamed.

“What?! Why?!”

“Just do it, just do it. Let go now!” Janice’s face was rigid.

The startled girl obeyed. Janice inspected her shaking hands. The plaster on her cut finger was still in place but now smeared with Celia’s blood.

“What’s the matter?” Celia asked, flabbergasted.

Janice scurried to the bathroom. Celia followed her, watching as Janice manically washed her hands over and over again, dousing them with a concoction of disinfectants, checking every centimetre
of skin before repeating the whole process. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” Janice was muttering to herself, grappling to pull on a pair of latex gloves.

“You look terrified,” Celia said, alarmed. “Why are you terrified?”

“What are you talking about? You know your old mum, always a bag of nerves,” Janice jabbered. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

Celia watched as Janice discreetly clasped her hands together in an attempt to quell their tremor. Her eyes narrowed. She searched Janice’s agitated face. “You cut your finger,
didn’t you? You said so, on the phone.”

“Yes. But it’s nothing to worry about, just a little cut,” she answered dismissively. “Now come on, love, tell me what happened to you.”

Celia’s mind was too distracted to go into detail. “A gang attacked us. They set their dog on us.”

“‘Us’? Who was with you?”

“A friend.”

“Was it that boy? The one from the drawing in the book? Did he touch you? Did anyone touch you?”

“What do you mean, ‘touch me’?” Celia asked, needing to hear her say it.

“When you were bleeding, did anyone touch you?”

“What would be the problem if they did? Why are you always so bothered about people touching me? Don’t let people help you without gloves – isn’t that one of your rules?
You’ve always been obsessed with keeping people away from me, away from my blood.”

“I’m not obsessed with it,” she tutted. “It’s...it’s just not hygienic, is it?”

“Even someone as neurotic as you, Mum, doesn’t react like that just because it’s not hygienic.” Celia suddenly fell silent. She stood perfectly still, a hundred thoughts
colliding behind her darting eyes.

“What are you doing, Celia? I need an answer. Did anyone touch you?” Janice couldn’t mask her rising panic.

Celia spoke slowly, her brain unscrambling her thoughts. “I know that the blood clotting disorder was a lie. But what if all your crazy behaviour isn’t crazy at all? What if you know
something about my blood, something that makes it dangerous, and all these years you’ve been trying to make sure people keep away from me?”

“You’re in shock. You’re talking nonsense,” Janice said aggressively.

“Am I? You were terrified – terrified of my blood touching that cut on your finger.”

“No I wasn’t!” Janice retorted.

“Are you sure of that?” Celia asked.

“Yes!”

“In that case you won’t mind doing something for me.” Her voice fluttered with nerves.

“What?” Janice asked tensely.

Celia lifted her arm to Janice’s mouth, fresh blood seeping from the skin. “Kiss it better, Mum.”

Janice pulled away, sealing her lips tight.

“What’s the matter?”

Janice forced out a hollow laugh. “Don’t you think you’re a bit big for that kind of thing?”

“But you’ve never done it, have you? Mums are meant to do things like that. If you loved me, you’d kiss my poorly elbow better,” she said, tears of anxiety pooling in her
eyes.

Janice backed out of the bathroom, keeping her eyes fixed on Celia. Stumbling through the doorway, she landed in a heap on the living room floor. “Celia...please... Stop
it!” she begged.

Celia towered over the cowering woman. “
Why
do you want me to stop?” she asked desperately. “I need to know the truth, Mum. Please don’t make me do this.”
Celia leaned in closer, the burgeoning blood from her quivering arm ready to drip onto Janice’s pursed lips.

“No, Celia, no,” Janice whimpered, bending her head away.

“Then tell me! Why are you terrified of my blood?”

Janice bowed her head in surrender. “Because it can kill,” she muttered.

Celia must have misheard. Janice couldn’t have said that. “What did you say?”

“I said...your blood can kill.”

“You’re lying!” Celia said, reeling.

“I wish I was. I can’t do this any more, Celia. I’m so tired.” Janice’s head flopped into her hands. “I promise to tell you everything, everything. But I need
to know if anyone came into contact with your blood.”