Reversal (A working title) Chapter two.

Leyton Falls, July 1st 2010, thirty minutes to midnight

A simple man caught between terror and desperation, Peter Ferris stood rigid with his back pressed hard against the morgue’s aged iron gates, his heart booming, his breaths short and sharp, and his eyes flicking left and right in the half-light hoping to see no one. Hoping more so, to be seen by no one.

He’d never considered himself brave, or to be any particular kind of hero, but to do what he was about to do didn’t take bravery, it didn’t take guts or daring, nor did it take heroics, it took something far greater than any of those things, it took love, something he had in abundance for the person he’d come for. And even though the task he’d chosen to undertake terrified him, he’d see it through regardless of his fears, which, at 11.30, he had little time to consider. He’d only another half hour to get in, get out, and get back to the house, or his efforts would be for nothing.

He visited Mrs Evans in the sanatorium three weeks ago, just to ask a few questions about the house, at the time she seemed to have all her faculties more or less intact, or so he thought. She insisted on telling him her story, said no one there would listen to what she had to say. So, being the soft-touch he was, for two and a half hours, Peter sat, and he listened. His opinion of her at that time changed with every passing minute, although she looked and sounded quite sane, what she had to say left him in no doubt why she was in there, and why no one would listen to her.

Two weeks later, during his renovations of the upstairs rooms he’d uncovered something she’d spoke of, something which made her claims not so crazy after all, something, if he remembered correctly, she called "The Twins". And so, last night, recalling most of how she’d told him to do it, he tried it out on his daughter’s doll, a two-foot clown with a cracked enamel face. After which, all cracks, faded paint, and tattered clothes were repaired, the doll looked brand new. So ... if it worked then … it’ll work now.

The bolt cutters he’d acquired that afternoon were heavy, cumbersome things; he positioned the jaws on the thick chain holding the two gates together, but before splicing through, chanced another look around. To his left stood a street-lamp, two moths, mindlessly flicked about its pale-orange hue, the dim light illuminating no further than the lamp’s base, some twelve feet below. Hardly bright, but it made him nervous all the same; he wanted to smash it, get rid of it, but making any unnecessary noise could get him noticed, and most certainly arrested. Satisfied he hadn’t been observed; he closed the cutter’s jaws on one of the links and, using a fair degree of effort, split the chain in two.

Then something happened that hadn’t crossed his mind. The oversized padlock dropped to the floor like a rock, dragging the chain with it. Each of its bulbous links, rattling on the rusty iron railing as it slithered its way to the ground. An alarm bell going off couldn’t have made much more noise. Someone must have heard. He looked, watching for lights going on. The nearest house was at least fifty metres away, perhaps too far to have heard. He waited, listening for any slight sound, but other than a solitary dog barking in the distance, and a million crickets vying for the attention of a mate, the night’s still-air remained unruffled.

Peter pushed on one of the gates to hear a soft, two-tone squeak, and as it swung open he tossed the bolt-cutters aside and hunkered down as he combat-crouched across the ten-metre gap to the morgue’s rear door. With the single story building in a shroud of darkness, the black clothing he’d chosen to wear afforded him all the secrecy he needed as he shifted among the shadows.

Still looking around as he traversed the short distance, his nerves were on full alert, the thudding of his heart all but drowning out the dog and the amorous crickets. Once across the dusty gap, he rested his back beside the rear entrance and took another look around before a quick jab with his right elbow put pay to the small pane of glass keeping him from within.

Seconds later he stood inside a short, narrow corridor, the robust stench of industrial disinfectant invading his nostrils and drying out his already parched throat. To lessen the chance of discovery, Peter aimed his small pocket-torch along the floor and followed its plate-sized disc along the corridor.

When he reached the intended door, he gripped the steel handle, its cold response surprised him, no doubt an accurate reflection of the room’s temperature he was about to enter into. The handle gave with ease and the door swung open, catching lightly on the wall behind. Before him stood twelve silver drawers, four columns of three, reaching from the floor to around chest-height.

The air he’d left outside felt sticky and humid, but in this room, his breath condensed to a fine vapour. The torch’s beam flicked over the small square doors where he found no recognisable form of identification, each of the drawers bearing a letter followed by a number, A1-A2, B1-B2, and so on. The first three drawers he pulled on were empty, they slid with relative ease, the forth drawer he opened held a little more weight, that weight being the person he’d come to collect.

A white linen sheet covered the tiny body from head to toe, and as the drawer came to a sudden stop, a hand slipped from beneath the sheet, on the middle finger he recognised the ring he’d given her as a birthday present only sixteen hours earlier. Peter wanted to peel back the sheet to see his daughter’s face but couldn’t; if this didn’t work, he didn’t want that memory haunting his every waking moment. Her bright blonde hair and perfect complexion along with a smile that never waned beneath the brightest bluest eyes he’d ever seen, those were the memories he kept.

Lifting the tiny corpse from its cold, stainless-steel bed, he cradled its unexpected weight in his arms. She’d never felt this heavy before, but then again, she’d never been this dead before. Cradling her lifeless form like so many times before when he’d carry her asleep to her bed, he closed the drawer with his knee and left the room, making his way along the corridor back to the rear entrance.

Before opening the door he stopped to look through the broken window. The dog still barked and the crickets still … cricketed, but another sound held his attention, a car in the distance, someone obviously heard the noise of the chain and called the sheriff. The car stopped short of the gate, concealed behind the eight-foot wall running around the perimeter of the morgue. Its door opened but wasn’t closed again, and the engine still ran.

A man appeared at the gate; Peter couldn’t see who, but it wasn’t the sheriff. This guy was taller, slimmer, and by his demeanour, much younger, and very unsteady on his feet, probably a consequence of the bar he’d no doubt just left, and he now needed somewhere to relieve that consequence. He hadn’t noticed the open gate he’d just walked through, nor the chain and padlock he tripped over. Peter looked on anxiously as the man, half concealed behind one of the bulging concrete gate-posts, went about his business.

No matter how quick this guy was going to be, it was time he could ill-afford. He struggled to push his left wrist far enough out to catch what little light he could on his watch, 11.48. He waited behind the door for what seemed ages, the inert body in his arms gaining weight with every second wasted.

The man finished what he came to do and exited back through the gate, a few seconds later the car’s door slammed shut and the car drove away. Peter flicked the door open with his foot and ran out, concealing himself behind one of the gate-posts. If he was to be found now, with his dead daughter in his arms, they’d put him away for sure, probably in the room next to the old woman who’d told them what to do tonight. He passed through the gate turning left and dashed to the car he’d stolen a couple of hours earlier. He placed Elizabeth’s corpse on the back seat, then climbed in himself and made for home.

A little over ten minutes later he pulled up at the side of the house only to see Helen waiting on the kitchen doorstep. Her eyes tearful, her posture dishevelled, she looked nothing less than defeated.

When Peter climbed from the car she moved over to him. ‘It’s after twelve, we’re too late,’ she said, another tear rolling over her cheek.

‘We can’t be too late.’ Peter shot back, not meaning to sound aggressive, his nerves still wallowing in adrenaline.

‘Look at your watch,’ she insisted. 'You said she told you something about not doing it after midnight. You said she warned you.'

‘It’s only just midnight. We can make it, we still have time.’

‘But-’

‘We have to try, Helen.' he said, cutting her short, 'We just have to.’

‘No, Peter. The time’s gone and we have to face it … she’s not coming back to us … ever.’

‘We’re not leaving it here,’ he said, again a little sharper than intended. He sighed. ‘We’ve come this far, Helen. We have to see it through, what ever the outcome!’

‘Can’t you see it’s hopeless? We have no idea what’ll come back to us if we go through with this.’

Peter lifted the body of their little girl from the car. ‘What ever comes back to us,’ he said, turning to face Helen. ‘It has to better than this. And besides, I can’t exactly run the risk of taking her back now, can I?’

Following him into the house, Helen closed and locked the kitchen door after her, then trailed Peter to Elizabeth’s room and the location of the twins. When they reached the bedroom, Helen got to the door first and blocked his way.

‘Then pray, Peter,’ she told him. ‘Pray for all our sake’s we’re not too late.’

Peter said nothing in reply; Helen reached for the handle and pushed open the door. The air inside felt heavier than he recalled, a peculiar sensation of static seemed to fill the room, and although the space around him was small, something about it felt cavernous, causing the hairs all over his body to be pricked upright. Helen walked in and stood between the twins. Still carrying Elizabeth’s small body in his arms, Peter stood before her.

He bent a little, kissing Helen on her lips. ‘It’ll work, honey,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘It has to.’

After taking a few deep breaths, Helen turned to face the western twin, then, looking at her own gaunt reflection, she blinked many times. ‘I’m ready,’ she finally said.

Turning to face the eastern twin, Peter gathered the courage to look upon the pale grey complexion of his daughter’s face. the soft flesh around her closed eyes, now a dark purple, her once slim, bright-pink lips, now black and swollen. He kissed her forehead. ‘God bless you, Lizzie,’ he said, before dropping the white sheet to the floor.

To give her the momentum required, Peter bent at the waist, and as he did, a tear fell. He watched as though all motion had slowed, and when it hit the polished mahogany floor at his feet, he was sure he heard the splash it made. Straightening his posture with a swift snap, he tossed his daughter’s body into the eastern twin, ready for Helen to catch as she came out the other side.

‘Now Helen!’ he shouted.