THE SIX: A Dark, Dazzling Serial Killer Story Page 3

  I gazed back at the dimly lit hall outside the library, thinking no one would willingly want to be inside the mind of this monastery. But then I considered the mentally ill who once lived here. “Did it work? Were the people helped?”

  “Well, that’s lost to history, I’m afraid. But it is a nice thought.” He touched the map with a forefinger. “I’ll give you a quick run through. Here at the top right, we have the old hospice—which we now call the dormitories—and the infirmary. And this is the library—where you are now, along with the scriptorium and the treasury. Next to the hospice, you’ll find the balneary, which is where the bathrooms are located. At the top is the refectory, which is what the dining hall is called. The kitchen also is located here. At the bottom left of the map, which has been torn away, are the old monks’ dormitory, which is where the mentors and long-term residents stay. The chapel is located in that quarter as well. Guests are not permitted to venture down that way.” He paused, looking back at me.

  “What if we want to go and pray?” I quipped.

  His face broke into an easy grin. “You don’t need a chapel in order to pray. We have wonderful gardens here if you find yourself needing a moment to commune with a higher power.” It occurred to me again that Brother Vito was a handsome man. I knew my mother would think so, and he looked about her age.

  “That sounds very new-age hippie,” I remarked, wondering if he believed in God or not.

  He shrugged, still smiling. “We accommodate everyone. If you want to believe in woodland fairies, we’ll accommodate you, too.” Turning back to the plan, he made a sweeping circle with his hand. “And outside the main building, we have the stables, the brewery, various barns and fields and the forge. The inner six rooms are where the challenges will be held. One room for each challenge.”

  I pointed to the very centre of the monastery, or at least what would be the centre if the plan was intact. The circle of six hexagonal rooms would have to leave a space in the middle. “And what is here?”

  “There’s nothing there. Just a dark space. Now, if you continue along the hall and head right, you’ll find the cloister. It’s a long, covered walkway that faces the garden. I’m sure you’d rather be out there than in here. Go and have breakfast. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, a little.”

  “Well, go grab what you can before it’s all gone.”

  Following Brother Vito’s instructions, I headed off. I found the cloister and wandered out gratefully into the thick, green foliage. Sunlight rushed down from a deep cyan sky, its warmth astonishing after the cool of the interior, gold streaks of sun glinting biblically along the top of the high stone wall. Everything felt religious here, even the air. I wasn’t religious. but it gave me hope I could somehow be reborn during this week.

  Past the top of a perimeter wall, I glimpsed the bare, reddish hills I’d only seen in darkness last night. And then I spotted them—the birds that had been making the startling, alien-sounding noise earlier when I was in bed. They were peacocks. Nothing more exotic than that. Their bodies were a startling, shimmering blue against the red soil of the hill. I’d never seen or heard a wild flock of them before.

  I stepped along a path where sun-warmed scents of lavender eddied around me, spills of pink and red bougainvillea bright against the old stonework. Fruit weighed heavily on small mature trees—pears, figs and mandarins. Deep-green trees that I thought might be pistachios stood like a mini-forest. A waterway wound around the long curve of the nearby cloister, filled with orange-hued koi.

  “So, what’s your sin?” a voice came from behind me—high and female, the accent English.

  I spun around. The girl was short and soft-looking, all her edges smudged and padded. Red bobbed hair framed large blue eyes and pillowy lips.

  “My sin?”

  “Yeah” she said, walking close. “Smack, cocaine, ice, prescription?”

  “Oh . . . no. I don’t take drugs.”

  “You were tripping on something this morning.”

  “That was you I spoke to? Sorry, it was so dark in that room.” Of course it was her. The voice was the same. I’d just been so strung out by the thought of someone watching me, I’d forgotten her voice.

  “It was dark,” she agreed. “Plus, I’ve got my face on now. My boyfriend used to say I was unrecognisable without makeup. He died three months ago. Overdose.”

  “God, I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. He had a cute butt.” A distinct note of sadness cut through her blithe tone. “So, why are you here? You don’t win a spot on the program without earning it. You’ve been a bad, bad girl at something.”

  “I’m a gambler.” It felt almost freeing to say it.

  “Congratulations. Pleased to meet you.” She extended a hand. “My name’s Poppy. I think my parents must have seen into my smack-addicted future when they called me that. Y’know, smack being made from poppy-pod sap and all.” She pulled a funny, wrinkled-nose face, as if she’d just told a joke and I was meant to laugh at the punch line.

  Shaking her hand, I grinned. “I’m Evie. Named after a song that my dad liked. He was a Stevie Wright fan. So, you got here yesterday?”

  “Yep. Like everyone else. Pretty crazy. I mean, look at this place.”

  “I know. Of all places I expected, this wasn’t it.” My grin turned nervous and tugged at the corners of my mouth. “How did you find out about the program, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Sure. My psych recommended it.” Poppy pulled a comical face. “She said if I go ahead with the program, I have to go into it like my life depended on it. It’s all so serious, isn’t it?”

  I laughed. “Yeah. I guess they think it makes the program seem very important and special. Makes sense. The mentors are putting a lot of money into this. I guess they want it to succeed. Brother Vito was the one who contacted me.”

  Her eyes squeezed shut. “Brother Vito? You lucky thing. There’s something about him that’s so . . . sexy. I know he’s a lot older and all, but oh, he could just charm the pants off me. Literally.”

  “He is good looking and kind of charming.” I knew what she meant, but he was old enough for the thought of that to completely squick me out. “So, where are the others?”

  “In the garden. Just around the bend. I’m not a breakfast person at all, so I was going for a walk.” She touched my arm. “I’ll take you to them.”

  I walked alongside her, the scent of freshly baked bread reaching me before the outdoor settings of tables and chairs came into view. People were sitting there, baskets of round bread, cheese and fruit on the tabletops. A couple dozen heads turned my way. Half of them smiled encouragingly. The other half stared blankly.

  “Everyone, meet our newest recruit and fellow desperado—Evie,” Poppy announced.

  I waved a quick hello.

  Poppy took me to a table where two men were sitting together. “I prefer men,” she whispered to me. “No drama llamas.”

  A small-framed blonde guy with a goatee reached to shake my hand. He looked maybe twenty-six or -seven. “Hi, I’m Richard. Underneath this manly beard, I’m stashing a fat baby chin and a bitter longing for Las Vegas. Don’t ask me to shave it.”

  His words pulled a surprised laugh from me. I seated myself at the table, telling him, “I promise I won’t.”

  “Good,” he replied in his curt, American accent. “Because women tend to tell me to do that. They can guess I’m hiding things. Women are evil like that. Eyes like ferrets. All of them.” He cast a meaningful sideways glance at Poppy.

  Poppy giggled, sitting beside him. “Okay, I admit it. I told him to ditch the beard. I thought he’d look cuter without it.”

  “He’d look shite without that rug on his mug.” The guy next to me turned to shake my hand. “I’m Cormack. As soon as I’m done here, I intend grabbing my prize money, packing up my Scottish skirts and heading off to the Amazon jungle. Going to trek from Columbia to Brazil. Get away from this world for a while. I’ll only stop and lift
my skirt should a comely wench cross my path, if she be willin’.” He spoke in a deep Scottish brogue, his intense blue eyes vivid behind a scraggy array of long black hair and wild beard. He was perched on the edge of his seat, like he was ready for anything.

  “Good to meet you, Cormack,” I replied. “May you achieve your goals. All while playing the bagpipe.”

  “That would be grand.” Cormack gave me a nod of approval, his face softening and changing in that instant. I smiled back, realising then that he wasn’t as old as he’d at first seemed. His facial hair and intensity had thrown me. He was probably no older than twenty. A kid.

  “Eat,” Richard instructed, pushing a plate my way.

  Suddenly famished, I grabbed two thick pieces of bread from the basket, dropped them onto the plate and buttered them. Then layered on some cheese, olives and tomatoes.

  “It’s homemade—the bread,” Richard remarked, pulling a face I couldn’t read. “And the wine. Everything here is home grown and homemade. I feel like I’m at some sort of hippie commune.”

  “It’s not a hippie commune, dummie.” Poppy sucked a cherry tomato into her mouth and then lisped as she spoke around it. “Monks grew all that food. Hippies aren’t religious. I wonder what the treatment is going to be? I mean, they talked about challenges. Evie, did Brother Vito tell you anything?”

  “Not much,” I answered. “Just that there were six challenges, all held in the inner six rooms.”

  A glum look entered her eyes as she chewed and swallowed the tomato. “It’s not fair they’re not preparing us. It’s making me stress, and stress isn’t good for me. I get rashes in places you don’t want to know about.”

  Richard shot her a look of feigned disgust.

  “How hard can these challenges be? I’m going to smash them. They’ll probably just be truth or dare,” said Cormack, shrugging. “Some shit about laying your inner self bare.”

  “Better not be,” said Richard. “Or I’ll lay some inner-self truths on them that’ll straighten their pubes.”

  “The challenges are probably all meditation,” mused Poppy, idly using her long, painted-black nails to peel the skin from an olive. “I hate meditation. Makes me remember all the shitty things I’ve done.”

  I bit off a piece of bread. “Maybe they’re not really challenges. Maybe it’s just stuff like when they blindfold you and you trust strangers enough to fall and let them catch you.”

  Poppy nodded. “I went to a rehab group once, and that’s what we did.”

  “Let’s lay bets,” Richard quipped.

  “You’ll be banished to toil in the monk fields for that blasphemy. Laying bets is gambling.” Poppy shot him a fleeting saccharine smile.

  Our table fell into a silence. I guessed the other three, like me, were desperate to be able to complete the challenges and get the money. But so far, we were completely in the dark.

  “You mentioned Las Vegas before?” I asked Richard, trying to redirect the conversation. “Do I guess that you’re a gambler? Like me?”

  “Oh yeah,” Richard said. “I’m a high-roller cowboy, baby.” He shrugged. “I have to admit, it’s pretty bad when the dealers all know you by name. But I just can’t get that kind of high anywhere else. The nights where I win big I end up buying the whole damned place drinks. It’s a party when Richard’s in town.”

  A twinge of jealousy pinched me between the shoulder blades. “Okay, well, you’re nothing like me. I didn’t ever win that kind of big. And I wasn’t gambling for the high either. It was for the money.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was totally true. My wins had made me walk on air. They were addictive.

  Richard raised condescending eyebrows at me. “People who go all in to make money never make it. They’re too desperate. They either play too safe or take stupid risks. You gotta be a hustler. I get off on the hustle. This is what I do. All day long. I find business opportunities for the rich. I fly between my base in Vegas to London and Dubai.”

  A girl wearing a hooded top a couple of tables across leaned back and glanced at Richard. When she noticed me looking her way, she quickly turned her head.

  Cormack rapped the edge of the table, suddenly agitated, his eyes set on Richard. “Then what in the bastarding fuck are you even doing here, man? You’d have the money to just keep on bloody gambling. It’s not a problem if you can afford it, right?”

  “It’s a sickness.” Richard sobered. “I don’t want to be sick anymore.”

  I could see from Cormack’s darkened expression that he wasn’t buying that. “Yeah, but you can afford to pay for treatment. You’re a fat cat who’s taking someone else’s place in being here.”

  “Leave him alone,” Poppy protested. “Richard needs as much help as any of us.”

  Richard raised his chin, looking past Poppy. “Speaking of help, the cavalry has arrived. Thank fug.”

  I twisted around in my chair. Brother Vito and three other mentors were stepping up to us together—two men and two women, all dressed in loose, white clothing. Brother Vito seemed so different from the man I’d met in his expensive sportswear days ago.

  The four mentors together had a presence that made everyone’s conversation instantly fall away.

  “Welcome, welcome,” started one of the men, his accent English upper crust and very educated. He seemed to be in his fifties, but I couldn’t tell for sure. His hair was silver streaked, but his face was almost unlined, as if he spent each day in a peaceful serenity, not bothered by anger or worry. He held out his arms to us. “Kaliméra! Kalos mas írthes! You may call me Brother Sage. The monastery has been a second home for us for many years. We come here every year to run the program. We trust it will become like a home while you’re here, too. Did you all enjoy your breakfast?”

  Murmurs of assent echoed among the group. It was immediately obvious that he was the senior mentor from the assured way he spoke and the way the other three mentors looked to him.

  “Good.” A smile tumbled onto Brother Sage’s lips, generous and broad. “We want you well fed for the tasks ahead. The rules of the monastery are simple. We are your mentors. You are our students. We expect that you’ll follow direction and do your best. Beside me are Sisters Rose and Dawn, and Brother Vito. Now, I need you to know that we are mentors, not your agony aunts. We are not here to listen to all your ills. We are here to help you heal yourselves.”

  “What if some of us need agony aunts?” said Poppy to me in a stage whisper. She raised her hand above her head and called out, “What are the challenges?”

  Brother Sage nodded at Poppy. “Well, I can’t tell you exactly what the challenges are, because that would destroy the element of surprise. But I will tell you that you must use teamwork to meet those challenges and win them. We’ll be dividing you into four teams. With each challenge, the four bottom-performing people will unfortunately be eliminated and will be escorted by boat back to Athens. Until we are left with eight people after the final challenge. We’ll then decide on the final six, with the two runners-up being given a bonus. The final six, as you are all aware, will not only be the recipients of the full sixty thousand dollars but will have their debts completely paid.”

  Sister Rose clapped her hands together, then rested her chin on her fingertips, beaming at us like children on the first day of school. “You’ll see the first of the challenges tonight. You’ll enjoy it if you allow yourself to.” Her voice was American, her face as cheery and apple-pie round as a Sunday school teacher’s.

  Sister Dawn nodded at Sister Rose. “That’s right. Put your heart into the challenges, and you’ll find yourself zipping through them.” She had the dark-skinned features of an Indian ancestry, her accent a blend of English and Indian, her eyes brown and comforting. “Brother Vito is about to give you all the wristbands you’ll need for the challenges. The display on the wristbands will flash with a number when your challenge is due to begin. The number will tell you which team you’re in.”

  Brother Vito stepped forward
with the box and began clipping chunky plastic wristbands onto our arms.

  “How are you doing so far, Evie?” Brother Vito asked me quietly, fitting a wristband to my arm.

  A gulp of air stretched my lungs. “It’s an adventure.”

  “Good, good,” he said. “That’s exactly what it is. That’s how I want you to see it. Right to the end. I trust that you can get there.”

  Internally, I felt like a Girl Scout being decorated with a coveted badge. I caught Poppy side-eyeing me with a slightly envious glance.

  “At midnight,” Sister Dawn continued to the group, “you’ll hear the starting bells. They are church bells, and they are loud. I assure you that they will wake you. Together with the other members of your team, you will assemble here in the garden. From there you’ll be escorted to your challenge room. The teams are staggered so that each team gets their allotted time for the challenge.” She turned to write on a large chalkboard: Challenge One tonight.

  “At midnight? Why in the middle of the night?” spluttered a thin, bent-shouldered man from another table. “Seems a bit unnecessary. I’m a deep sleeper, and I don’t like being woken.”

  “Shut it, Harrington,” called Cormack from our table. “Maybe you want to think to yourself how you got here in the first place. You know that like all of us here, you told yourself you can quit your vice a thousand times over. But you never could do it, could you? Maybe if you beat this, you’ll believe you can do it.”

  “That’s the hope.” Sister Dawn nodded. “You answered that perfectly, Cormack.”

  A plump, flabby jowled-man who reminded me of an English bulldog stretched his feet out into the sun. “My name is Eugene Bublik. I am an alcoholic. The amenities here are basic but sufficient. What I would like to know is the menu. I cannot do these challenges if I am not well fed. I don’t like to be hungry.” His accent was deep and heavy. I couldn’t place it, exactly, but it was Eastern European.

  Harrington turned to face him, giving him a disparaging look. “This isn’t an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, bud.”