Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (83 page)

The man reached out to take it from the table and Robbins grabbed his wrist. “You’d better start giving us some answers, whoever you are or…” He let the threat tail off, letting go of the man’s hand as he did so. Ignoring him, the man carried on reaching out for the car and picked it up.

“PC Wilson, would you escort our ‘guest’ to a cell. Maybe some time alone will help loosen his tongue.”

Wilson walked over to the man, hesitating slightly before taking him by the arm as he’d done when he led him out of Irene Daley’s house. The man didn’t look at Robbins as he left.

When they’d departed and the door closed; Robbins let out a long, slow breath. He rubbed his chin and opened up the file again, flipping through the reports and statements, notes from his predecessor DCI Croft. The same bloody Croft whose shoes he’d had to fill when he moved to this district. Hadn’t been able to solve this one last murder, though, had he? Robbins was drawn again to the pictures, the photographs of Matthew Daley. He screwed up his face at the sights before him: the blood, the deep gashes, the plump bruising of the skin that had turned the flesh a dull violet color.

He slammed the file shut again and leaned back in the chair once more, arms behind his head this time. “No way,” he said to himself in a whisper. “No way in the world.”

~

PC Wilson placed the man in cell number thirteen, the only one free. It could have been worse, he thought, could’ve been a Friday.

“Here you go,” he told him. “Now I suggest you think about what DCI Robbins said and drop the act, mate.”

The man ignored him. His shoes and socks had already been taken off him, and now Wilson thought about asking for the toy as well. Prisoners weren’t meant to have any personal effects in the cells. But something stopped him from doing so, and he left the man be.

“If you come to your senses, shout,” said Wilson.

Then he shut the ‘dead man’ away, all alone in the small, dark, confined space. And as Wilson locked up and walked down the corridor he had the strangest feeling.

The feeling that this wasn’t the first time the guy been shut away. That the last time it had been an even smaller, and even darker space.

Chapter Four

It was dark.

A blackness so overpowering, so unbearable it was like being drowned in pure liquid night. It was hard to gather his thoughts, but he felt sure he was walking, placing one foot in front of the other, just trudging on towards something. And he was granted a sense of where he might be––the walls of this place closing in on him, but they were round rather than flat, a roundness that stretched out into the distance. A tiny speck of light appeared at the far end of this tunnel. He felt compelled to look in its direction, an urgency to head towards it for some reason.

The light was growing stronger; it changed from a tiny speck to a bright glaring ball, meaning he was getting nearer to the end, although he didn’t feel like he was walking at all anymore. Yet the light was still growing nearer. Perhaps he was floating; he had no idea, but it was a strange sensation. The light was getting bigger and bigger. Soon it would all be over, soon he would find out what was at the end of this conduit, what the light meant.

He put up his hands to stop it from blinding him, but it shone right through––such was its intensity. Then, suddenly, the light was upon him. He was a part of the light and it was a part of him.

All the answers, the things out of reach would soon be revealed.

Just a few more seconds, just a few more––

~

The hand shook him awake and gave him a start.

“Dead to the world.” Inspector Robbins’ face hovered above him in the cell. The man sat bolt upright on the bunk. “Time to wake yourself Rip van Winkle,” he said in a snide voice.

Robbins shook his head, grinning. “Afraid not. No, I thought about what you said––about checking you over. You’re right; we have to make sure you’re not whacked out on something that might be making you delusional. Wilson?”

The PC stepped into his field of vision, bringing someone with him––a woman in her late thirties, early forties. Her hair was a light shade of bronze, with the merest hints of grey beginning at the temples. She wore a beige trouser suit with an off-white blouse beneath the jacket. And she was carrying with her a black leather case.

“This is Doctor Preston,” Robbins informed him. “She’s going to examine you. Now, PC Wilson is going to be just outside, so don’t give her a hard time, okay?”

Dr. Preston came further into the chamber, looking around her as she did so. Then their eyes met, only severing contact when Robbins said something to her.

He did as he was told, unbuttoning the shirt and shrugging it down over his shoulders. Then he took off his trousers; there was no underwear beneath. Preston opened her bag and took out the tools of her trade, listening to his heartbeat––steady and strong––looking in his ears, taking his temperature, testing his reflexes. It was there that she caught a glimpse of the birthmark on the top of his leg. It was dark red and shaped like a map of some unknown land. But she got on with her job, not giving it another thought. Everything seemed in working order. “Now this won’t hurt much,” she told him, taking out a needle, “I just need to draw some blood.”

He nodded vaguely, looking down as she shoved the needle into his upper arm, pulling back on one end and filling it with redness.

“There, all done. You’re in pretty good nick, if you’ll pardon the expression,” she said.

“I’m alive,” he said as he got dressed again, and the sound of his voice startled her. She wasn’t quite sure whether it was a question or a statement.

“I don’t like mysteries Mister––?” She waited for him to give her his name. When he didn’t she said, “My first name’s Bethany, by the way. Beth for short.”

“Matthew,” he told her. “My name’s Matthew.”

“There now, see––that wasn’t so difficult. Right, well, I think we’re all done here Matth––”

He shot out his hand so fast she didn’t have time to move away, and his fingers were around her wrist seconds later––not tight, just enough to draw her face in closer. “What’re you...” She was just about to call for Wilson when he said:

“Don’t blame yourself. You did everything you could.” His hazel eyes were intense, piercing, and she felt a shudder go through her entire body. “
She
doesn’t blame you.”

Beth yanked open the door and virtually walked into the PC who was standing guard there. She motioned for him to lock the cell again.

“Are you all right, Dr Preston?” he asked her.

But she didn’t hear him. She was looking through the slit in the door, watching the man in there as he held up a toy car and stared at it.

“Dr Preston?” His fingertips brushed her arm and she jumped back. “I’m sorry.”

“Take me to Robbins,” she said. “Take me to your DCI right now.”

~

For the third time that day there was a knock on the door.

This time it was PC Valentine who answered it, welcoming in the visitor Mrs. Daley had called at his suggestion.

“Is there anybody who could sit with you? Anybody you could ring?” said the black policeman once he’d finished taking her statement––a statement that made about as much sense as the rest of that morning’s events.

Mrs. Daley had nodded, and he’d handed her the cordless phone.

Now he was here, standing at her door. And just as the dark uniform that Valentine wore betrayed his profession, so too did the dark shirt and suit that this man had on. But the most significant piece of attire was the dog collar at his neck.

“Father Lilley?” asked Valentine of the priest who was only marginally younger than Mrs. Daley herself.

He bowed his head in greeting. “Where’s Irene… Mrs. Daley?”

“Through here.” Valentine took him to the dining room; he hadn’t been able to get her back into the living room at all. She was sitting at a small round table with her hands clasped together, bible to the right of them.

“Thank you, my son,” said Lilley to the PC, noticing the woman flinch at those last two words. Then she got up and fell into the priest’s arms.

“Oh father, I’m so pleased to see you.”

“There, there,” said Lilley, patting her back. “Whatever’s the matter, Irene? I couldn’t make head nor tail of your call.” He looked to Valentine for an answer, but he was asking the wrong person.

It seemed like Lilley didn’t know what to say, then he talked slowly as if to a child. “Irene, haven’t we talked about this before? Matthew’s gone. He is with Our Savior the Lord where he has found his peace. ‘His kingdom
is
an everlasting kingdom, and his dominion
is
from generation to generation.’ The Book of Daniel, Chapter Four, Verse Three. Matthew wouldn’t want you upsetting yourself like this, now, would he?”

“He said he
was
Matthew.”

He saw that she remembered all too well that day: the angry clouds had gathered as if in sympathy, looking down at the patch of grass behind the church. A group of mourners, dressed in black, standing around the hole in the ground as the perfectly polished coffin with the brass handles was lowered into it.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

Irene had broken down on that day too. At one point he thought she might even stagger forward and follow the coffin into the ground. But instead she had held back, tears pouring from her eyes for a son who had been taken prematurely.

The priest’s eyes flashed momentarily, as if he didn’t like being told his job. Then the kindness returned to them and he said, “Of course.” He led his charge back to her seat, pulling out the chair nearest to her for himself. “Don’t worry, Irene. I’m sure this will all be sorted out soon. Everything that happens is according to God’s design and purpose, even if we can’t see it at the time. ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.’ Proverbs Chapter Three, Verses Five to Six.” He held her hand in his and patted it. “Trust in the Lord, Irene, and He will show you the way.”

~

“I don’t like being hung out to dry, Steve.”

Dr. Bethany Preston paced up and down in DCI Robbins’ office, arms folded. He was sitting back behind his desk, watching her, like a member of the audience at Wimbledon.

“I wasn’t hanging anyone anywhere,” he said, after telling her repeatedly to calm down. He’d never seen her so agitated.

“You deliberately withheld information from me about that prisoner, didn’t you?” As she said this last bit she jabbed her finger in his direction.