DEATHLOOP (40 page)

Two hours later Zack was in Renfield, cruising round the town that sparkled in summer’s light. He passed Glenoak Guest House that looked even more decrepit in the sun’s unforgiving glare, then rounding the corner to find the Baptist Chapel smug and squat, a moribund bastion to the self-righteous. He jumped from the car, leaving the engine running, and took a few steps into the church grounds where the notice board stood lopsided near the open gate, but the contact details he remembered from last time pinned up under the glass had gone. No names, no announcements, nothing.

He drove back into town, and parking up in the main square, he climbed steps to the library and made his way inside. A rake thin, glamorous elderly woman, heavily made up, stood at a desk, gazing wistfully at Zack as he walked towards her.

“I’m trying to find someone called Barbara Quinn, I don’t know if you can help at all.”

“Are you indeed,” she said, straight faced, “and what has Barbara Quinn done to deserve you?”

She smiled eventually, and Zack smiled back as the woman picked up a phone and dialled. “It’s Zack Fortune, isn’t it?” she said, suddenly serious, then before Zack had a chance to reply, “Barbara, guess who’s here? Mr Fortune come to see you.”

Barbara Quinn’s cottage stood at the end of a small picturesque cobbled track, as though sheltering beneath hills, nearly a mile out of town. The Mercedes looked out of place here, much like a space ship would setting itself down outside Cold Comfort Farm.

As Zack ducked from the car, he saw Barbara at a bedroom window looking straight at him, then she disappeared. A little later the door swung open and she stood there watching Zack’s uncertain approach along a crooked path. He stepped inside the cottage and the door shut behind him with an echoing clump. They said nothing as she led him into the front room that teemed with littered, uneven bookshelves and rows of china cats. In the middle of the floor, on a coffee table made from Derbyshire slate, a tray stood laden with glasses and a jug.

“Do sit down. Home-made lemonade… I hope you’ll join me,” said Barbara, taking the jug and filling two glasses nearly to the brim. Sitting opposite each other, like bookends, they sipped their lemonade in silence, as though engaging in some ancient ritual before the serious business of the day could commence.

“How is Veronica by the way?”

“Fine…”

“Such a beautiful girl, you’re a very lucky man.”

“I know that.”

“But not your childhood… nothing lucky about that.”

“You told Veronica that we were soon to die,” said Zack, after a brief pause, shocked by what she had said, but deciding to ignore it, “why upset her like that?”

“I did what I thought best. Russell picked up on it as soon as he saw her, but then when he saw you he sensed your fate was entwined.”

Zack looked at her, threw her a swift smile.

“I know what you’re thinking, just how much credence can you give a man who foresaw your death, and Veronica’s death, but not his own.”

“It does have a certain irony you must admit, and anyway, if we can do nothing about our deaths, why tell us?”

“Russell didn’t if you remember, I did. We used to argue about it all the time because, frankly, preordained death has always seemed a tad too glib to me. Plus… it rules out free will. No good saying how could God allow this to happen, or that to happen, it’s not up to him, it’s up to us, otherwise we’re just puppets and that’s not life is it, that’s servitude. The reason I felt I had to tell you was that Russell was adamant that you would die together. I thought that if I warned you and you went your separate ways, hopefully, that day would never come.”

“And did Russell say anything else?”

“You probably don’t believe in reincarnation,” said Barbara, after a moment’s thought, “but Russell did and so do I. Russell seemed to think you had glimpsed one of your deaths and brought the knowledge back with you.”

“And that’s not good I take it,” said Zack, struggling to keep sarcasm from his voice.

“It’s disastrous, the afterlife and what goes on there is sacred.”

“So what do I do about it?”

“Some say you can unlearn these things but Russell didn’t think so. It came about with past life regression I take it?”

“Possibly…”

“Dangerous stuff,” said Barbara, “and forgive me, but you don’t look the type.”

“I’m not, an old friend was taking it up and she roped me in as her guinea pig.”

“Oh dear,” she said, as a fluffy grey cat crept round the door soundlessly and pounced up onto her lap.

“I’ve been having these encounters… not real I’ve just discovered, but they seem like it at the time. Dying people ask me to help them, they all know my name although I recognize none of them. Maybe you can help me with that?”

“I can’t, no, not my field I’m afraid,” said Barbara, surprising Zack at what he perceived to be a sudden lack of interest.

She started stroking the cat, rhythmically, running her large workman-like hands over his candy floss fur. “Russell was very gifted you know. Once, years ago, a woman came to one of our meetings, she was new to the area and mentioned that her children were having trouble settling in at school. She’d gone into something of a decline she said following the death of her husband, but almost straight away Russell insisted she return home. She got back to find her youngest child hanging from the banisters. Russell told me that he’d seen a vision of the boy with a rope round his neck as soon as she’d walked in.”

“Look, I don’t doubt for a minute that you believe all this…”

“You can dismiss me as an old witch and Russell as a charlatan, but just ask yourself what possible benefit I could get from making all this up.”

Zack took a moment to consider the question. Barbara Quinn seemed genuine enough he decided, but people get brainwashed into believing all sorts of rubbish - The Third Reich being testament to that.

“What happened that night, how did Russell die?”

“He asked me to the bridge over Grey Pike Fell insisting we spoke over water despite the fact that there were signs there telling people to keep off. The bridge was littered with branches, broken off in the storm, and when he turned to leave he got his foot stuck in one, fell hard against the hand rail, it gave… and that was it. Just for the record I did try to save him, but obviously I failed.”

“I see.”

“I feel… responsible in some way of course I do, however the choice of venue was his alone, so again, a certain amount of irony prevails. What is this water thing anyway? Why meet me there?”

“I can’t help you with that, sorry.”

“You can’t, or you don’t want to?”

“I know something of this but not that much, and you know what they say about a little knowledge being a dangerous thing, better you seek clarification elsewhere.”

“My childhood then… how come you know about that?”

“Ah well,” said Barbara, “I’ve always had the ability to… pick up on things… auras if you like. It’s a curse sometimes.”

“So what do you see when you look at me?”

“You think you’ve left it all behind,” she said, “but you haven’t and I don’t think you ever will. Your restlessness and your inability to commit is part of that.”

“Until Veronica, I’m committed to her.”

“You say you’re committed to her and maybe she’s the closest you’ve come, but there’s still a get-out clause kicking around somewhere. You will never be free of all this until you can forgive and I doubt very much if you’d ever be able to do that.”

“You’ve got that right.”

“Every one of us is flawed you know, most of us just try our best.”

“She didn’t even try.”

“Oh I think she did,” said Barbara, who seemed to know immediately who he meant, “but unfortunately, we hand down what others hand down to us.” Debating whether to continue, Barbara stopped speaking, then she said: “Someone lost his life am I right?”

“No, that’s not true…”

“I think it is,” said Barbara, fixing Zack with a steely gaze, “because his aura is still with you.”

“Don’t give me that! Don’t make me out to be a murderer!” yelled Zack, up on his feet now, as Barbara’s cat sprang from her lap and dived for cover.

“I didn’t,” said Barbara, quietly, “your word, I believe, not mine.”

“I was a kid at the time,” he mumbled, once his breathing had steadied and he had resumed his seat, albeit reluctantly, “doesn’t that make me less culpable?”

“To some extent, but it’s not really an excuse, because you knew what you were doing even then. First you have to accept the responsibility, ask for forgiveness and then try to move on. And there’s something else,” she said, “a terrible regret.”

“Listen, I’ve got a trunk full of regrets…”

“Yes but there’s one special one isn’t there, so try to make amends.”

“Russell said something to me on the bridge,” said Zack, “he said that God loves sinners and because of that he’d given me a special task.”

“It was the main reason he didn’t want you anywhere near.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Neither did I but he didn’t elaborate.”

“So it would seem God at least has forgiven me already.”

“Forgiveness from God is one thing, forgiveness from ourselves is something else. Which is why when you leave here today I suspect nothing I have said including the warning of your own death will have any effect whatsoever, you’ll just continue as you always have done, hell bent on your own destruction.”

Barbara leant back as though she had nothing more to say. A clock chimed from somewhere which seemed appropriate, appropriate enough anyway to bring Zack to his feet. He stood for a while, glancing through the window to the garden outside, not quite knowing what to say. Did he thank her for all this? In the end he simply left the room and the cottage without another word. From the porch, Barbara watched him as he got into his car and drove off.

About the same time Zack had set off for Renfield, Veronica was in the kitchen at Claremont gulping down a quick coffee before work. When the bell sounded urgently right round the flat she went to the front door and picked up the handset.

“Yes? Hello?”

“DPS,” said the voice almost drowned out by traffic, “for Zack Fortune.”

“Oh, okay,” said Veronica and hit the door release.

She heard the sound of the lift starting up from the ground floor and coming to rest with a muffled clunking sound on the landing outside. A few moments later there was a knock at the door and Veronica hesitated for absolutely no reason that she could think of. The knock came again, more insistent this time, whoever stood out there in the hallway was impatient.

“What is it exactly?” Veronica shouted out.

“Sorry, but I need a signature,” came the reply.

Hearing a woman’s voice, intense, but quiet and well spoken, Veronica opened up, allowing Susan to stride past her carrying a large box. Veronica was surprised at her confidence, but as she put the box down further along the hall and pulled out documents, Veronica made the mistake of closing the door.

“Great view,” said Susan, stepping into the living room, “quite something.”

“Where do I sign exactly?”

“But if I remember rightly the view is not so good next door.”

As Susan disappeared into the bedroom leaving a confused Veronica trying to make sense of year old receipts from Iceland, she knew then that something was wrong. Susan was sitting up in bed by the time Veronica got there, looking smug.

“What in God’s name do you think you are doing?”

“I’m Susan, Susan Wilmot,” she said, “and you are Veronica French, a sometime painter with no discernible talent as far as I can make out.”

“Get out of here before I call the police.”

“He didn’t tell you, did he?”

“Tell me what?”

“About the rape case of course,” said Susan, as though Veronica was the only person in Greater London not to know about it.

“What?”

“Adam Street police station - Detective Inspector Brian Smith will give you chapter and verse.”

Veronica backed from the room and turned to flee, but Susan leapt up and grabbed her, pulling her back. She threw Veronica up against the wall, holding her there by the throat. Veronica froze. She wanted to defend herself but all she could think of was Barbara’s warning. Perhaps this is it, she thought, perhaps this is the day that I die. When Veronica’s mobile jumped into life it brought them both to stillness, confirmation as it was of other people and a world outside.

Then from deep inside her, as fury surged up, Veronica swung her fist and jabbed Susan in the eye which was enough to knock her off balance. She was in the hall now racing for the front door and stretching out to grab the latch and had just about managed it when Susan, bounding up behind her pounced on her back, launching both of them against the door to slam it shut again, then back on two feet Susan grabbed Veronica by the hair and started to tug.

Veronica fought back, scratching at Susan’s face, kicking her. Veronica went for the door again, snatched at it, it gave and this time it stayed open. She plunged out onto the landing, darting across it, pulling open the heavy glass door at the head of the stairs, but in her effort to get away she misjudged the first step, fell headlong and carried on falling.

Susan peering down at her over the banister was the last thing Veronica saw before her eyes closed.

Jason preferred the window ledge right at the top of the building, the one directly above Zack’s floor. He liked getting there first thing in the morning, because he enjoyed watching people milling about down on the street outside on their way to work. They looked like insects from here, and when it rained like it did yesterday, the umbrellas going along the pavement and across the street seemed to be taking part in some random dance.

This was a noise he hadn’t heard before, and it made him stop crunching the crisps in his mouth and cock his head. It sounded like a bit of a scream and something tumbling or sliding, bump, bump, bump down the stairs. Jason was trying to work out what it could be, a domestic maybe, that had ended up with them chucking furniture into the basement for spite? Then the lift was called to Zack’s floor.