Nobody True (12 page)

I hadn’t revealed what had actually happened to me when I got home that evening, because I really didn’t grasp the connection when Prim ran down the hallway to tell me of her outburst and to make sure I wasn’t hurt. I laughed and reassured her that I was fine, there had been no accident earlier, and it was only when I was in bed that night that I related the two incidents. Even so, I dismissed it as coincidence, but now, in the doorway, I began to wonder.

“Can’t you phone again now, Mummy?” Prim was persistent.

“No, darling. Daddy would be cross if we woke him. It’s not long till morning, so we’ll call him together then. Perhaps if his work has gone well he’ll be coming home.” She leaned down to kiss Prim’s freckled nose, then said, “Time for you to go to sleep too. You’ll be in a grumpy state all day if you don’t.”

“Andrea,” I said, stepping further into the room. “I’m here. I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong.”

I don’t know why I made that last remark: maybe I wanted to believe it myself. In fact, I don’t know why I even spoke: previous experience in out-of-body had taught me I couldn’t be heard. Nevertheless, the practice of a lifetime was hard to break. Besides, if my daughter had the insight or intuition to sense something bad had happened to me, then perhaps she might see and hear me now.

“Something’s happened to my body,” I told them both, “but I’m all right. I’m not dead, you must believe me.”

“Come on now.” Andrea eased her arm from Prim’s back and laid the pillows flat. “Lie down and go to sleep.” She bent to kiss the top of Prim’s head then pulled the flower-patterned duvet up to our daughter’s chin. Primrose wasn’t pacified, but she was tired, her eyelids drooping even though she fought to keep them open.

“I won’t sleep, Mummy,” she said.

“Ssssh. You will. Think nice things.”

Prim pulled a disgruntled face, but it was half-hearted, I knew she’d be asleep within moments.

Andrea switched off the bedside lamp before standing, then walked soft-toed to the door. She stepped through to the landing, turned to look back at our child once more, and then half-closed the door behind her. I lingered a while by Prim’s bed and sure enough, she had already fallen asleep. I tried to brush a stray curl from her closed eyes and my fingers made no contact. With a last, regretful stare at her innocent shadowy face, I turned away and followed my wife.

I found her sitting on the edge of our own bed, her eyes fixed on the phone on the small bedside cabinet, one hand resting beside it. Her bedside lamp was switched on. I could tell she wanted to ring the hotel again, her anxiety plain to see but, sensibly enough—although I clenched my fists tightly in anticipation—she let her hand fall away, obviously deciding it was too late to disturb me. She slipped beneath the covers and switched the lamp off.

“No,” I cried, almost in tears. “No, Andrea. Ring the hotel, get someone to check my room. It’s not too late, it can’t be too late!”

I wondered if somehow she could hear my distant voice, because for a moment she rested on one elbow as if still pondering, wondering what she should do. But then, she lay down, one arm above the covers, and closed her eyes. In the pale-orange light from outside I could see the frown that disturbed her features. Soon though, the worry-lines eased and her face was smooth again. Andrea, too, was asleep.

In abject misery, I sank down beside her. I closed my own invisible eyes.

16

It was a strange gagging sound that roused me. I don’t say “woke me up”, because I didn’t know if I’d been sleeping; I didn’t know if it was possible to sleep in my condition (what a joy it would have been if I’d been woken from a nightmare).

I just opened my eyes at the noise and there I was, back in the hotel suite, lying on the bed beside my own butchered carcass. I didn’t have time to consider whether or not some kind of instinct had drawn me back to the site of my own annihilation, an unconscious determination to rejoin my soul’s host while my mind was blanked, because the uniformed waitress with the breakfast trolley was now standing in the doorway staring, gawping at the bloody, chopped thing on the bed with horrified eyes. Her jaw flapped and closed as she tried to summon up a scream.

It finally erupted in a piercingly high-pitched, blood-curdling shriek, which was immediately followed by a series of wheezing staccatos of half-stifled, breath-catching screeches that scared the hell out of me. For a moment I thought she might suffer a seizure and I raised my hands, palms forward, as if to calm her.

She was the same sallow-skinned, dark-haired girl who had brought my breakfast the previous morning. Her instructions were to let herself directly into my bedroom if her knock failed to wake me (my bedroom had two doors, one of which led to the suite’s sitting room, the other out into the hotel corridor. Oliver had a large bedroom on the opposite side of the sitting room). I’d tipped her generously the day before and although she seemed to understand little English, I think she was eager to please me with her efficiency; unfortunately, this morning she got something more than just a tip.

The poor girl, smart in her white shirt, green waistcoat and tight black skirt, fell back against the doorframe and for a second I thought she might pass out. Her pupils rolled back inside her head for a fleeting moment and her whole body swooned, but the doorframe itself kept her upright and she recovered enough to stagger out of sight. I heard her lumbering down the hallway (she was a heavyish girl) on unsteady legs, the semi-screams still struggling to reach full-voice again, and then it was quiet.

I turned my head and looked at my blood-coated remains. Oh dear God…

Early daylight coming through the open curtains did nothing to improve the scene. In the cold light of day, as it were, the sight was even more appalling. Last night the immediate shock must have numbed me from the full horror, because not everything had sunk in. I was now noticing more details without hysteria blanking me.

The blood was already coagulating, its colour turning coppery, and my disorganized eyes were still gazing flatly outwards, matt crescents between their lids. My nose was nothing more than shattered pulp resting within the bloody valley of flesh and bone that was my indented face. Just inside the lopsided rictus grin of a mouth I could see broken stumps of teeth resembling vandalized gravestones against their inky backdrop and, if I had been capable of vomiting, then I think I would have; I certainly felt nauseous. My chin was a crooked peak, but otherwise okay, the worst of the facial damage just above it.

It occurred to me that somebody would have to identify my body and a fresh revulsion swept through me. My God, it might have to be Andrea. I groaned silently at the thought.

The rest of me had been battered too, both my arms broken, one at the wrist, the other at the elbow—maybe I had tried to fight off the attacker (but how could I if I wasn’t there?)—and one of my legs was twisted awkwardly at the knee, the kneecap itself pulped, my ripped trouser leg messy with glutinous, hardening blood. There were deep cuts all over my body and my head was almost severed as if the neck had been sliced by some sort of small chopper or axe. Whoever had attacked me really wanted me dead.

The wounds were crude and a great flow of viscous-looking blood ruined the pale-green bedspread, overspilling its sides and running down onto the carpet below. Its edges had hardened, the colour very dark.

“Oh God…” I whispered, still contemplating my lifeless form with tear-blurred eyes. I shuddered at the damage done to my chest and stomach, where blood had poured copiously, even now small bubbles forming every few seconds or so, as though pockets of air were escaping the wound. I noticed something protruding from below my left ribcage, blood almost covering it. It was small and round, but before I could inspect it, something else distracted me. The zip of my trousers was open. Because of the thickness of blood that had welled there, I could not tell—nor did I honestly want to know—exactly what damage had been done. In fact, I didn’t even have to guess, because something lay between my outstretched legs, a mound of bloody meat that had been removed from my groin and slapped down on the soft bedcover, an abstract genital pile, the sight of which now had me retching again.

As I bent over my knees I heard heavy footsteps hurrying along the hall outside my room. Still retching, pointlessly because I had nothing to bring up, I retreated into the corner of the room.

Oh, it was a long day. A terribly long day. And I stuck around for most of it.

Where else would I go? What else could I do?

I hunkered down in the corner in abject misery and watched the comings and goings, the shock and utter dismay of the hotel’s under-manager and concierge, who had rushed to the room after the room-service waitress’s hysterical alert, then the horror of the manager himself and the small posse of staff he’d brought with him, later the calm reaction of the first uniformed police officer to arrive. By the time two plain-clothed detectives bustled in I was just a traumatized wreck.

“Help me,” I croaked pitifully, not even bothering to rise to my feet because I knew there was no chance of being seen, let alone heard.

Eventually the room was cleared of everybody save the detectives, who reprimanded the first cop for not having cleared the crime scene immediately. The professionals soon arrived and took over. Some wore all-in-one white shell suits and I assumed they were the forensic scientists. The police surgeon, careful not to get blood on his civilian clothes and shoes, examined my body. With an ironic grin he pronounced me dead. One of the guys in white took photographs before another one took measurements of blood splatters and drifts. Yet another used a camcorder, and all the while the two detectives conferred in hushed tones, as if they didn’t want the corpse to overhear.

An extremely tall grey-haired man with a jet-black moustache and matching eyebrows entered and the two detectives acknowledged him with respectful nods. The uniformed policeman at the door saluted him.

His stature was impressive, his back ramrod straight, his charcoal-grey suit immaculately pressed. He went immediately over to the police surgeon, who was making notes on a pad.

“Detective Superintendent Sadler,” the newcomer announced without extending a hand to shake.

The medic just gave him a curt nod. “Dr Breen,” he said, looking back at his notes. “Too early to give you anything.”

“Hazard a guess at time of death?” Sadler asked, his tone implying little hope.

“You’ll need a proper autopsy for that.”

“Do your best.”

“Well, the body—what’s left of it—is still warmish, but then the room temperature is quite high. I could take a quick rectal reading, but I imagine you don’t want anything disturbed at this stage.”

The policeman grunted something that must have been agreement and the police surgeon went on.

“Lividity is underway as far as I can tell—and the state of the body itself doesn’t help—but the pathologist will have a clearer time of death after the post-mortem.”

“But rigor mortis…?”

“Oh yes, that’s certainly begun, but you’re aware of how unreliable that can be when determining these things.”

The detective superintendent’s impatience was made apparent. “Good God, man, I only asked for a rough estimation,” he said gruffly.

“Eyelids frozen, muscles of what’s left of the jaw stiff. Same with neck and upper chest, but the corpse’s disarray and loss of blood make it difficult to assess.”

Dr Breen caught the grimness and steely-eyed severity of the tall policeman’s gaze and hurriedly proffered his informal judgement.

“Death definitely occurred more than three hours ago and I’d guess it was closer to six, maybe a bit more than that.”

DS Sadler wasn’t quite finished with him yet.

“And…?” he demanded brusquely.

“And? And what?” The police surgeon obviously wasn’t used to blunt interrogation and it showed in his irritated frown.

“Is it another one?” asked Sadler.

“We think it is, Sir,” Simmons, one of the detectives, put in, stepping forward and carefully avoiding a glob of thick blood on the carpet as he did so.

“Through the heart?” queried the detective superintendent.

“Yep. You can just see it under the ribs if you look closely.”

The senior policeman took his detective’s word for it.

“So we have yet another victim.”

“Could be a copycat,” suggested the second detective.

“Don’t be bloody daft, Coates,” Sadler said crossly. “Actual cause of death is not public knowledge.”

Coates’s face reddened. “Yes, Sir.”

I looked up and stared at them all, almost but not quite shaken out of my torpor. What did he mean, “Actual cause of death is not public knowledge”? I was confused for a moment, but then it began to come together. The tall man had asked if it—it being me, my stone-dead corpse—was another one, obviously meaning another victim. And one of the detectives, the one called Coates, had suggested it could be a copycat murder implying I was one of a series. I might be dead, but I was still alert.

What was it that the public didn’t know, though? I began to pay even more attention.

“It’s there all right.” It was the police surgeon, Breen, who spoke up.

All eyes, including mine, turned towards him.

“Hole through the heart?” said Sadler.