Nobody True (27 page)

The woman was standing by the Hillman’s open door. I could only see from the chin down to her waist, but I could tell she was unsteady. She raised a hand to lean on the grey metal roof, the other hand gripping the door handle. Her chest was heaving as if breathing was a strain. Was it Moker forcing the lungs to inhale? Was he inside the woman, forcing the dead body to function again? Unbelievable though it was, I suddenly had no doubts. After all, everything I had gone through recently was incredible, so what was so hard about this? The woman’s spirit had vacated her dead body and Moker’s own spirit had moved in to fill the vacuum, had taken possession. I was witness to it.

I kept out of sight, moving away from the Celica to get behind a concrete pillar, only standing up when the pillar was between the two vehicles and me. I risked a quick look.

The resurrected woman slowly and awkwardly turned her whole body to look around the car park. I flinched back out of sight once more, wondering if she was searching for me. Waiting for perhaps half a minute, I carefully peeked around the pillar again. She was moving her arms, trying to flex her stubborn fingers, only succeeding in straightening and clawing them stiffly. She began to walk, quite unstably to begin with, a hand brushing along the Hillman’s roof for support, but her stride becoming just a little more adept with each step. I moved around the concealing pillar to keep out of sight, but still I peered around its corner.

Her right hand was now on the Hillman’s bonnet, and her footsteps were still somewhat awkward, but I couldn’t be sure if that was because of her zombie-like state, or because of the high-heeled shoes she was wearing. Her confidence seemed to grow though with each further step, and soon she had left the security the old car and was walking along unaided, the dragging along the concrete floor rather than clattering as they had when the woman was alive. At one point, her left knee gave out and she went down, her hands slapping against the ground and saving herself from falling all the way. She knelt there on one knee, her shoulders sinking and rising as though she were catching her breath, the knuckles of her hands pressed firmly against the concrete. She stayed that way for one, two minutes?—I couldn’t be sure—then forced herself to rise again. That is, Moker forced her to rise again.

It was a graceless effort, like Bambi finding his feet for the first time, but with considerable effort she made it. The woman—this zombie of a woman—stood in the emptiness of the darkened car park regaining her breath, seemingly gathering more strength.

I began to understand that when the body dies, not everything fails at once; it takes a little while if only seconds for organs to cease functioning, and longer for muscles and tissues to atrophy, so was it possible for an alien entity to take over and make them work again? Probably, like me a week or so ago, you’d think no way; yet here I was witness to the miracle(?). It seemed possession was not confined to devils and demons. I understood now that when Jesus Christ had brought Lazarus back to life, He’d actually recalled Lazarus’ soul, ordering it to return to its host. Who would have thought that the host body could also be appropriated by someone else’s soul?

Before continuing, the dead woman looked about her once more as if looking for something. I had no doubt that “something” was me, so I remained hidden, frightened, incredulous—but inquisitive. She appeared to give up her search, although I’m sure she wasn’t satisfied. She started moving again, the first few steps clumsy, ungainly, and also slow (although not as slow as those zombies in old and hackneyed horror flicks), heading towards the EXIT door that Moker had been watching for a couple of hours that night.

What the hell was she—he—doing? Wasn’t mutilation the next item on the killer’s agenda? According to the newspapers, that was the whole agenda. It was then I wondered if Moker, using the OBE, had entered all his dead victims this way. And if so, what was the point, what kind of kick did Moker get from it? I decided to follow. Oh, believe me, I didn’t want to, I wanted to flee, get somewhere sane—like my own home. But the truth is, by now I was really curious.

I waited for the door to swing closed before leaving my hiding place—I don’t know why I was quite so wary of being seen; after all, wasn’t I untouchable? What could Moker do to me?—and went to the yellow-painted door. I listened before passing through it and heard shuffling footsteps ascending the stone steps that led to ground level. When they had faded enough for me to feel confident, I pressed through—no, I didn’t even have to press this time—I just glided through the door.

The footsteps could be heard clearly now, although they were growing quieter, fading into the distance. Cautiously, very cautiously, I mounted the first few steps, then listened again. The foot-shuffle was barely audible, so I climbed further, looking upwards over the iron rail as I went. Occasionally, I’d see the woman’s hand grab at the rail as if to pull herself along, not all of the fingers coordinated, two of them poking out, straight and stiff, and I deliberately kept back, making sure there was at least one landing between us. At last I heard a door swing open at the top. She, he—I still had to get used to the idea that it was Moker I was following, not this poor woman—had stepped out into Queensway, a street that was always busy, with shops open day and night.

What game was Moker playing? I couldn’t understand his motive. Had he done this with all his victims? Had the killer taken over each victim after death had occurred? Why had he appropriated their bodies? When I’d eavesdropped on the two detectives’ conversation outside my house, I’d heard them say that all the previous victims of the serial killer had acted in some bizarre ways around the time of their death: was I about to find out why and how? I shuddered. Just how deranged was this man? What was his purpose? To ridicule his victims? Was his mind so warped by his own deformity that he wanted to destroy the reputation of these innocent people, not content merely to destroy their bodies? Or was it simply for sexual self-gratification, committing acts that he could not do as himself (whether it was because of his facial deformity, or because something else was physically wrong with him I had no idea).

Skimming up to the top floor, my mind reeling with concerns and questions, I paused at the door to the street—just to try and bring my thoughts under control—before passing through.

There was plenty of light in Queensway, from shops, overhead lamps and slow-moving traffic, and plenty of people too. I didn’t know the time.* As always it was what you might call a “metropolitan” crowd, bustling or strolling the pavements, all types of people, some noisy and demonstrative, others engaged in their own private thoughts. The woman I followed weaved in and out of the throng, awkwardly at first, as if drunk, but beginning to pick up coordination as she went. I kept to the gutter to avoid people, occasionally stepping aside for those pedestrians who joined me there for speed. Oneway traffic slowly passed me by from behind, but naturally was never a threat; metalwork and wing mirrors went straight through my left side.

*It was peculiar how everything I would normally expect to be there (as far as I, myself, was concerned) indeed was, from my wristwatch to the handkerchief and keys in my pocket, even though I had no use for any of them. I could only assume that in the out-of-body state I saw everything as it was supposed to be, as if these inconsequential accessories that were personal and familiar to me afforded some small comfort. I’d have felt both embarrassed and intimidated if I were naked, even though I could not be seen, so my own mind gave me clothes, those I had been wearing on the night of my death. The other things were necessary for credibility. I’m sure I could easily have changed what I was wearing if I had set my mind to it, but what would be the point?

Up ahead, the woman stopped and seemed to be accosting a man who was probably just past middle age, an American tourist by the look of his loud outfit and the camcorder hanging by a strap around his neck. I caught up in time to hear him say: “No thank you, dear. I’m happily married.”

She rudely brushed past him and he turned around to watch her incursion back into the crowd. With a bemused shake of his head, he resumed his own journey.

Next, she stopped a black guy, a big man, smartly dressed, somewhere in his late thirties. I was too far behind to catch her words—maybe they were softly spoken, the hubbub around us easily drowning them. The tall guy looked her up and down, then laughed aloud. He didn’t say anything, but just pushed by, shaking his head and continuing to laugh.

“Crazy bitch,” I heard him say as he passed close to me.

Other people were turning to stare and I assume they thought she was drunk because of the unsteady way she progressed along the pavement, bumping into some pedestrians, swearing loudly at others so that they quickly dodged out of her path. Just before she reached a brightly lit newsagent’s selling Arabian journals and magazines, three sallow-complexioned gentlemen came out, voices raised high in their own language, laughing together and generally in a cheerful mood. The woman strode up to them and once again said something I couldn’t quite catch. I caught just enough, though, to understand that she was propositioning all three.

At first they gawped at her in surprise, obviously taking in her smart business clothes and appearance, before looking at each other. Two of them burst out laughing, a cackling sound that somehow managed to be insulting to the woman, but the third studied her face and body with interest. He murmured something to the other two, which initiated some nodding of heads, their laughter dissolving into wide lascivious grins. The first one took the woman’s arm and said something softly into her ear. I presumed it was in English, because she instantly hung onto one of his companions’ arms as if about to totter. She found herself supported by the two, one on either side. They led her away, a happy foursome, two of them jabbering excitedly, the Arab who’d replied to her proposition more reserved, although plainly eager. I kept to the gutter, almost abreast of them, dodging pedestrians who stepped off the kerb to avoid the group, a sick feeling in my stomach.

Was this why Moker had taken over the woman’s body, to indulge in sex with strangers, to debase her, soil her? But why? What was the point? To live vicariously through her for a short while? I was sure my first thoughts were right as I recalled the television and newspaper pictures of the previous victims, all of whom were smart and successful career people.

Moker wanted to be them, if only for a short while. And he wanted to enjoy what was probably impossible for him, because of his awful facial disfigurement, through them. He had possessed the fresh corpses for a while—did the bodies finally lose all strength and motion, was their after-death condition a very temporary situation?—only to degrade them, shame them, perhaps even to enjoy them. Only when he was satisfied—physically as well as mentally?—did he leave their bodies in some lonely place where he could return to mutilate them without interruption.

The four people I was following, three Arabs and one dead woman, suddenly changed direction and, using a busy zebra crossing close to a big corner store, crossed the road. I trailed behind.

The men were dressed smartly, two of them in light summer suits despite the obvious autumn chill; the third one, the serious one, had on an expensive-looking leather jacket. All wore good-quality shirts and ties and their shoes were highly polished. They might have been brothers, so similar were their features, although one of the suited men was a little overweight, his paunch overhanging his belt. His hair was sparser too, a light-brown shiny pate beneath carefully groomed hairs, which caught reflections from the lights spilling from the shops and the big store. On the other side of the road, they diverted into a sidestreet, and I noticed they had stopped talking now. Nobody was laughing anymore, either.

The woman’s legs suddenly gave way and she almost fell to her knees, but the men gripped her tightly, hauling her up again and supporting her, their faces now grim, angry even. The one in the leather jacket snapped at her and I heard her burble something incoherent. She plodded along between two of them, her motion still unsteady, but not as bad as a moment ago.

Few pedestrians walked this sidestreet, although traffic still made its way towards Queensway where it was as busy as ever. This area of Bayswater was always vibrant, whatever the hour (except for the very early hours of the morning), but the further we moved away from the main thoroughfare, the fewer people we saw. The three men had quickened their step now, almost dragging the woman along. They crossed a narrow sidestreet and one of the men gesticulated, pointing towards the darkness at the end of it, but the one in the leather jacket shook his head and growled something in their language.

I was quite close to them, guessing their intent, but unable to do a thing about it. They soon reached another narrow sidestreet and this time Leather Jacket nodded and indicated with his head. He probably knew the area well.

How could this be happening? I repeatedly asked myself. The woman was dead, her heart had been stopped by a long sharp knitting needle. How was it possible for her to walk and talk, how could Moker manipulate her so? I could only reason that once the soul, the spirit, the vital spark of life itself, whatever, left the human body, it still took some time for it to run down completely. It was as if a dead battery had been replaced by a working one. Absolutely crazy, yet here was I, witness to that craziness.

There were no moving vehicles in this little street, only parked ones, and the further we went, the blacker it got. Several of the overhead lamps were out of order, and this was why there were so many inky shadows.