Nobody True (29 page)

I examined the dead woman, checking that she hadn’t, by some miracle, started breathing again. No, she really was dead.

I wondered if her killer’s plan was to return in his car using his physical form then mutilate the body here, where it was dark and quiet, with little chance of being disturbed. Maybe that was how he always did it: kill, possess, leave the dead victim somewhere isolated, return and chop it; or maybe he would load the corpse into his car and take it elsewhere to mutilate. Whatever, I knew the nightmare wasn’t over, that he’d be coming back to finish the job, and that I didn’t have much time.

I wondered if I could pull it off.

After studying her for a few moments—her lip was cut, her cheekbones black with dirt from the undersoles of the three Arabs’ shoes when they’d kicked her, her previously smart business suit drenched with blood and piss—I squatted down next to her (I suppose in some way I was trying to get the feel of her). I squeezed into the gap (yeah, no need to squeeze in my form, but I did anyway) behind her on the step and, taking a deep pointless breath, I melted into her.

And it worked, I seemed to fit.

But only seconds after I was enveloped by her flesh, the fading memories rushed at me. I experienced her life, just flashes, only moments in time, but it seemed to cover everything, from birth to death. I guess even after death, a residue of precious life remains in the brain and even in the flesh of the body. Like those old radios and televisions whose energy faded rather than stopped immediately when switched off, so this was an ebbing of power rather than a complete cut-off. Now, it seemed to me as I immersed myself into this cooling corpse, energies—at least, her memories—lingered in the substance of her form.

My own mind sapped up the remains of the woman’s lifetime experiences. It wasn’t focused enough to be overwhelming, but it was startling.

Images, sensations, thoughts: they poured through me.

A huge bright red ball with yellow spots, bigger than me, the observer, it seemed; absolute joy—a man, somewhere in his early thirties, I thought, although he seemed very old, giggling as he pushed me on a swing; it was a long time ago and this was my father and I was his little daughter (there was no question, no mystery, it was just as it was), and wonderful happiness spread through me, but it quickly left, a harsh sadness taking its place as the man was gone—a woman now, an unhappy strict woman, pleasant face, yet a severity to her eyes; mother, the dead woman’s mother, and there was love, but it was not the same as before; the woman was older, grey-haired, and she was angry, raising her voice, at me, and dislike weighed heavily on the love; but it seemed that in death, my death, forgiveness was granted and I ached with longing—still pining, the regret of having lost my father so many years ago—

Although I was experiencing the remnants of the dead woman’s memories, my own feelings continued to intrude, for my own mind was ensconced in this host of flesh and stilled blood, and I wondered if Primrose would mourn me for years to come. An image of my father came to me too, but he was like a stranger.

—a slim pink doll, a Barbie or a Wendy (the resolution was not clear enough)—a puppy dog, me calling its name: Rumbo—a boy, a surge of love here—the sea, a wonderful calm sea that was green then blue—a jolt, an accident of some kind, an arm in pain, soon gone—guilt, guilt, guilt, more sorrow, visions of a man, an indistinct person, a woman behind him, and I knew that he was my lover and the woman was his wife, deep, deep grief, a terrible wrench of emotions, the affair soon over—the sea again, beautifully warm and calm—

I soaked up tiny segments of the victim’s life just before they faded, before they finally left the storehouse of flesh, bone and tissue.

—the mother again, love still present, but also a stronger dislike—bad times, black times, it all came to me, some moments witnessed as through a kaleidoscope, while others were individual and sharply defined, some fleeting, others lasting mere seconds that felt like long periods—thoughts, energies, flowed through, but fading, fading all the time, dwindling, waning, as if growing weary themselves—now an office, a workplace; computer screens, faces, mixed emotions, snap visions that somehow were complete—an apartment, simply but tastefully furnished, a warmth for that place, and now a black-and-white cat called Tibbles—people, friends—leaving the office—

And then it all changed: darkness entered, slowly at first until it was almost absolute; it brought with it fear…

—and terror, heart-freezing terror—a lonely walk down into shadows, a sense of danger—the car, very near the car—shambling footsteps from behind—all these last sounds and images felt with a resurgence of power—pain, terrible pain and screaming fear!—the darkness strong, peaking before starting to drain away—fading, wasting away—until there was only light…

Inside her, I reeled under the pressure of it all, some of her terror left with me. I willed myself to be calm, aware that if those last sensations had gone on any longer I would have fled the cold flesh that now bound me. I felt myself trembling, even though that wasn’t possible. Her death had been horrible and the suffering had continued even after the heart had stopped.

I steadied myself. I was in a void; nothing else of the woman was left. The body was without any trace of its previous owner.

It was time for me to subjugate it. I prayed for it to be possible.

I settled my mind and it was surprisingly easy to do. Despite everything I’d been witness to that night, despite my fear and anxiety, I soothed my own consciousness by repeating the exercise I had used to travel outside my own body.

Deep, deep breaths (pretend breaths now, obviously), long, long exhalations. Addressing each part of my non-physical form, starting with the absent toes and moving up my non-existent legs, then invisible groin, working my way through my impalpable belly, chest, shoulders, arms right to my indiscernible head, willing them all to relax. Then, instead of commanding myself to move out of my physical form (usually by concentrating on one specific spot near the ceiling of whatever room I was in—mostly the bedroom—and willing my inner self to go there), I forced myself to become part of the vessel I now inhabited. That in life I’d been much bigger than the unfortunate woman seemed to make no difference—I still had to “fill out” her human shape. I felt myself flow into her, strangely expanding rather than shrinking, sensing myself into her muscles and bones and organs. Occasionally, a fragment of her memory would return, but always too weak to linger.

My fingers slipped into hers. My stomach and chest moulded themselves to the inner side of her skin. Bit by bit I took over her shape, feeling my way in, and suffering no discomfort as I did so. Earlier, it had taken Moker practically no time at all to possess his victim, but he’d had more practice than I. Briefly I wondered if this was how demons possessed certain afflicted human beings (I’d never believed in demonic possession before, but these days I’m more susceptible to all manner of possibilities).

Once I felt myself totally absorbed, I endeavoured to move her right hand. I slipped out of her.

Drawing my own hand back again and sliding into her fingers as though they were the digits of a glove, I took more deep breaths and concentrated even harder, thinking of myself as at one with her.

Her hand shifted just a little.

Eventually, taking over the dead woman’s body proved relatively easy (although controlling it was much more difficult). It was a matter of “thinking” myself into what was in essence a vacated property, a kind of Zen thing, if you like. As I mentioned before, it was a matter of being “at one with her”, not quite taking over the lifeless flesh and blood, but becoming part of it; not wearing it, but being it. Because I’d had practice at projecting my inner self to other places outside my “shell”, it wasn’t that difficult for me to project myself into the other person’s body. Difficult to explain, and not that easy to do; but if you already had the knack, it helped.

Now being inside, “fitting” the new body, was all well and good, but getting it to obey my will was something else. I got used to moving the right hand first, then the arm up to the elbow. Getting a reaction from the rest of the body was a little harder, but perseverance paid off. Remember, I was still very shaken, so it took a lot of effort just to calm myself; controlling somebody else’s body needed full concentration. It came though, the ability to govern came gradually at first, and then with a rush. The trick was not to try too hard but to relax and just sink into it.

Sitting up wasn’t so bad, although the alien body felt heavy and cumbersome, but rising to my feet was almost impossible. You see, living inside your own body, adapting to its growth over the years, you’re not aware of its weight so much, but occupying somebody else’s is like trying on a suit of armour—armour that’s made out of lead. You have to get used to it, and even then motion is awkward. Moker had obviously become skilled at it with practice, but even when he had possessed the woman’s corpse, movement had been a little stiff and graceless.

First problem, though, was vision. Everything was blurred through the victim’s eyes and I remembered she had worn glasses, which were now missing, obviously knocked off dining the vicious attack by the scummy threesome. I used both clumsy hands to feel around the concrete step and, although the fingertips were numb, I felt something move. It took a little while to pick up the glasses—it was like wearing thick gloves without individual fingers—and I dropped them more than once. Eventually, I got them over the nose and managed to fumble the side arms through the hair and over the ears. One of the lenses had cracked, but vision improved, not as much as I had hoped, but enough to enable me to find my way around.

I was a mere novice, but I was determined to succeed. I had a plan.

Using the brick wall of the recessed doorway for support and balance, I slowly hauled myself up, rising to my (her) knees first, raising one leg so shin and thigh were at right angles to each other, then, digging my (her) fingers into the indentations between bricks for extra support, I used all my willpower and the woman’s waning strength to stand. (Fortunately for me, she had lost her shoes in the fracas with the three men, so I didn’t have to worry about high heels.) I made it, but instantly fell back against the metal door where I stayed for several minutes, legs spread and firmly rooted to the wide doorstep, the rest of me (her) trembling. With a whole lot of effort, I managed to adjust the woman’s clothing, dragging up panties and hose, buttoning (almost impossible, this, but I persevered) the jacket.

I felt dizzy, as though I was too high off the ground, the feeling you get when you ride a bike or climb onto a horse for the first time. And when I pushed myself away from the door and tried to walk, my legs felt like long stilts.

I fell off the step and had to go through the whole process of rising once again. It was almost but not quite like learning to walk for the first time (I suppose an amputee who has been given prosthetic legs must go through a similar procedure) and, believe me, it wasn’t easy. I stumbled and fell twice more before I reached the street junction.

However, although my gait was clumsy and somewhat perilous, my arms waving in the air for balance, I soon began to get used to walking. By the time I reached the main thoroughfare of Queensway, I resembled only a hopeless drunk.

The journey through the London streets was horrendous. Luckily it was late night, and once I’d moved out of the Queensway area, the sidestreets became darker again and virtually deserted. The few people who did pass me by must have thought I was either drunk or drugged by the way I lurched along and used walls where I could for support. Heads turned, a few people crossed over to the other side of the street before they reached me. A group of young guys laughed at me, yelling insults and suggestions of what we all might do together, but they soon lost interest and went on their way when I ignored them.

One person, an elderly, scruffily dressed man, approached me and asked if I was all right and if he could assist me in any way. I don’t know whether it was my blood-drenched clothes, my battered face, the stench of urine coming from me, or the way I babbled and gurgled as I attempted to reply, that deterred him. Possibly—probably—it was all of these things. He backed off and I stumbled onwards.

It was quite a hike and I wasn’t sure I was going to make it. When the body dies it doesn’t take muscles long to start atrophying, so I was becoming weaker by the minute. The fact that blood had stopped coursing through the arteries was neither here nor there—I wasn’t alive, so I didn’t need it—but the fact that it was settling into my lower legs and feet made it feel as if I were wearing lead boots. Also, the increasing coldness was rendering the corpse ever more stiff. By the time I reached the police station I was moving like Frankenstein’s monster.

All through the journey I had been trying to speak, something that brought me extra stares from infrequent (fortunately) passers-by. To them, not only was I drunk and dishevelled, but I was crazy also.

The idea was to be able to talk coherently when I got to my destination: I had a tale to tell and a name to name. This was an extra hurdle though, and far more difficult than making the body walk. It took a while to produce any noise at all, and then it was only a raspy whispering which sounded something like “Unurrrrgahh”. Not very good, but the best I could do to start with.

I kept trying to pronounce certain words, simple ones at first—“cat, sat, mat”, that kind of thing, but all that came out was: “ca, sa, ma”. I persisted though, struggling to walk, striving to talk. And although in my out-of-body state I had lost all sense of physical feeling (passing through walls and the like were mental sensations), I felt a distinct chill enveloping me. It was like wearing a heavy suit that had been left outside on a frigid winter’s night. How long before rigor mortis started to take over? I wondered. Usually it started about forty-five minutes to an hour after death, I seemed to remember from somewhere.