Pretty Little Dead Things (13 page)

  I stared in panic at the darkened buildings around me, hoping for a single light. There were none. Nobody was home. Or if they were, they were not open to visitors. From the bottom of the hill a surge of darkness began to rise, coming up behind the marching hoodies. The streetlights went off, one by one, that terrible darkness ascending slowly towards my position halfway up the hill. It was like a vast cloud of blackness, gathering speed now, eager to reach my position, and soon it engulfed the figures which were even now advancing upon me.

  I fell to my knees, vomit rising in my throat. My tattoos were burning, as if hot brands were being applied to my skin. I had never felt anything like it before, and the realisation almost broke me. What were these things, and what did they represent? Was the encroaching darkness their master, or did they command it like so many dark lords with a pack of hunting hounds?

  When I looked up I was surrounded. The darkness hung back, behind the figures, so that all I could see was them, staring down at me from behind their sweatshirt hoods. The rest of the scene – the road, the side streets, the suddenly distant station – had all vanished, as if I'd been transported to another place entirely. All I could see of their forms before me was the hands that hung out of the sweatshirt sleeves, and they were thin, clawed, and almost skinless. The hands of old men, or newborn babies: creased, papery flesh, bloodless and with the blue bulge of withered veins showing close to the surface. The fingernails were half as long as the fingers they grew from. And they too were white, bleached of all colour, like shards of exposed bone.

  At first I thought I saw vaporous breath streaming from the holes at the front of the hoods, but then I realised that they were billowing darkness, like a black mist trailing from a crack in reality. Darkness… or was it ash?

  "Please," I said, hating the way my voice cracked, ashamed of the terror held in the word, wrapped up in it. "What do you want with me?" the circle tightened around me; the gaps closed.

  The gaps always – always – close.

  A flower of ash bloomed from the front of each hood, as if a series of small chimneys were dispensing soot or industrial waste. It fell in small puffs, and lay at my feet, blackening the concrete paving stones and staining like dark patches of blood or oil spilled after a riot.

  It felt as if I were being tugged; every muscle in my body fought against some kind of negative energy that was pinning me down and allowing that darkness to enter me. Then, in an instant, I knew that I was stronger than they were. The hooded figures were not touching me, because they couldn't. For some reason they were not yet strong enough – but I also knew that soon they would be and I might not get another chance to escape them.

  This realisation brought with it a welcome sense of power.

  "No!" I screamed, getting to my feet and moving towards them. Ash drifted in the air, clogging my nose and filling my mouth with the dull, flat taste of an ancient fire.

  It took me a few seconds to realise that the figures had reared back, away from me. I knew that it was nothing I had actually done, but my forceful refusal had somehow allowed reality to bleed back in and triggered the street to grow more corporeal around me. The figures parted and I saw two men running in our direction, mouths open as they shouted words I couldn't hear. Shortly the sound rushed back in and I could make out angry yells, obscenities. The men, it seemed, were coming to my aid. They thought that I was being attacked by a gang of youths.

  When I turned around I was alone once more on the footpath. The two men hurried to my side, one of them grabbing my shoulder. "You okay, mate? We saw those little bastards push you down and thought you were about to get a kicking."

  His friend continued running down the hill for a short distance, clearly puzzled as to where my assailants had gone.

  "Thank you. Thank you, yes. I'm fine." My mind raced, looking for a cover story. "I've had a bit to drink this evening, and I think they saw me as easy game. You've saved me from being mugged." It sounded plausible, and the man relaxed as his friend returned, shrugging and anxiously scanning the area for lingerers.

  "Are you hurt?" The second man – the one who'd run after the figures – stared into my eyes, looking for signs of… what? Drunkenness? Injury?

  "No, I'm fine. You got here just in time." I brushed down my coat and stood against the iron railing, feeling the reality of cold ironwork biting into my back and enjoying its unflinching rightness.

  "Shall I call the police?" The first man had a mobile phone in his hand. Its bright little light glowed beneath his stubbly chin, making him, too, seem demonic – not unlike the beings who'd chased and cornered me.

  "No harm done," I said, forcing a smile.

  "Waste of time, anyway," said the other man, placing a hand against my arm. "They'd never catch the sods. Things like this happen all the time – state of the nation, I reckon."

  I nodded. The man did not know the half of it.

  My two erstwhile saviours accompanied me to the station, where they saw me into a taxi. I thanked them graciously, and made a fuss of how they'd turned up in the nick of time, but deep down I knew for a fact that if I had not been able to reject that other, darker reality they would not even have seen me as they passed the spot where I cowered, surrounded by things that I could not even begin to identify.

  The taxi pulled away from the rank, and I watched the men through the rear window. They stared after me for a while, one of them raising a hand in farewell. Then, satisfied with their night's work, they began to regale the females behind them in the taxi queue with their tale of bravery. I wished them well, and hoped that they at least got a couple of phone numbers out of it.

  I dozed in the back of the taxi, my head filled with the remnants of the darkness that had swept up the hill towards the station, hungering for whatever was locked within me – the roots of my ability, perhaps, or simply my basic humanity. Before long I was home, paying the driver and walking slowly along the driveway to my front door. The upstairs lights were on, just as I'd left them, and through the landing window I glimpsed movement that could only be something swinging from the ceiling, its rhythm graceful and eternal.

  I locked all the doors and windows, and then I climbed the stairs to bid my constant companions goodnight. They were fading, their forms less defined than earlier that day, and I wondered if they spent the hours waxing and waning, coming in and out of existence as the tidal pull of another place tugged at their shabby presence.

  Before returning downstairs, where the bed sheets were cool and clean and creaseless, I went to the landing window and looked out upon the street. A group of figures stood at the corner a few hundred yards from the end of my drive, their faces covered by hoods. Despite there being no way that I could pick out their features, I felt them staring at me as I studied them. I watched for an hour, wishing that they would leave, and when finally they did I stood there for an hour more, praying that they would not return.

  The ghosts on the landing didn't scare me, but these hooded figures terrified me to the core.

  Then, at last, I let sleep drag me downstairs to my mattress, and rested more soundly than I had for many years. It proved to be the last good night of sleep I would ever have, but right then there was no way I could know that, so my thoughts remained untroubled as the house settled around me and all the ghosts of my life watched over me, only some of them wishing me harm and the others simply judging me from a distance.

I woke at some point long before daylight. That brief and wonderful period of deep sleep was shattered. On instinct, I got out of bed and went to the patio doors. The curtains were already open, even though I remembered closing them before climbing into bed.

  The landscape outside was the one from my dream: a long expanse of burned ground, with no sign of trees or flora, just smoke rising like a sullen ground mist. A hill was located a couple of miles away, and at its apex a single tree was ablaze. The fire was pale, and looked as if it had been going for quite some time. It didn't look like it would expire any time soon.

  High up in the branches of the burning tree, coiling inside a cocoon of flames, was a figure that must once have been human but now resembled a length of blackened meat slung onto a ferocious barbeque and left to char. The form turned in the fire, rotating like a child's wind-up toy, and slowly, jerkily, it raised its arms from its sides to adopt an attitude of crucifixion.

  When I woke again I was still standing there, at the glass doors, but the curtains were closed. I reached out a hand and grasped the edge of one curtain, afraid to pull it open yet terrified that if I did not I would never see the real world again. Then I looked down, past my sweating shoulders and the protective talisman's inked there and across my chest. Upon my stomach, left there to remind me more than terrify me, was that same ashen message I'd seen once already:

  
memento mori

  I knew what it meant. Remember that you shall die.

  It was a sentiment I'd actually heard more than once before, but right then I did not want to think about it. I knew I'd have to face the not-quite-suppressed memory at a later date, but it could wait until I felt up to the task. In the meantime I returned to bed and thought about sleep instead; because thinking about it was now all that I could manage.

The following day I arrived late and sat for a moment in my car outside the Bestwick Community Centre. I'd left giving myself plenty of time to get there, taking into consideration the fact that I liked to drive slowly, obeying every sign and speed limit, yet I hit some road works on the motorway that held me up by twenty minutes. I realised that I should have called a taxi in the first place, but by then it was too late to make any difference. I was on Baz Singh's payroll and could always charge him for transport even when it wasn't really to do with his case – I should have no qualms whatsoever regarding scalping him for a few quid if it meant that I could leave the car at home, but the thought of being in control of my own movements had just about outweighed my distaste for auto vehicles, so I'd decided to open the garage and give the ageing motor some air.

  The Bestwick Estate was located in the dip of a slight valley, with a more affluent area perched above it, the denizens of which looked down in judgement upon the fallen. It was a typical Northern council estate, with badly maintained properties, unkempt gardens, and a proliferation of satellite dishes nesting in the eaves of the cramped houses and boxy blocks of flats.

  Most of the gardens contained the latest housing estate must-have items: a yapping dog, a huge trampoline and a tatty St George's cross flag dangling limply from a dirty pole. These places all look the same, and in my experience the people who live in them are generally all from the same stock: ill-educated, angry, under-nourished, and sadly lacking in the wherewithal to even try to escape the clutches of their poor standard of living. It was ex-prime minister Margaret Thatcher's dream become reality: the underbelly of a society in a world where, according to the famous Iron Lady, society itself was nothing but a myth.

  Tiredness was stretching my patience and my usual empathy had been replaced by a surly species of general contempt. It wasn't healthy – I knew that – but what else could I do but be a slave to my emotions, just like everyone else?

  I exhaled deeply and climbed out of the car. I was keen to get out of that grubby tin box and my eyes constantly scanned the street ahead, as if I were expecting trouble. Always expecting trouble.

  I watched a battered Vauxhall Nova as it sped along the road and around a corner, past a row of shops with timbers across the doors and windows and a bare plot of land where someone had set fire to an old sofa. The furniture still smouldered, as if it had done so for a long time and would probably continue forever. Some fires never go out, and the smoke from such conflagrations will gather and mass and wait for an opportunity to choke anyone who might stray too close.

  "Got a light, mister?"

  I turned to face a small boy, aged possibly seven or eight. He was standing in the gutter holding a cigarette to his lips. His hair was shaved very short, almost down to the bone, and his face was gaunt. Haunted eyes stared at me from a narrow skull, and I wondered why he wasn't at school.

  "Sorry. I don't smoke."

  The boy shrugged but didn't leave. Instead he lingered, sucking on the unlit cigarette and staring at me. "Who are you? You a copper?"

  I smiled and glanced down at my suit. This kid probably only ever saw men in suits when his mother was in court or if the council or bailiffs came knocking at his door. "No, I'm not a policeman. I'm here to see someone."

  "You come to see that thing about the missing girl, Penny?" He kept staring at me, his large forehead smooth and grimy, his bald chin jutting.

  "Do you know Penny Royale?" I bent down to his level, my knees protesting loudly at the movement.

  "Yeah. Went to my school, didn't she. Weird lass. Always reading them books and sticking her hand up in lessons an' that." He turned to stare along the road, and I saw a long, messy scar, like burned tissue, down one side of his neck. Something caught my attention – movement from the other side of the road – and I looked towards the smouldering sofa. Another boy stood next to it, his hair smoking. His clothes were burnt rags.

  My heart sank; here was another one come to taunt me.

  "Your brother was killed in the same fire where you got that scar." It was not a question; I knew it as certainly as I knew my own name. The presence of the smoking figure was impossible to ignore, and his story came to me unbidden. Just like always.