Stolen Souls (20 page)

Once, his lip bled from biting it so hard, and he had to go to the school nurse. He sat in her room amid the smell of antiseptic and sweat, a wad of tissue pressed to his mouth, anger boiling in his gut.

“Are you feeling all right?” she asked.

He did not answer.

“You’re breathing awful hard,” she said.

He spat blood on her dress. She stepped back, her mouth wide. Then she bent down and slapped him hard across the cheek. He walked home with a stiffness in his trousers, heat in places he’d never felt it before.

Thirty years ago, and he still felt the sting of her palm when he reached for himself in the night.

As he inserted the key in the dead bolt, he glanced up at the kitchen window.

He froze, his heart thudding against his breastbone.

Something was very wrong.

The net curtain no longer hung on the other side of the glass, the room beyond clearly visible.

“No,” he said aloud.

Stop, he thought. Don’t panic.

Forcing steadiness into his hand, he undid both locks and pushed the door open. From the threshold, he saw the upended chair, the shattered mug, the net curtain lying bunched on the floor.

Slowly, he stepped inside and lowered the pieces of hardware to the floor. He closed the door without a sound, sealing out the cold, locked it, put the keys in his pocket. He listened.

Silence. Not even the thing upstairs raised its voice.

He scanned the kitchen, saw the open drawers, cutlery and hoarded objects glittering within.

Odors on the still air caught his attention. Mold and damp, laced with girl scent. He moved to the hall, and knew the dining room had been opened by the stale smell that lingered there. The living room door stood ajar, and he wondered if it had been so when he left. He entered the room. His Bible where he’d left it, the couch undisturbed.

He turned to the writing desk, saw the opened drawers, the broken wood.

His treasures, scattered like rubbish on the leather.

He moistened his lips and left the room.

He climbed the stairs and stepped onto the landing. The closet door stood open. He saw the scattered towels, the fragments of wood, the plaster dust, and he understood.

Rage tore up from his belly, and he roared.

41

G
ALYA FLINCHED AS
the sound reached her. She made herself small in the darkness and listened. His footsteps hard and slow on the uncarpeted stairs, then scuffling on the hall floor above her head.

The cellar’s damp cold crept beneath her skin, bleeding into her muscles, reminding them of their fatigue.

“I know you’re still in the house,” he called, his voice dulled by the closed door at the top of the cellar stairs. “I can smell you. I know you can hear me.”

She retreated further into the corner, behind an old freezer that hummed low and steady.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” he said. His footsteps creaked along the hallway. “I only want to help you. That’s all.”

Galya felt around the linoleum flooring for anything heavy, anything sharp, anything that could be used as a weapon. She found only ridges and dips in the surface, as if the concrete beneath had cracked and been filled in.

“I know you found some … things.” The footsteps stopped at the door above. “I know it seems strange. To keep those things. But I don’t want you to worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Galya inched along the wall, moving away from the freezer. She felt something hard, wooden, blocking her way. A cabinet. Doors, unlocked. They swung open.

“Those people I told you about,” he said, his voice at the top of the stairway, only a door between him and her. “I spoke to them when I was out. I went to see them, that’s why I was away. They’re coming for you.”

She explored the cabinet’s innards, reaching into the corners, up into its roof, her fingers clasping at nothing but dust and paint flecks.

“But not today. It’s Christmas Eve. They don’t have any staff. It’ll be the day after tomorrow. But they’re coming. Then you can go home. I promise.”

A thin slash of light cut across the floor as the door above opened.

“I promise,” he said.

42

L
ENNON SENT THE
image to Connolly’s phone as soon as he was back in his car, along with instructions on what to do with it.

While he waited, he thought about his next act. Logically, he should have gone straight to Maxie’s Taxis to see what he could find out there, but he couldn’t help but think about Ellen. Less than ten minutes would get him over to Susan’s flat, with traffic thinning away from the city center. Then he could cut across the river toward the Holywood Road.

His phone rang. The display said “Number Blocked,” just as it would from the station.

Lennon thumbed the button and asked, “Did you get the picture?”

“How’re ya, Jack?”

Lennon stopped breathing.

“You there, Jack?”

The voice, its thick southern accent a mockery of sweetness.

“I’m here,” Lennon said.

“You get my card?”

Lennon’s fingers still felt dirty where he’d touched it.

“Yes.” “What’d you think? Did you put it up?”

“No,” Lennon said. “I tore it up and threw it away.”

“That’s not nice, Jack. There’s me all thoughtful, and you just throw it away. I’m sure your mother raised you better.”

“I don’t—”

“Is that how you’re raising that wee girl?”

“Shut your mouth.”

“She’s a pretty wee thing. Pity her ma didn’t get out like you and me did.”

“Stay away from my daughter.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll kill you.”

“You killed me already, Jack. Remember? In that big house near Drogheda. You put a bullet in me and left me to burn. You don’t get a second go. Not with me, you don’t.”

“Stay away from—”

“Next time you see me, Jack, it’ll be too late for anything. All you can do is pray I make it easier for you and your wee girl than you made it for me.”

“You fucking—”

“Or maybe I’ll burn that child, leave her all scarred and twisted like me. Then I’ll give you a year or two to watch her suffer before I put you out of your misery. How’s that sound, Jack?”

“I’ll kill you.”

“So you said. Merry Christmas, Jack.”

The phone died.

Lennon dropped it on the passenger seat, wiped the heat from his eyes, and started the engine. He ignored the blaring of horns as he accelerated into the traffic, visions of Ellen in flame behind his tearful eyes.

43

B
ILLY
C
RAWFORD REACHED
for the light switch at the top of the stairs. The cellar stayed dark.

Smart girl, he thought.

Was there a torch out in the van? He was almost sure he had stashed one under the driver’s seat in case of emergencies, but the batteries had run out. There was another down there in the dark, sitting in or near his toolbox. So he could go down there and get it, but then he might as well just take care of her in the dark.

He held his breath and listened, heard nothing but his own heartbeat. Hard in his chest, like when he lay down to sleep at night, and he was all alone in the world. Even God couldn’t see him then, when he was at the mercy of the beasts that roamed his mind.

“Are you hungry?” he asked the darkness.

It did not answer. He took two steps inside.

“I can make us something to eat,” he said. “I have bread and soup. Or maybe a baked potato. And coffee. What do you think?”

The stairs creaked as he descended until he felt the hard floor beneath his feet. He stood still and silent as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, the light from above allowing vague shapes to emerge from the black. Glass crunched under his boot as he took a step toward the workbench. The lightbulb.

He ran his hands over the smooth wooden surface, felt nothing but the dust and swarf from the tasks performed there. To his right, the cabinet. He could see in the dimness that its doors had been closed, even though he was sure he had left them open.

His tongue toured the inside of his mouth as he thought. Yes, he had left it open. He crossed to it, gripped the handles.

“I only want to help you,” he said.

He jerked the doors open. No waft of girl smell rose from its innards. He reached inside, not trusting his eyes. Empty.

“Will you let me help you?” he asked, turning to face the dark space around him. “Will you, ple—”

A sun exploded in his vision, then died again, leaving bright green contrails in its wake. He raised his hands, trying to swat the glare’s residue away.

Another light exploded, but not in front of his eyes. He had a moment to wonder at its source, before another blow rocked his head sideways and the floor slammed into his shoulder.

44

G
ALYA REACHED THE
stairs, the torch still in her right hand, the force of the blow still ringing in her elbow and wrist, lightbulb fragments embedded in her feet. She mounted them, took two at a time, the open door above her, the light falling through.

Keys.

She stopped, one foot above the other, the door in touching distance. He would have the keys on him. Had she heard them jangle when he hit the floor? Yes, she believed so.

If she tried the front door, she would likely find it locked, and she would only have given him time to recover. Better to go back, find the keys, while he was still reeling.

Galya offered a short and silent prayer to Mama and turned around. She descended slowly, her left hand on the rail, her right holding the torch. It didn’t cross her mind to switch it on until she reached the cellar floor and felt more tiny pieces of glass pierce her already torn skin.

She turned the torch in her hand until she found the switch. A circle of pale light opened on the linoleum, found nothing but white sparkling glass and a single drop of red.

A sour milk smell, warm air on the back of her neck.

Galya spun, the torch arcing up and out, but a hard hand grabbed her wrist.

His moon face came close, his bared teeth visible in the dim light from above.

“Please don’t,” he said.

Galya tried to pull her arm away, but it might as well have been nailed to a wall. Anger flared in her heart, anger at herself for allowing him to reclaim her so easily. She jerked her arm again, throwing the weight of her body behind it.

His grip hardened. A red line crept from his temple to his cheek, slipping between the thick hairs of his beard.

“Let me help you,” he said.

Galya turned her rage on him and growled as she slashed at his pale skin with her free hand, leaving a red welt beneath his right eye, mirroring the scar that ran above it. Small beads of blood broke on its surface.

He pushed her back and down. She landed hard, sending a spike of pain up her spine. The torch clattered on the concrete. Before she could cry out, he bent down and grabbed a handful of her hair with one hand, the torch with the other. “I only want to help you,” he said. “To save you.”

“Let me go,” she said.

“Shut up,” he said, yanking her head back. “Don’t fight me. Don’t make me do something … bad.”

“I want to go home,” Galya said, more to herself than to him. “Please let me go home, I won’t tell anyone about you, about this place, please, I—”

“Shut up,” he said, his face close to hers, his sour milk breath hot on her cheeks. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

She realized she’d been speaking in Russian. Her mind raced to find the words in English, but they would not come. He let go of her hair, let her fall back on the floor. The torch flicked on, and she shielded her eyes from its burning glare.

“You can stay down here,” he said, backing away. “In the dark.”

He reached the steps. “Think things over. Calm down. Try to understand, I don’t want to hurt you.”

He climbed, keeping the torch trained on her, watching her over his shoulder. When he reached the top step, he turned and stared down at her.

Galya crawled away from the weak pool of light on the floor, found the darkness.

“Go on,” he said. “Hide. It won’t be long now. You’ll see. I have a few things to do, some things to get ready, and then we’ll begin. I promised I’d save you, and I will. Just you wait. It’ll be beautiful. You’ll thank God I found you. They all thanked God I found them. All of them. In the end.”

The door closed, and the air grew thick with darkness. Galya found a corner and wept.

45

L
ENNON EXITED THE
lift and rapped his knuckles hard on Susan’s door. It had only been a few hours since he’d left her flat, but it felt like days. He had his hand raised to knock again when she answered it.

“Jesus, don’t kick my door in,” she scolded. “What’s wrong?”

Lennon looked past her into the flat. He heard the girls’ voices, a disagreement of some kind.

“Nothing,” he said.

“You’re lying,” she said, stepping back. “But come in anyway. You might remember you have a daughter.”

Lennon closed the door behind him. “Yeah, I’m sorry. It’s been a bad day.”

“It’s been worse for some people, going by the news. Any closer to getting it wrapped up?”

“A little,” he said.

Susan went to enter the living room, but Lennon took her elbow.

“What?” she asked, a line of concern at the center of her forehead. “What is it?”

“Nothing, it’s just—”

She pulled away from him. “For Christ’s sake, don’t string me along. I’m not one of those slappers you used to trawl the bars for. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“All right,” he said, putting his hands on her upper arms. “Has there been anyone around today? Anyone looking for me? Or anyone unusual, anyone you wouldn’t expect to see around the apartments?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No one. Why?”

“Any phone calls?”

“Just Ellen’s aunt about five times.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Tell me why you’re so worried about visitors and phone calls.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Lennon said.