Tamsyn Murray-Afterlife 01 My So-Called Afterlife (16 page)

I laid soft fingers on his arm. ‘Don’t do this to yourself. It’s not your fault.’

His eyes glittered. ‘Yeah, I know. But I have to believe that one day I’ll find him and bring him back. My mum needs that.’

I didn’t trust myself to speak. What could I say, anyway? The depth of his pain was almost unbearable, and I wasn’t
surprised he kept it locked away. My heart ached for him, but I was also honoured that he’d shared his anguish. I gave him a fierce hug. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

The faintest of smiles flickered around his lips as he turned to leave. ‘You’re already doing it. Come on, we’d better get back.’

Carnaby Street was closed to everyone except the police. Even Gonzo was gone, although his blanket was still there. I had a momentary pang at the thought of him sleeping somewhere without it and sent Ryan off on a walk around to see if he’d settled somewhere else for what was left of the night.

The toilet itself was almost deserted. Most of the crime team had been and gone. They’d found the knife and taken it away for testing. One last technician was dusting the taps for fingerprints, on the instruction of the shabby-coated detective who seemed to be in charge.

‘Make sure you do all of them. Check for DNA evidence. Our boy might have washed the victim’s blood off before he left.’

I thought back. He hadn’t, but it wasn’t the worst suggestion I’d heard. During the investigation into my murder I’d got to know most of the local police. I recognised the detective’s face, although I didn’t remember his name. The young police constable he was with looked no older than me and wore his uniform proudly. He had ‘new recruit’ written all over him.

‘Wasn’t there another stabbing here last year?’ he asked.

The detective nodded. ‘Yeah, a young girl. She died of multiple wounds. Nasty.’

‘Do you think there might be a link?’ The young officer looked thoughtful. ‘Two knife incidents in the same place in such a short space of time? It could be someone who uses these toilets a lot.’

‘No, they’re completely different crimes. I reckon Mr Parker walked in on a drugs deal. The dealer attacked him to get away.’

‘Still,’ the policeman insisted. ‘It might be worth some surveillance.’

‘He’d be stupid to come back,’ the detective said. ‘If he’s got any sense, he’ll know we’ve found the knife. We’ve got other places that need surveillance more.’

Their voices died away as they moved up the stairs. Relief whooshed through me. Murderers were part of their everyday life – they knew more about them than me. If they said he wouldn’t come back, then he probably wouldn’t. Even though we’d lost this chance to catch him, I didn’t care. If I was really being optimistic, maybe we’d even scared him enough to stop his brutal spree. I didn’t even care if not catching him meant I couldn’t pass across, as long as I never had to stare into those soulless eyes again. I didn’t even mind spending eternity in a toilet, as long as I still had Ryan. It might not be Buckingham Palace, but at least now it felt safer.

No one likes getting it wrong. I’m no different from anyone when it comes to the sinking realisation that something isn’t how you thought it was. But it wasn’t often I got things as badly wrong as I did after Jeremy’s stabbing.

It was six o’clock on Sunday, a little over a week since the attack, and the police tape and serious crime signs were long gone. I’d managed to convince Ryan that it was fine for him to leave me and head over to the Dearly D. So when I heard the heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs and the tattooed man came into view, I was as alone as I had ever been. Somehow, seeing him in the daytime was even creepier. I shivered with shock and futile anger. I didn’t know what he intended to do, but there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop him.

I watched through narrowed eyes as he warily checked over his shoulder. Why had he come back? Surely he must have known that the police had found the knife. Then he closed his eyes and his mouth curved into a tender smile. With a burst of sick understanding, I realised what he was doing. By coming back to the toilets, he was reliving his hideous crimes.

‘The blood was so beautiful,’ he crooned, his voice so low I struggled to catch the words. ‘Like glorious, scarlet roses blooming against the snow.’ His eyes snapped open and his face hardened with sadistic pleasure.

A burst of bitter venom rose inside me. He made murder sound so trivial, something pretty to satisfy his savage urges, and I knew he intended to kill again. Something twisted in my heart, fed by hate. This man had stolen my future and broken the hearts of my family. When I thought about how many other lives he’d casually torn apart for his own twisted desires, my hatred burned more strongly. It had to end. No one else could die by his hand.

I knew exactly what to do. With ice-cold deliberation, I went to the first sink and pushed the tap down hard. Water gushed into the sink. The man froze. Slowly, he raised his head to stare at the sink. My steel gaze never leaving him, I moved on to the next tap and repeated the action. The second sink began to fill with water. By the time all six taps were flowing, he was standing still, a wary expression on his unshaven face.

‘Have I got your attention yet?’ I moved to stand in front
of him. With intense concentration, I tapped the brim of his baseball cap, sending it somersaulting upwards. ‘Believe me, it’s going to get worse. I’m just getting warmed up.’

He gasped and scrambled backwards to snatch the hat from the floor. ‘Who’s there?’ he stammered.

Eyes darting left and right, he turned to leave. I was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. I should have known he was a coward. Apart from Jeremy, his victims had been young and trusting. He hadn’t taken the chance that they would be able to fight back.

‘You’re nothing,’ I snarled as another burst of cold fury shot through me and my palms smacked hard into his chest. Hep had been right when she said anger helped. I was about to make this man wish he’d never been born.

Whimpering, he picked himself up off the tiles and tried the stairs again. I lashed out a solid foot and he tripped, crunching painfully on to the first step. Rage gave me superstrength. With a furious howl, I seized his outstretched trainer and heaved backwards. He flew across the room, crumpling against the urinal on the far side.

‘Help! Somebody, help me!’ he screamed, his voice thick.

‘No one’s coming to help you,’ I thundered, pushing my face close to where he lay in a stunned heap. ‘It’s my turn now!’

I whirled around and slammed my fist into each of the cubicle doors. They crashed against their frames, echoing in the emptiness. Utterly enraged, I ripped the toilet-roll holders from the walls and sent tissue cascading across the
ceiling. In the last cubicle I hauled the final metal toilet-roll holder from the wall and hurled it at the man’s head with a shriek. It connected with a sickening thud.

Babbling in dazed incoherence, the man shook his head and fixed his eyes on the stairs. Fuelled by fear, he leapt to his feet and made a dash for the exit.

He reached the top of the stairs ahead of me and started off down the street. I paused, mind racing. Could I outrun him? Probably not, even in his injured state: he had terror to drive him. But if I didn’t do something fast he’d get away, and this time, I knew he wouldn’t be back. I spun in a wild circle, searching for any source of help. My eyes stopped in the doorway of a shop. Gonzo was there, staring after the man. Ripper was snarling, straining at the rope. In a flash, I knew what to do.

Dashing over to Gonzo, I concentrated once more and snatched the rope from his fingers.

‘Go, Ripper! Get him!’

The greyhound didn’t need to be told twice. Intent on his prey, he sped along the street. Gonzo let out a shout and raced after the dog. For the second time that week, I found myself running faster than I’d ever done before. Ripper was way ahead of us. He lunged forwards, teeth gnashing. Man and dog tumbled together. My killer lashed out with his foot, catching Ripper on the side of his head. The dog whimpered and let go.

‘Oi!’ Gonzo bellowed as he reached them. ‘No one kicks my dog!’

He dived forwards, fists raining down on the man. Passers-by were stopping. I saw one punching numbers into a mobile phone.
Please be calling the police,
I prayed.

Obviously realising he was about to be caught, the man started desperately pummelling back and Gonzo was coming off worst. With so many witnesses there was no way I could do anything to help. Then I saw Celestine pushing her way to the front of the crowd. Sagging with relief, I caught her eye.

‘It’s him!’ I bellowed. ‘That’s the man who attacked Jeremy!’

She understood. ‘Someone call the police! That man tried to kill my boyfriend.’

Several people pulled out their phones and a few of the men dived forwards. They pulled Gonzo and my killer apart, gripping both of them tightly as they struggled.

‘Not that one,’ Celestine gestured at Gonzo. ‘He’s done nothing wrong.’

A loud wail split the air as a police van screeched to a halt. Officers piled out and rushed towards us. Some took hold of my murderer, others began asking what had happened.

Celestine stepped forward. ‘My boyfriend was stabbed in those toilets seven nights ago. I saw that man running away.’

‘Are you sure, miss?’

Celestine glanced at me. I nodded.

‘Yes, it was definitely him. I’d know those tattoos anywhere.’ She lowered her voice, her eyes fixed on mine and
filled with sadness. ‘And that’s not all. A young woman was stabbed to death in the same place last New Year’s Eve. Unless I’m very much mistaken, this man was responsible. You’re looking at the man who killed Lucy Shaw.’

‘How did you know?’

Even as I asked the question, I knew what Celestine’s answer would be. Jeremy had told her. That was why she was on Carnaby Street. He’d sent her to make sure I was all right.

Celestine shifted on the edge of Jeremy’s bed and gave a sad smile. ‘I’m sure you don’t need to ask. I wanted to know what was going on the night Jeremy got hurt. He explained, and in doing so, told me your story.’

‘I’m glad you turned up when you did,’ Ryan said, leaning back against the window. ‘Lucy’s killer might be walking around still if you hadn’t.’

Jeremy looked thoughtful. ‘We should tell Sarah her attacker has been caught. It’ll do her good to know he’s behind bars, and she might be able to identify him.’

I was feeling strangely empty. The see-saw emotions of the last few days were catching up with me. It wouldn’t have taken much to burst my fragile self-control and set my tears free. Once I started, I wasn’t sure I could stop.

‘How are you feeling, Lucy?’ Celestine turned concerned eyes on me. I didn’t care what she said about her mind-reading skills, she guessed far too many of my thoughts for my liking.

I tried to summon a convincing smile. ‘I’m OK.’

‘Good.’ Jeremy winced as he sat up. ‘I’d hate to think I went through this for nothing.’

My sight shimmered with tears. ‘You didn’t.’

Ryan came over and put a protective arm around my shoulder. ‘Hey, what’s with the sadness? Everything worked out fine.’

I couldn’t hold it back any longer. A heartfelt sob escaped me. ‘I know and I’m ha-happy, really I am. It’s a bit m-much to take in, that’s all.’

They fussed around, trying to soothe me. I let them. It was either that or explain the real reason for my tears: I might have been relieved it was all over, but I was also petrified about what came next. We’d caught my killer, and although that brought me some peace, it also reminded me that Ryan was still tied to this world. If catching my killer meant leaving Ryan, then a tiny selfish part of me couldn’t help wishing he’d got away.

Ryan glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s visiting time.’

A spark of understanding passed between us. ‘Do you
want to go and see her?’ I asked Ryan.

Jeremy looked confused. ‘What? See who?’

‘Ryan’s mum,’ I supplied. ‘She never misses an opportunity to visit his dad.’

Sympathy etched itself on Celestine’s face. ‘Off you go then. We’ll be here when you get back.’

The room was dimly lit when we entered. A woman I guessed to be Ryan’s mum was sitting beside the bed, reading from a sheet of paper.

‘The lads at work said hi,’ she said, her voice determinedly cheerful. ‘Big Pete still says no one makes a cuppa quite like yours.’

I risked a glance at Ryan. His eyes were fixed on his mother. I could almost feel his pain. ‘Have you tried talking to her?’

He sighed. ‘She can’t hear me. Neither of them can.’

I reached for his hand. ‘At least you’ve tried.’

We listened in silence as Ryan’s mother spilled out the details of her day. I knew she wasn’t that old, but her greying hair and lined face made her look it. I supposed that was what the death of a loved one did – drained the life from the family they left behind – and already I knew what it did to the dead. Ryan’s anguish was unbearable. I had to try and help.

‘Sing to him.’

He stared at me. ‘What?’

I gripped his fingers. ‘Sing him a song. I read somewhere
music reaches coma victims more than talking.’

Unconvinced, he shook his head. ‘I don’t have a guitar.’

‘You don’t need one. What was his favourite song?’

His gaze straying back to his father’s face, Ryan thought about it. ‘Something by The Beatles, I guess. “Yesterday”, maybe?’

‘Try it,’ I commanded, my voice soft. ‘He taught you how to play so it must have mattered to him. What have you got to lose?’

After a few minutes, Ryan’s mother seemed to run out of things to say.

‘Here’s your chance,’ I whispered.

He hesitated. ‘I don’t know if I can.’

Pouring all the encouragement I could into my voice, I said, ‘You can. He’s waiting for you.’

The room was still for a moment longer. Then Ryan cleared his throat. Uncertainly, he began to sing.

He grew more confident as the verse went on, colouring each line with his pent-up sorrow and longing. By the time he reached the chorus, tears were running down my face and the strain of holding it together for so long, and for so many people, was showing in Ryan’s glistening eyes. I gazed at the still figure on the bed, praying for a miracle.
Please hear him,
I begged silently, willing the unmoving eyelids to open.
Please come back.