The Secret Dead (London Bones Book 1) (10 page)

18

Not long after I started working for the Lipscombe, a client told me a story about a job he did laying new water pipes in St Bartholomew’s Square, just outside the hospital. About four feet down, he encountered something odd—a layer of solid ash about eight inches thick.

‘It stunk so bad, I couldn’t keep working, but it didn’t bother none of the humans. You know what it was?’

I shook my head. He was an ogre and I thought he looked pleased at my ignorance, but I was enough of a newbie that I couldn’t tell.

‘Zombie ash. It’s where they used to burn the rotters. Thousands of ‘em. Sometimes all bound up together all snappin’ and bitin’ at each other. Or sometimes just pleadin’ to be let go.’

I’d looked into it afterwards, not quite sure he wasn’t just ragging the new girl. He wasn’t. For hundreds of years, zombies were burnt there in their thousands: gagged and bound to the stake, sometimes up to thirty or forty together. They were burnt until their bones were ash, every last shred of flesh devoured by the flames.

And that was just the ones caught by the authorities. Britain has a long tradition of barricading the dead in their homes and setting fire to them—a neat method that avoids actually having to touch the dead, and an efficient one, assuming you stop the fire spreading. And, of course, assuming you are quite sure that the person you are burning is actually dead.

The Metanatural Rights Act that legally recognised non-humans as people was finally implemented in 1964, and the Murder (Abolition of Death Penalty) Act of 1965 abolished the death penalty.

It was only noticed afterwards that the two combined meant Britain wasn’t allowed to burn zombies anymore.

There were a few court challenges, mostly funded by the families of the walking dead, but none stood up on appeal. The only thing that would have legally allowed zombie burning again was another Act of Parliament, and since being nice to zombies was never going to be a vote winner, I wasn’t expecting common sense to prevail any time soon.

So somehow in the enlightened twenty-first century, we had reached the point in zombie management where going back to burning people at the stake seemed like a more civilised option. I’d heard rumours that crematoriums accepted the occasional altruistic zombie as customers, but I’d thought it was just that: rumours. Whether it was or not, it looked like that’s what Malcolm had tried to opt for. And I’d put paid to it.

Whether a murderer or not, naughty or nice, any zombie nabbed by the NRT ends up in the same place: the Necroambulist Detention Centre, known to just about everyone else as the ZDC.

The living dead used to be housed in the depths of the Tower, but London’s population is sky rocketing. Maybe one person zombified every six months at the turn of the twentieth century. Now it’s at least one a week. Most die in hospitals or hospices who have their own procedures for dealing with the newly dead—not that many people die at home anymore—so the NRTs, and me by association, don’t get involved, but there isn’t enough space to keep them in the Tower anymore. And that’s without it being a huge turnoff to tourists.

Battersea Power Station was converted in the early nineties. I didn’t see it then, but I’d seen photographs. The pit, or Group Area as it was then known, was a nice idea powered by good intentions. It consisted of a huge open-plan space with a sleeping area—bunk beds cordoned off by lacquered Japanese privacy dividers—an entertainment area complete with comfy sofas with quilted throws, armchairs, some games consoles, a few big TVs, and a library so they wouldn’t get bored. A further dining area with dining-hall-style tables and stools was placed at the far end of the hall. Raw meat was lowered twice a day via a pulley system—all very humanitarian and not very well thought out.

For one thing, zombies rot, so all the lovely quilts, armchairs, and bunk beds got icky very, very quickly. Also, the shambling corpses had little interest in playing Mario Cart. At dinner time they descended on the dining area and ripped and licked until there was nothing left, then they wandered off in search of other food. All other objects—the TVs, the sofas, the beds—were torn apart in case some tasty morsel was hiding inside.

The last time I’d looked into the pit, there’d been a single small light left overhead so that all you could see was a hint of shambling bodies in the dark.

There’d been some plan to install fluorescent lights high above the pit, dangling the electricians too high for the zombies to get them. Nothing came of it. The danger pay didn’t make it past the accountants and no one really wanted to look in there anyway. The pit featured in a lot of my nightmares.

At first thought, it might have seemed insane to keep so many dangerous creatures within one of the most populous cities in the world. If they managed to get loose, London would be another Auckland in a matter of days, but it made sense if you thought about it. If there ever were a great outbreak, any government would want their zombie-stashing staff to be able to grab and dump as quickly as possible without worrying about them spending hours driving back and forth between an out-of-the-way dump site and outbreak central.

Little turned the car into the parking lot and drove as close as he could, then stopped the car but left the engine running. Bollards and reinforced steel walls hid the reception from the road. He indicated the building with his head.

‘Aren’t you coming in?’

‘Oh, no. Not going in there again unless I have to. I’m just the driver. It’s straight home for me. Shower and a crap, then straight to bed.’

‘God, TMI. You could have just said no.’

Again, I couldn’t help but wonder if Little got on with his neighbours. The cat smirked as he drove off.

Reception consisted of a single square room with two rows of cheap metal chairs set into the concrete floor. It had no visible reception window, just a big buzzer next to a sign that read ‘By appointment only. No Exceptions.’

I pressed the buzzer. An automated voice told me to state my full name, address, date of birth, and National Insurance Number. I complied and dutifully turned my face to one of the caged security cameras.

A minute later my name was announced over the intercom. I paced over to the single steel door and waited, again, while the camera verified I was the same person who’d requested entry. After a minute, the door slid upwards, and I scooted in. It slammed shut almost immediately after.

The stink of the still-moving dead hit me immediately. The stench of a thousand decomposing corpses will challenge even the most sophisticated air conditioning and filtering system. I suppressed the urge to turn around and bang on the door and scream until they let me out.

19

All dead men look pathetic, but Malcolm took the cake. His lips, which usually had a rubbery look to them, appeared dry and cracked, and I was glad the glass barrier prevented me from smelling him.

The cell was about seven feet by five. A single bed was bolted to one wall. When the time came and Malcolm lost the last vestiges of willpower and the ability to talk, the steel floor would begin to sink down into the depths of the pit. The stink and the moan from under the floor was unmistakable.

A toilet and wash basin, another well-meaning but pointless touch, sat next to the head of the bed. If Malcolm had been so inclined, he could have touched the toilet seat with his nose without raising his head from his pillow. His skin was mottled, and he wore the same blue striped boxers he’d had on when he’d jumped. Closer than I’d been at the house, I looked for signs of what had killed him, but there was nothing to be seen under the thick hair. He looked like a sick bear in pyjama bottoms.

A handwritten index card stuck to the glass gave his name, date of birth, an estimated date of death as 26 December, and the cause of death: ‘Natural causes assumed. Visual inspection only. Autopsy refused.’

I didn’t know how bad his eyesight had become. ‘Hi, Malcolm, it’s Viv. You wanted to see me?’

At the sound he shot up and lurched towards the glass. Then, just as suddenly, he remembered himself and forced himself to sit down again.

I took a step back despite myself. ‘Are you okay?’

Despite possible rigor mortis, he managed to give me the sort of look the question deserved. ‘Jillie?’ The word was thick and slurred as if he were drunk and came out in a low rasp I had to strain to hear.

‘She’s still in quarantine.’

‘Finn?’

‘Same.’

His cloudy eyes stared directly into mine. The eyes really are the window to the soul, and the bit of me that recognised the dead could see his was still in there and was scared. I looked away.

Malcolm had told Dunne he wanted to speak to me alone, and the policeman was at least keeping to the letter of it. I had no doubt he was on the other side of the steel door listening to every word. If he could make out Malcolm’s rasp.

‘Malcolm, now’s the time to tell me what happened. Tell me where Ben is. I’ll make sure he’s looked after.’

The dead man raised his eyebrows. The rest of his face didn’t follow. ‘He killed me.’ Even through the rasp, his tone was incredulous.

‘What?’ Whatever I had expected Malcolm to tell me, that wasn’t it.

He echoed me. ‘What?’

My eyes slid to the index card that said Malcolm had died of natural causes, even if I knew how little it meant. On an autopsy refusal, it simply meant there were no visible bite marks and no other obvious signs of death.

The longer you’re dead, the more confused you get, but Malcolm seemed particularly slow. Of course he was never the brightest spark to begin with.

‘You said he killed you. Who killed you? Ben?’

He stuck out the tip of a white, furry tongue and attempted to lick his lips, but death had halted saliva production along with everything else, and it made a scritch-scratch sound.

He muttered something, but I couldn’t quite make it out. Not Ben. Ben’s brother, or Ben’s mother, or maybe even ‘other’. Surely not Ben’s lover? The more I turned it over in my mind, the less sure I was. Malcolm’s head drooped. He put his hands around his ears. For a moment he was still enough that he looked like he really was dead.

‘Malcolm, I can’t hear you. You need to tell me again.’

The air is kept close to freezing in the ZDC for obvious reasons. I shivered, and Malcolm quivered with me but for entirely different reasons. He stayed where he was. I was impressed with his self-control. Then he seemed to shake himself out of it. He looked a little confused. He squinted at me. ‘Jillian?’

I thought he’d have more time before his mind started fizzing. And when it went, it would go fast.

‘Malcolm, what happened? What did you want to tell me?’

The sound seemed to rouse him. He raised his head and stared at me. And in his eyes, there was nothing left of him but the hunger. His body made a wet sound as it hit the glass, over and over again.

20

Considering how much they like to discourage visitors, it may seem a little odd the ZDC has a public canteen. However, due to a Health and Safety rule that never made much sense to me, you’re not allowed to bring food in, and starving your visitors isn’t polite. It’s not the most exciting place: folding tables, stale sandwiches, and coffee that clears your sinuses. Not much more than provision of the bare basics so the non-permanent inmates of the building are fed and watered.

I sat at a table in the corner and ran a finger over the surface, leaving a greasy smear. A plastic cup of coffee from the machine heated my fingers. I’d run my eyes down the specials board but nothing appealed. The stench of the dead clung to everything in the building, and I didn’t want to eat anything that had spent any time in the place. The coffee didn’t count because nothing could survive in something so vile. I took a gulp and swallowed immediately so it came into minimum contact with my tongue.

Dunne wasn’t as fussy. He returned to the table with a cup of tea and an egg sandwich.

‘Really? You can eat?’

He stripped the plastic wrapping off the sandwich. The stench of the dead took on an eggy overtone. ‘Haven’t had a chance yet. Haven’t slept either. But I’m used to that.’

Dunne and Mrs Dunne, whose first name I’d long forgotten and could no longer ask without sounding foolish, had four children under five. And according to Dunne, none of them slept. I made a sympathetic noise and pushed the plastic cup away. I wasn’t that desperate for caffeine.

Dunne leaned across the table. ‘So? What did Brannick say?’

‘He said, “He killed me.”‘

‘What? Who? Did he say?’

I shook my head slightly. ‘He muttered something I couldn’t make out, then he just lost it.’ I wasn’t quite prepared to pass on the fact I’d been asking about Ben at the time. It made no sense. Somehow Malcolm’s addled brain had got it wrong, and Ben was in enough trouble.

Dunne sat back with a curse. ‘That just complicates things. He’s refused autopsy, but we were assuming natural causes.’

‘Have you tracked the source of infection yet?’

He shook his head. ‘No. He spent most of the holidays at home, and no sign of bite marks. He was probably a carrier, but where he picked that up...’ Dunne stirred his tea with a plastic stick which he then licked and laid on top of the lid. ‘No sign of the boy either. You sure he was alive?’

I nodded.

He made a harrumphing sound. ‘Stupid kid. He risked the lives of every single person in the United Kingdom, if not the world. And for what? He’ll be looking at a custodial sentence for that little stunt. At least. The Crown Prosecutor’s already getting pressure from above to make an example of him.’

‘He’s just a boy. He made a mistake.’

Dunne swallowed his tea the wrong way and began coughing. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I don’t throw away the key. I just bag ‘em and have to figure out the mess they’ve made. Thinking of which, remind me what Malcolm did at the Trust?’

‘He was press officer.’

‘Did he do talks with schools?’

‘He used to. Donna took those over a few years ago.’

Dunne rubbed at his bald head as if trying to soothe his brain. ‘What about kids’ classes? You lot do those, right?’

‘We rent out the clinic room to other organisations when we’re not using it. The St Anguiculus Children’s Home uses it on Thursdays to hold dance classes for shifter street kids—the ones too stubborn or too old to stay at the Home. It’s a way to get them in and make contact and make sure they’re okay without scaring them off.’

‘What else?’

‘We’ve got an art therapy class for children we run in conjunction with Social Services. It’s mostly those who’ve been through some sort of trauma, and the children work through their issues with painting and drawing. It’s been quite successful. But Malcolm doesn’t really get involved in any of them.’

‘What do you mean by “doesn’t really?”‘

‘The actual classes are run by teachers and therapists from outside the Trust. Habi arranges them and does all the paperwork. We take turns filling in for her when she’s off.’

‘When’s the last time Malcolm filled in for her?’

I thought about it. ‘I’m not sure. You’d be better off asking Obe. He authorises all the holidays. Where’s this going?’

Dunne pulled open the flap of his shoulder bag and pulled out a slim folder. He pushed it across the table to me. I opened to the first page.

It was a photo of a girl printed on ordinary paper, so the image was slightly dulled. She had a round face and deep brown eyes. The shadow of a moustache covered her top lip. Above her eyebrows, I saw a thin but distinct ridge indicating a partial troll heritage. I recognised her.

‘This is her. The dead girl I saw in Malcolm’s house.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’ The ridge hadn’t been there, but that wasn’t surprising. The dead don’t just shape their death world, they shape themselves.

‘Her name’s Berenice Nazarak.’

That was it. The memory of her spelling it out returned.

‘She was one of your art therapy students.’

I stared at the picture again. The girl’s eyes were accusatory. The date of birth stamped on the picture told me she was only fifteen. ‘Oh,’ I said.

Dunne picked up the plastic stirring stick and tapped it against the side of his cup. ‘So he could have made contact with her there?’

‘I suppose so, but we take child protection very seriously. A lot of the children who come in have been...’ I paused to consider my words. ‘The term is “known to Social Services.” They’re vulnerable, high risk of abuse. Fran—that’s the art therapist—is pretty clued up. I can’t see that she would have let anyone—even someone in the Trust—get close to a child there without her knowing about it. Have you spoken to her?’

‘I’ve got an appointment this afternoon. How do the children get to the classes?’

‘They’re dropped off by their parents or foster carers. They have the class in the clinic rooms. Fran waits in the classroom and makes sure they’re collected at the end, and by the right people. She keeps a roster. Like I said, these are high-risk kids.’

‘Do you know if Malcolm ever joined the class? Or helped out?’

‘Not as far as I know. But you’d be better off asking Fran. He was in charge of a few classes years ago, but he doesn’t do them now.’

Dunne looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes, I know. We put Brannick’s name into the system, and it flagged up an old complaint. Inappropriate behaviour at one of your classes. There were never any charges filed so I don’t have full information, but it looks as if one of the parents complained.’

‘I didn’t know,’ I said quietly.

‘I’m also told he had a thing for unclean women.’ Dunne used his fingers to put little quote marks in the air around ‘unclean’. ‘I think the phrase used was “anything with spots or stripes”’

I opened my mouth and closed it again. I’d always believed Malcolm would stick it in a knothole if he thought no one was watching, but I’d never been interested enough to notice a pattern. I ran through a mental list of human women we saw in the office and realised I’d never seen him hit on any of them. Spots and stripes indeed. But Berenice had been fifteen. That was a whole other world of disturbing. It was also something new.

‘Women, not girls,’ I said. ‘He hit on anything that moved, but I never saw him try it with anyone underage.’ But even as I said it, all Malcolm’s distasteful jokes began to run through my head. Maybe they hadn’t all been jokes. I shuddered.

Dunne gave me a sharp look. ‘I know how the Lipscombe works. Your clients don’t always trust the police, and I understand that. But you understand how this looks? Discreet clients, high risk children, fear of authority. It’s making all my internal copper alarms go off.’

I couldn’t meet his eyes. The queasiness in my stomach wasn’t just from the smell of the dead. You always hear of people saying afterwards
I thought there was something a little off about him.
Was that going to be me? My mouth went dry. I tried to ignore the rising sense of dread.

Dunne gave me a sympathetic look and swilled back the last of his tea. ‘I want you to speak to the dead girl again. See if you can find out what happened to her.’

‘I can do that.’

‘On the house? I don’t know if I’ll be able to get Haddad to give me another sign-off.’

‘Yes.’

Dunne nodded. ‘Good.’ He gathered the photos and paper and dropped them into the file, then stood up.

‘One favour?’

He raised his owl eyebrows.

‘Can I see Jillie? I want to check she’s okay.’

Dunne hesitated, considering, then gave in. ‘Fine. But you tell me if she tells you anything.’

‘Of course.’

I watched him leave. I did want to check if Jillie was okay, but she also might know where Ben had gone. Lying to the police was never a good idea, but Malcolm was already locked away. All that remained was to find Ben and get him out of the trouble he was in.