Acid Lullaby (12 page)

Underwood knew he was a concentration of different pasts trapped in the present. Dexter was wrong. What gets left behind does have meaning. It has meaning because other people have to carry the burden with them. If that burden changes them, weakens or strengthens the carrier, then it also serves to redefine the present. There is no escaping the past. It has a stranglehold on us all.

Underwood started as Sauerwine re-emerged from the house. The young constable looked pale and shaken, his face drained of blood.

‘Had your fill?’ Underwood asked bitterly.

‘It’s pretty grim, sir.’

‘It was my friend.’

‘Sir, I really need to speak with Inspector Dexter.’ Sauerwine shifted nervously.

‘Why?’

‘It’s probably nothing.’

‘Look son, Inspector Dexter is organizing a scene-of-crime investigation. Unless you have something important to say, I suggest you keep your head down and do what she asked you to do. Namely, guard the entrance to the office.’ Underwood sensed something unusual in the constable’s manner. The lad was shaken and clearly had something to say. Underwood paused for a second, considering his options. He decided to take the swallow dive.

‘Tell me.’

Sauerwine looked surprised. ‘Are you back with us then, sir?’

‘Light duties. Counselling young officers could conceivably come under that heading I suppose.’

Sauerwine decided to risk humiliation: better to be battered by DI Underwood than castrated by DI Dexter. ‘Sir, I’ve just come from an old lady called Mary Colson. She lives nearby.’

‘Make your point.’

‘Sir, if you’d asked me to describe what was in that office, I could have done so without looking.’

‘You are talking in riddles, constable.’

‘Mary Colson is a kind of fortune teller, a sort of amateur psychic. Palm readings, séances and stuff. Sir, an hour ago, she told me about a recurring nightmare that she has been having. People get their heads cut off.’

‘Old ladies dream about death, constable. We all do.’

‘Sir, she told me about people with their hands tied under a table.’

Underwood began to focus through the fog of his scepticism. ‘What else did she say?’

‘Lots, sir, mad stuff. She talks about a dog-man killing people.’

‘A dog-man?’

‘I know it sounds ridiculous but the way she described it was just like that fucking room.’

Underwood could see Sauerwine was upset. He relented
slightly. ‘You do realize that this could make us look like total muppets?’

‘Sir, she told me my dead grandmother wanted to speak to me. She got her name right, sir – almost – it freaked the shit out of me.’

Underwood thought for a moment. He needed to keep busy. Dexter was unlikely to let him get too involved in the organization of the investigation. Moreover, he needed to get away from the ruination of Jack Harvey. Perhaps he had come back too quickly. Terrible images were starting to flash up at him: monsters were starting to step off the escalator of his consciousness. Jack Harvey had evidently told the Chief Super that he was fit for duty. Perhaps it would be fitting to try and prove Jack right. Defy the malevolent gods.

‘I’ll speak to her,’ he said eventually, ‘give me the address.’

Sauerwine scribbled Mary Colson’s details on a piece of notepaper.

‘Okay. Listen to me,’ Underwood immobilized Sauerwine with a fierce look, ‘this stays with us. Half the force thinks I’m stark raving bonkers already. If it gets out that I’m investigating a murder by hassling old ladies, I might as well drive straight to the Job Centre. You stay here, do what Inspector Dexter asked you to do and keep your gob shut.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sauerwine nodded. The weight had lifted.

Underwood walked briskly up the Harveys’ drive. He could see Dexter embroiled in a conversation with two firemen. He decided to leave her alone and crossed between the two fire engines to get back to his car. Dexter saw him leave. So, from a safe distance, did a malevolent god.

New Bolden Council paid Doreen O’Riordan to make day visits to the OAPs on its care list. She ensured that the ‘crumblies’ as she called them ate regular meals and took their
prescribed medication. It was poorly-paid work but it had its benefits and Doreen had learned exactly how to exploit them.

‘You’re getting fatter,’ Mary Colson observed as Doreen placed a tray of tea and toast in front of her.

‘Thank you, Mary, thank you so much,’ said Doreen through gritted teeth.
I’ll
live
a
lot
longer
than
you,
though,
she
thought.

‘It’s no wonder you can’t find a man, looking like that,’ Mary said disingenuously.

‘The last thing I need is someone else to cook and clean for,’ Doreen snarled, ‘and since we’re on the subject, you pissed all over the toilet floor again.’

Mary smiled.

‘It’s disgusting. There’s no excuse for it,’ Doreen continued bitterly, ‘I shouldn’t have to mop up your mess when you are quite capable of getting it into the pan. It’s just laziness. You should have more self-respect.’

Mary looked down at the tray: two rounds of burnt toast and a cup of tea. ‘I’ve had my breakfast already,’ she said helpfully, ‘you needn’t have bothered.’

Doreen felt a wave of cold hatred crawl through her congested veins. ‘You have to eat breakfast at nine o’clock in the morning. That’s when you are meant to take your pills.’

‘It’s the pills that make me piss the toilet,’ Mary replied.

Doreen sighed a frustrated sigh and returned to the kitchen. She lit a cigarette and took a long, inelegant drag.

‘Don’t you smoke in my house,’ Mary called from the living room.

‘Get stuffed,’ Doreen muttered. She was hungry and looked around the little kitchen for sustenance. Doreen knew that Mary had a box of fudge. She also knew that the old bitch was getting better at hiding it. This time, it took Doreen nearly ten minutes to find it, stuffed inside the microwave oven that Mary never used. She opened the box and took a handful of fudge delighting in the way its hard edges softened to goo in her mouth.

‘What are you doing?’ Mary called through.

‘Eating your fudge!’ Doreen replied through a thick, sweet mouthful.

Mary was upset. ‘You leave that fudge alone, fatty! That was a present.’

‘From your policeman fancy man – I know. So you keep telling me.’

‘You’re too fat already,’ Mary shouted in impotent fury.

Doreen gave Mary the finger from behind the kitchen wall. ‘You can’t eat it anyway. It’s got nuts in remember?’ Doreen spat back.

‘It was a present,’ said Mary sadly.

Doreen took a deep breath. Sometimes it was hard not to walk through and strangle the old bitch. Still, there were other forms of vengeance. First, she collected the money and shopping list that Mary had left for her. Then she placed the remains of the fudge back into the microwave and set it to cook for ten minutes. As she pressed the ‘start’ button, and Mary’s fudge began to absorb 750 watts of radiation energy, the front doorbell rang.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Doreen, walking through the living room. ‘I’m on my way out.’

‘Good,’ Mary replied.

Doreen opened the front door.

‘I’m looking for Mary Colson. I’m from New Bolden police.’ John Underwood held up his ID for Doreen to inspect.

‘What’s she done now?’ said Doreen with a nervous laugh: policemen made her edgy. ‘I’m her carer – Doreen O’Riordan.’

‘Who is it?’ Mary Colson squinted out into the corridor.

‘Another policeman, Mary.’ Doreen touched Underwood’s arm. ‘Will you be needing me, officer? I was off to buy her shopping.’

‘You’re fine,’ Underwood replied.

‘I’ll be off then.’ Doreen left the house as Underwood stepped inside. He walked through the small hallway into Mary’s living room and for a brief second took stock of the tiny, grey-haired woman huddled inside a red cardigan.

‘Hello, Mrs Colson. I’m from the police. There’s nothing to be alarmed about.’

‘I know,’ said Mary, ‘you’ve got a kind face.’

‘You’re the first person that ever said that! Do you mind if I sit down?’

Mary studied her guest with keen eyes. ‘You met Fatty Arbuckle, then?’

Underwood sat on Mary’s sofa. ‘Your carer?’

Mary laughed. ‘I don’t think anyone cares about me less!’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘She’s a fat bitch. She steals my housekeeping money. She thinks I’m an idiot. That I can’t add up. But I’m not stupid. I keep records. I’ve got her number all right.’

Underwood was concerned. He hated to see people being taken advantage of. ‘Would you like me to have a word with her?’

‘You know, sometimes she turns all my photographs face down on the mantelpiece. Just so I have to put them all up again. What kind of a person would do a thing like that?’

Underwood made a mental note about Doreen O’Riordan. ‘Mrs Colson, I need to talk with you. It’s about something you told Constable Sauerwine this morning.’

‘He gave me some fudge last week,’ said Mary, ‘that fat cow’s been eating it.’

‘You told him about a dream you’ve been having. Do you remember? You said it was a nightmare.’

Mary suddenly became concerned, quiet.

‘Why would you want to know about that? Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Sometimes my dreams come true you know. I can see things. I hear things too. The voices are around us all the time. I’m like a radio, I suppose! I tune in and out. Did he tell you?’

‘Something did happen today, Mrs Colson. PC Sauerwine saw it and said it reminded him of your dream: of the things you described to him.’

‘Well, I’m blowed.’ Mary’s eyes suddenly flashed with concern. ‘Is he all right?’

‘He’s a bit upset, but he’s fine. Could you tell me what you told him? Tell me about your dream.’

Mary’s eyes flicked up at the ceiling as she extracted the nightmare from her memory. ‘It’s a sequence of images, really. A big, old house. A field underwater. There’s screaming. A woman screaming. The screaming is the worst part of it. It gets worse and worse.’

‘What else?’

‘There’s a man tied to a table and a big pile of bodies under a …’

‘The man on the table,’ Underwood interrupted, ‘tell me about him.’

‘He’s tied to a table but his head is in a box.’

‘How is he tied to the table?’ Underwood asked.

‘A rope I think,’ Mary frowned. ‘I can’t remember.’

Underwood looked at his notebook. Harvey had been tied with masking tape. ‘Were his feet tied up, in your dream?’

Mary shook her head. ‘No. His hands are tied beneath him under a table.’

‘What else?’

‘His head is in a box.’

Underwood felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He could see why Jack’s dead body had freaked out Sauerwine. ‘What about this pile of bodies you mentioned?’

Mary rubbed her eyes. ‘It’s just that, a pile of bodies. All of their heads are missing.’

‘How many bodies?’

‘Lots, I don’t know.’

‘A hundred? Two?’

‘Five or six. I don’t know. Maybe more, it’s hard to say.’

‘Where is this pile of bodies?’

‘Outside. There’s always children playing nearby. I can hear them shouting and laughing. And I want to shoo them away. But they keep getting closer to this horrible mess.’

Underwood was writing down as much as he could in his notebook. Elements of the dream certainly reminded him of Jack’s death but much of it seemed vague and he was uncertain
whether any of it would be useful: even if Mary Colson did have some strange psychic power.

‘Did he tell you about the dog-man?’ Mary asked.

‘Not really.’

‘The dream always ends the same way. When the dog-man appears. He’s horrible. He always wakes me up.’

‘I don’t understand. What is a dog-man?’

‘He’s got the face of a man. And the face rises from the ground until it’s right over me. But his body is made of dogs.’

‘What does this man’s face look like?’

‘Like a tramp. Dirty.’

‘You said his body is made of dogs?’ Underwood was beginning to feel rather ridiculous and had stopped making notes.

‘It’s like he’s wearing a wedding dress. It sweeps down and away from him but the dress is made of dogs.’

Underwood really wanted to give Mary the benefit of the doubt. He realised that if Dexter had heard the old lady’s comments she would have packed up her stuff, bitten her lip and left a long time ago. It was all too vague. Crazy nonsense. Sauerwine was correct to mention it but Underwood could not escape the conclusion that he had been wasting his time.

‘Do you mind if I get a glass of water, Mrs Colson?’ he asked.

The old lady nodded and Underwood walked through to the kitchen. As he filled a flower-patterned glass with tap water and took a glug, the microwave oven beeped three times indicating the end of its cooking cycle. He opened it and saw the liquid remains of Mary’s fudge drip out on to the work surface. He felt a cold stab of fury and mopped away the worst of the mess with a tea towel.

On returning to the room Underwood looked more closely at Mary Colson: her eyes were closed and her head was tilted slightly to one side. Her face was screwed up into tight lines of concentration.

‘Mrs Colson, can I ask you about Doreen O’Riordan?’

‘Shush!’ she raised an admonishing finger, ‘there’s somebody with us.’

Underwood felt a bead of sweat trickle down under his shirt collar. The flat felt suddenly stuffy. He wanted to leave.

‘Who?’ he asked.

‘Shush! There’s so many voices. It’s hard to understand. It’s these silly tablets I have to take. It’s difficult to focus.’

Underwood noticed the bottle of pills next to the armchair. He wondered if Mary Colson had any idea what was going on.

‘The man who died today,’ she said quietly, ‘he was your friend.’

Underwood felt his heart flutter. ‘Yes, he was.’

Mary nodded. The raised finger still told Underwood to keep quiet.

‘He’s saying something,’ she said.

‘Where is he?’ Underwood asked.

Mary opened her eyes. ‘Standing right behind you.’

Underwood stood sharply and looked around the empty room.