Pretty Little Dead Things (8 page)

  I'm still not sure if I was shocked or simply nervous, but once again I chose to say nothing. What was Singh implying about his daughter's activities, and what was the exact nature of those activities? Clearly, he knew a lot more than the authorities thought he did.

  "I want the police to go about their business and investigate this, to find out who else was there, but at the same time I'd like to retain your services on an advisory level. You have contacts, and your highly specialised talents make you open to other forms of information, information no one else could ever gain access to. I'd like you to pass on any of this information that might come your way – to tell me whatever you see or hear… or sense."

  I nodded. What else could I do?

  "Whatever I'm paying you, I'll double it of course. This is a special arrangement, just between the two of us, and I'd hate for you to be out of pocket."

  In that moment, sitting in a small office with a man I thought I knew but really, truly didn't, I realised that Baz Singh was far from the usual grieving parent. More than his daughter's loss, even more than the absence caused by her no longer being in his life, he possessed an almost manic desire to ensure that her death did not tarnish his business. But there was also anger somewhere behind his mask. A dark and terrible rage that was so intense it had become a facsimile of calm. Like a deep ocean, this anger simply swelled and rolled and waited, passing itself off as a form of serenity yet hiding within its depths the capacity for great harm.

  "I'll do what I can, Mr Singh. I can't promise anything – never can I promise. It doesn't work that way. I have no control over what I learn, what I experience. I will, however, pass on any knowledge that comes my way. Despite what you say, I believe I owe you that for failing to protect your daughter."

  I stood and walked slowly towards the door, sensing that our meeting was over. There was a tension in the air that I couldn't define, something barely tangible yet still strong enough to fill the room.

  "One minute, Thomas?"

  I stopped and turned to face Baz Singh, wondering what else he wanted from me. Wasn't the damage limitation he'd already requested enough?

  "Just tell me she was already dead when you found her. That she didn't suffer for long. The way I see it, the whole thing happened fast, so if she was dead when you arrived on the scene that means she went quickly." His eyes were wide, eager. He needed me to make him feel better about something, but at that point I didn't understand enough about the situation to even consider lying.

  I swallowed hard, moistening my throat. "Yes, she was dead when I found her. But I think that she suffered. I'm not sure how I know this, but I know that she died in great pain. Spiritual pain, if not physical."

  Singh lowered his head; light glinted from his balding pate, exposing the light scars there. I'd never seen them before, and wondered briefly how he had come by them. "Thank you," he muttered, barely loud enough for me to hear. "Thank you for being honest. I can't trust many people to tell me the truth, yet you never seem to do anything else. It is both a strength and a weakness."

  I nodded without speaking, and left the room.

  Outside on the landing I headed back towards the stairs, but when I got there I continued on past the closed doors, the carpet becoming more threadbare beneath my feet. The part of the landing where Singh's office was situated – the area immediately above the club – was truncated, but this side of the building seemed to go on forever. I tried to remember what was next door to the Blue Viper and thought that it was per haps one of the many fast food joints that proliferated in the area. Kebabs and curries and greasy burgers for the greasy punters who spilled out of the place in the early hours of the morning every weekend, hungry for sustenance after satisfying their other, less specific cravings.

  Each of the doors I passed was closed tight to the frame, but the one at the end of the hall, adjacent a stained window that looked out onto what seemed to be a narrow alleyway was open: I could see a chink of light through the gap, shadows passing back and forth like pacing cats.

  The touch of the dead was everywhere at this end of the landing. I could sense violence, assault, rapes, and even several old murders. Human life had certainly been taken here at some point in history, savagely and without remorse, but it was too far in the past for me to pinpoint. My mouth went dry; my teeth tasted of copper. My tattoos were going berserk, twitching like frenzied animals stapled to my flesh.

  I'd lived with my ability for almost fifteen years, but still I had not learned to control the fear. The two went hand-inhand: fear and insight. But isn't that always the way?

  "I don't want to do it." The voice was small – that's the only way I can describe it. Small and scared and uncertain. The voice of a victim. It belonged to a woman, and it was clear to me that she was under some kind of duress.

  "No. I won't. You can't make me."

  Then: laughter, vile, horrible, cruel laughter. Underwater laughter, all wet and bubbling and unnatural. The man inside the room sounded like someone I did not want to know, or even see. He sounded like a bad man, a marauder, a taker of innocence. The unseen spirits in the air around me gathered in close, but still kept out of sight. They drew in on me, agreeing with my suspicions, adding fuel to the fire of my vision. I felt their hands upon me, sensed their puzzled fear; even they were afraid of him.

Afraid of whoever was behind that door.

  "Not now, perhaps," said the man behind the door. "But you will. Oh yes, you will." Then he laughed again.

  I experienced a slight tugging in the air, as if invisible coils of rope were being wound onto a spindle and dragged away from me, and the door, the door that was always ajar, always inviting a stray gaze, suddenly swung open and a small, stocky man in a simple, dark suit stalked out onto the landing, his oversized hands bunched into fists at his sides.

  I took a step back, stunned by the sudden, unannounced presence of this stranger, and he liked that: oh, how he liked it. His smile was a knife-cut across his face; his eyes were holes in the world. His bald head glistened, glistened, catching the meagre light and drawing it towards him, nullifying it, and as he glanced towards me I felt cold, so very cold. Despite his lack of stature, he took up so much space that I felt hemmed in, trapped by the sheer force of his personality – a personality that was, ironically, utterly devoid of anything I could latch on to. He was an empty vessel, but one of such magnitude that I felt nothing on earth could fill it.

  Then he was past me, heading down the stairs. I heard his heavy footsteps on the wooden boards, the sound of the main door opening, and voices out on the street as he exchanged quiet words with the bouncers.

  Shaking, I approached the door. It was still open, and through it I could see a threadbare room, the wallpaper peeling, posters covering the worst of it. The floor was covered in dirty rugs, cords and cables trailing across them like boneless spider legs. A small television stood on a high cabinet. A blurred CCTV image was still playing across the dusty screen: the picture consisted of several hunched figures standing before what looked like a hanging basket – at least something small and compressed attached to a rope. But before I could fully understand the image, the screen went dark.

  A woman's bare leg appeared briefly from behind one edge of the door, drawing my attention. There were bruises on her shin. Her bare toes were filthy, the nails broken. Her voice was a terrified whisper; she seemed to be praying in another language, perhaps Russian or Polish.

  From behind me I heard the sound of another door opening; footsteps; heavy breathing. Baz Singh brushed past me, heading for the door. He reached out, grabbed the handle, and as the door edged closed I glimpsed a small, thin female figure, dressed in cheap lingerie, move past the narrowing gap. Pale skin and track marks, dirty bottle-blonde hair over dark eyes. Open mouth, face scruffy with tears.

  Then she was gone, and Singh was guiding me back towards the stairs.

  "There's nothing in there for you, Thomas. Just business."

  "Who was that man?" My voice was low, struggling to emerge from my throat. I coughed, and then asked the question again. "Who was he?"

  Singh shook his head. "That was Mr Shiloh," he said, his eyes unable to meet my gaze, his face going suddenly loose and bloodless, as if the bones behind had suddenly turned to jelly.

  I knew better than to ask any more questions, and allowed him to escort me down the cramped staircase, back along the hallway, and out onto the street. The watery sunlight seemed too bright, stinging my eyes, and the city air smelled clean and fresh as pure oxygen. I felt giddy; my head began to swim and my knees threatened to buckle.

  "Thank you again, Thomas," said Baz Singh, and I was moving slowly away, crossing the street, unable to stop myself from walking away from the Blue Viper and the menacing little bald man and the girl – the mysterious girl shut up in that grubby little room above a strip club. There were tears in my eyes, rips and gouges in my heart, and a small, dark kernel of terror clenched tight inside my belly.

  I had never seen the strange man before, yet something about him was familiar. Mr Shiloh. The name was familiar, yes, but I was sure that it was from a song or a poem. It took me a while to realise that what I had recognised was the darkness that had been pasted to him like a second skin: it was exactly like that which clung to me, isolating me from my fellow man. This Mr Shiloh's darkness matched my own.

  The sky darkening, the world turning, turning, slowing, I found the nearest bar and sat in a corner nursing a large whisky. When I stared into the depths of the drink, my mind caught up in its calming motion, I saw layers of reality, states of being overlapping each other like the torn and discarded pages of an old book. When I looked up, out of the window, I saw the exact same thing outside in the street.

I was drunk when I arrived home later that afternoon. Not falling-down drunk, but enough that I wasn't quite sure about my thoughts and feelings, or confident in my natural bodily movements.

  It had been a long time since I'd lost control to that extent and allowed myself to use alcohol as a crutch. And why? – because of a glimpse of one man, and the total apathy of another towards the brutal death of his daughter. I'd seen a lot worse, experienced far grubbier situations, but something about this entire affair had hit me hard, right in the gut.

  I drank several glasses of cold water and made a fresh pot of coffee. The real stuff and not that desiccated crap from out of a jar. Sipping my drink, I stared up at the kitchen ceiling, at the floor above me, and imagined their bodies, their slim, delicate bodies swaying in an ethereal breeze.

  The image from the television earlier that day was still in my mind, like a stain. Something swinging, and attached to a rope.

  Swinging.

  I closed my eyes, tried to shut out the image. It did not work: they were still there, those girls, both before and behind my eyes, playing some kind of grim waiting game that I could only ever lose.

  Unable to resist the call of my new housemates, I put down my cup, got to my feet, and climbed the stairs. They were all there, out on the landing – even Kareena, with her beautiful silken hair knotted at her throat and her blue tongue and her bulging eyes had finally left the room to join them. Their forms were diaphanous, like images projected against the wall, but also they held a sort of firmness, a sense of being there, in the moment, that a simple image could not duplicate.

  As I watched, Kareena slowly raised one hand. Her fingers elongated and the index finger slowly straightened to point at me, singling me out for a task that I could not possibly ignore or turn down. This was not an invitation; it was a command. I stared into her pale eyes, the pupils large and grey, as if something had burst behind them and the blood had drained away. Her lips were full and blue; they pouted at me, not promising a kiss but poised on the verge of a scream.

  I turned around and went back downstairs, suddenly sober and completely focused. Turning on the stereo, I took a deep breath and thought about my dinner date with Ellen. At that moment, it seemed like the only normal thing in my life – everything else was wrapped in a black mist, vague, formless and threatening. It was all beginning to form the same endless nightmare.

  A concert was being broadcast on the radio – the London Philharmonic playing film scores by Ennio Morricone. The music was wonderful, and seemed to calm me, so I turned up the volume and went into the kitchen for more coffee. The afternoon's alcohol intake was losing its grip and I began to feel less paranoid. I wondered if I'd done the right thing in staying on Baz Singh's payroll, then remembered that I never really had a choice anyway. It wasn't blind sentiment, or even the threat of violence from Singh's heavies, that had forced my hand, but the fact that this was all starting to feel like so much unfinished business. It felt personal somehow, as if I were more directly involved than it first appeared.

  It felt as if I were the focus of these dark acts.

  I had a few hours before I needed to leave for my dinner date with Ellen, so decided to take a bath. First I booked a taxi from a local firm I often used and sat down to think about what else I might be getting myself into.

  I hadn't seen Ellen for ages – far too long. She had moved to California chasing her dream job as a medic on the US space programme fourteen years ago, and other than a few stilted phone calls early on we had not kept in close contact. We'd come face-to-face on two occasions since her move abroad, and one of those times, three years ago, had ended with us having some kind of row brought on by the attraction that never seemed to fade between us. It made me feel guilty and afraid; it made her feel angry that we could never pursue it further, even after my wife had died.