Deadland

by William Shaw

  But then Venus appeared low in the western sky, as if somebody had just flicked on a light switch, and the thought was gone.

  *

  There was a light on in Arum Cottage. Cupidi paused at the door, unsure if she would be welcome at this hour, but knocked anyway.

  William South opened it only a chain’s width, peering out.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, not removing the lock.

  ‘I’ve got a question. Do you mind if I come in?’

  He hesitated. ‘I was going to bed.’

  ‘It will only take a second.’

  He looked at her for a second. She was about to turn away when he said, ‘What?’

  ‘You used to be the community policeman here.’

  ‘Thank you for reminding me.’ He closed the door.

  She stood on the frayed black rubber doormat, annoyed at his moodiness.

  ‘I didn’t mean to put it like that,’ she called out, loud enough for him to hear. Stupid woman, always opening her mouth before she’d thought what she was saying. ‘Did you ever hear about a rich couple, the Millers, having a place round here?’ she said, raising her voice so he could hear her. ‘A model named Astrid Theroux?’

  He didn’t answer. The light went out in the living room.

  Leaning down, she pushed open the letter box and called, ‘Don’t be childish, Bill. I’ve just come to ask for your help. Simple question.’

  But the light stayed off. She noticed the cardboard box by the door. It was full of empty bottles. And he had had no company either. She knew because she, like her daughter, had been keeping an eye on him.

  EIGHTEEN

  Tap had tried telling Sloth about the ghosts, but Sloth had said he didn’t like to talk about that stuff. It freaked him out.

  They slept side by side, fully clothed, bodies close to each other for warmth. The April nights were cold. It had happened perfectly naturally, both bodies, curled together on the hard floor. Tap didn’t say anything about that either, in case Sloth thought it was weird.

  The muttering of ghosts had woken him again; he heard their footsteps now. It didn’t scare him at all. What harm could they do? It was the man who was chasing them who was frightening.

  Then, in the darkest point of the night, the phone rang again, singing out its chirpy melody into the night.

  ‘Wake up, Slo.’ Tap shook his shoulder.

  ‘Wha?’

  Sloth was a deep sleeper. Tap pushed inside his friend’s jeans pocket.

  ‘What you frickin’ doing?’

  In his hands, the screen glowed.

  ‘That phone. It’s ringing again. Shall I answer it?’

  ‘Is it him?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Yeah. Go on.’

  Tap pressed the green button, held the handset to his ear.

  The sound of a man breathing as the glow from the handset lit the small space around them. Then, a guttural voice. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ asked Sloth.

  ‘He wants to know where we are.’ Tap spoke into the phone. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘That’s my phone you’re holding. I want it back.’

  Tap put his hand over the microphone.

  ‘He says he wants his phone back.’

  ‘We’d have given you it back . . . only you shot the last guy,’ said Sloth.

  ‘Don’t,’ hissed Tap.

  ‘Well, he did, didn’t he?’

  ‘I’ll find you,’ said the voice. ‘And when I do, I’ll fucking kill you too.’

  ‘Leave us alone,’ said Tap.

  ‘Do one thing, and do it right . . . and I’ll leave you alone.’

  In the darkness Tap looked at Sloth.

  ‘Yeah? What?’

  ‘Unlock the phone.’

  ‘We would do,’ said Sloth. ‘But we not got the code, arse-hat.’

  Tap’s mouth was wide. ‘Don’t.’ He shook his head.

  ‘I’ll give it you. Then do exactly as I say, right?’

  In the darkness, Sloth frowned. ‘You’ll leave us be?’

  ‘Two, seven, six, seven,’ said the man.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Unlock the phone. Do exactly as I say and I won’t come after you.’ The voice repeated the four digits.

  ‘Why should we?’

  ‘Because if you don’t I’ll hunt you fucking down.’

  A message flashed up onto the screen: Battery Low.

  ‘Go on then,’ said Sloth. ‘Do it.’

  Tap entered the numbers. The screen shone more brightly now. ‘It’s unlocked.’

  ‘I’m going to give you some instructions and I want you to follow them exactly, OK?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Press these keys one at a time. Star, five, two. Got that?’

  ‘Star, five, two. Wow.’

  ‘What can you see?’

  ‘Words,’ said Tap. The small grey rectangle was suddenly filled with words. Rows of capitals and spaces.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Don’t know. Makes no sense.’

  The voice attempted calm. ‘OK. There should be twelve words there. I want you to read them to me. Slowly and clearly. One by one. Got that?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Just read the words,’ the voice snapped. ‘OK?’

  Tap peered at the screen, trying to figure out what he was seeing.

  ‘Hurry up,’ said the voice.

  ‘Keep your hair on,’ said Tap. ‘And if I read this, you’ll definitely leave us alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Swear to God?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake. Come on.’

  ‘Got your pencil?’

  ‘Read it.’

  Tap read. ‘SUNRISE. EXCEED. PURPOSE.’

  ‘Wait. Slow down.’ The man was writing down the words. ‘Yes . . . and?’

  ‘It’s just weird shit like that. Pointless.’

  ‘Keep reading.’

  ‘It’s just gibberish. SURVIVOR. ANALYST. BATTLE. What is this? A word puzzle or something?’

  ‘Come on,’ shouted the man.

  ‘TUMOUR. PARALYSED. POTENTIAL.’

  ‘Is that spelled the American way or the British way?’

  ‘How would I know?’ said Tap. Sloth giggled.

  ‘Paralysed. With a z or an s?’

  Tap peered at the word. ‘An s. Why’s it so important?’

  ‘And tumour with a u?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘Just believe me, it matters.’

  ‘Yes. With a u.’

  ‘The last three words?’

  ‘And we can keep the phone?’

  ‘Just give me the fucking words.’

  ‘BUTTOCK—’

  Sloth burst out laughing in the darkness.

  ‘You having me on?’

  ‘Honest to God. That’s what it says. BUTTOCK.’ Tap spelled it out.

  ‘I’ll fucking kill you if you’re lying.’

  ‘I trust you, mate,’ said Tap. ‘Next word, DEADLY.’

  ‘And?’ said the man.

  But just as Tap was scrolling down to read the final word, the screen went black. ‘Hello?’ he said into the darkness, but there was no one there.

  The phone had run out of battery. It was dead.

  ‘What was the last word?’ asked Sloth.

  ‘Couldn’t read it.’

  Sloth snatched it off him. ‘What was the lock code?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  Sloth hit him. ‘What’s the code? If we can charge it, we can use it, then at least we got a phone.’

  ‘We should throw it away, mate.’

  Sloth hit him again. ‘What’s the code?’

  ‘Two, seven, six, seven . . .’

  Sloth found an old screw on the floor of the shed and spent ten minutes carefully grinding the number into the case.

  *

  In the morning,
Tap blinked into the sun that lit the land outside the open door. A flock of green parakeets chattered ridiculously in a small tree that grew between where they lay and the creek beyond.

  ‘What the frick was all that about, last night?’ said Sloth, lying next to him.

  ‘Some guy wanting the answers to his Sudoku.’

  ‘That’s numbers, you prick.’

  ‘Weird, though. Potential . . . Deadly . . . Buttocks. Like a code or something.’

  Sloth sniggered, sat up, picked up the dead phone. ‘Reckon he was a spy?’

  ‘Like it’s some Mission Impossible shit going down.’

  ‘Not around here. If it was London or Tokyo or something, not here.’

  ‘Got anything to eat?’

  ‘No.’

  *

  ‘Chuck it in the river,’ Tap said. ‘Far as we can.’

  ‘No. We need it. It’s all we have.’

  ‘Hide it then.’

  In the end Sloth just scraped a hole in the earth at the back of the shed and dropped it in there. ‘Happy now? No one can find it.’

  By lunchtime they were restless, hungry and twitchy, the kind of twitchiness you get when you haven’t had a smoke in days and the colours are all too bright.

  Tap checked the pockets of his trousers, his shirt and his hoodie, just in case he could find a few crumbs of weed. There was a tiny piece of silver paper, and he unwrapped it cautiously, trying to see if there was anything inside, but it turned out just to be a sweet wrapper.

  ‘I’m so bored. Let’s go for a walk.’

  ‘No. What if somebody recognises us?’

  ‘I’ll go crazy just stuck here. Besides, he said he’d let us go, didn’t he, if we read him them words? And we read most of them.’

  They walked south of the fence that surrounded the patch they were camped on and found themselves on a new estate, houses dotted on the flatland like Lego, neat and full of promise.

  ‘Imagine living in one of them,’ said Tap.

  ‘Yeah. Fancy. I’d go nuts.’

  ‘I don’t know. I reckon it’d be pretty cool.’

  A black Kia slowed; the man inside was in his forties, wearing a grey suit. He lowered his window, peered at them, then drove on.

  ‘Fuck. He recognised us,’ said Tap.

  ‘Why would he recognise us?’

  Tap frowned. ‘Maybe we were on the news.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ But there was uncertainty in Sloth’s voice.

  They were at a newly built place called Ruby Tuesday Drive. ‘That’s a song, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, mate.’

  ‘It is. My mum sings it.’

  Nearby there was Tumbling Dice Mews, Sympathy Vale, and Lady Jane Place.

  ‘They’re all songs. Swear to God. Some group my mum likes.’

  ‘I’m that hungry I would go through their bins.’

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ said Sloth.

  ‘Bit of pizza or something. I tell you, I wouldn’t care if there were teeth marks in it already. I’m going to die.’

  The flats had large green bins lined up behind little fences. They both stared at them for a second, then Sloth pulled on Tap’s arm, dragging him away.

  At the next corner, they watched through a ground-floor window as a young woman in a silver T-shirt poured water from a kettle into a pan.

  ‘What do you think she’s making?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  A black car turned off the main drag and drove towards them.

  ‘Is that the same one? The bloke who was looking at us couple of minutes back?’

  ‘You’re freaking me out now. Why would it be?’

  ‘It is,’ hissed Tap, staring at the pavement as the Kia rolled passed them, round the bend in the road.

  ‘Don’t get para, mate.’

  ‘I promise. It’s him. C’mon.’ He pulled at Sloth, increasing his pace towards the end of the street.

  The low hum of the engine returned.

  ‘Don’t look. He’s behind us. Act casual.’

  The bonnet of the Kia nosed ahead of them until the driver was alongside.

  They walked deliberately slowly down Ruby Tuesday Drive. On the far side of the junction was the derelict land they were camped on. If they made it to the fence, he wouldn’t be able to follow.

  The car moved on, but stopped about ten metres in front.

  ‘Keep walking,’ muttered Sloth.

  They could see the window sliding down as they approached.

  ‘Shit.’

  As they reached it, the man in the grey suit leaned across the passenger seat. ‘Can I help you, lads?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Tap.

  ‘Are you lost? Only, I seen you wandering around here.’

  ‘We’re OK. Jog on.’

  They walked past the car towards the main road, hesitating at the junction, where the car caught up with them again.

  ‘Thing is, you need to be careful in this area,’ the man said. ‘We’ve had a few burglaries. People might get suspicious when they see a couple of young lads nosing around the place.’

  ‘We weren’t nosing,’ said Tap. ‘We were just . . .’

  ‘Looking for a shop,’ finished Sloth.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the man. ‘I know. Nightmare round here, isn’t it? Build all these houses and there’s nowhere to buy anything. Nearest is the other side of the main road. Get in. I’ll give you a ride.’ He pushed the side door open.

  ‘You’re all right.’ Tap looked straight ahead.

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’ll only take me a minute.’

  ‘My mum says I shouldn’t get into any cars with strange old men,’ said Sloth.

  Tap’s snigger turned into a laugh, and though he raised his hand to his mouth to stifle it, he couldn’t stop himself.

  Sloth started giggling too, with that high-pitched wheeze he made.

  But the man was laughing now, hands gripping the steering wheel. ‘Your mum was right.’

  Tap’s stomach hurt from the laughter. All the air was leaving him.

  ‘Go on,’ said the man. ‘Get in, you daft idiots. What you want? Food? I’ll take you to the KFC. Five minutes.’

  Sloth stopped laughing. ‘KFC?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Try anything and we could have you,’ he said.

  ‘Well, that’s lovely. I’m just trying to be Christian, that’s all.’

  ‘OK,’ said Sloth slowly. ‘Can you get us a meal? Only we got no money.’

  ‘I thought you were going to the shops. What were you going to buy there?’

  ‘Not enough for a burger, anyway.’

  The man smiled, leaned over again, and opened the passenger door. ‘Get in. You can pay me back.’

  Ignoring the door he held for them, Sloth got in the back instead and moved across the seat, making space for Tap.

  The man just kept on smiling at them and closed the front door again. ‘Buckle up,’ he said and the car drove away.

  NINETEEN

  The pale young man opened the door, eyes wide. ‘You!’

  Cupidi wasn’t used to people grinning at her when she showed them her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Cupidi,’ she said.

  ‘And you’re Ross, aren’t you?’ added Ferriter. ‘Remember us from the gallery? They passed us your address.’

  He wore a black T-shirt, black trousers and black trainers. ‘You were the one who discovered the arm,’ said Ferriter, from behind Cupidi.

  ‘Smelt it.’ He looked Ferriter up and down, smiled. A tiny smile. ‘That was fast.’

  ‘What was fast?’

  ‘I called that 0800 number just an hour ago – the Crimestoppers one you put in the newspapers asking for information about . . .’

  Cupidi looked enquiringly at Ferriter. The constable shook her head, puzzled. ‘No. They didn’t contact us . . . We were coming here as a routine enquiry because you work at the gallery. Do you have particular information?’

  ‘Well . . . no. Not exactly particul
ar. I just wanted to find out what was going on.’

  ‘Right,’ said Cupidi slowly. ‘May we come in?’

  ‘Sorry. Yes. Of course.’

  It was a two-bedroom flat on the seventeenth floor of Arlington House, the giant sixties block that rose above Margate’s low curve of old seaside buildings. Ugly on the outside, the view from the inside was breathtaking. The living-room window looked across the sweep of honey-coloured sand, up to the angular roofs of the gallery which sat on the headland in front of the harbour arm.

  ‘Whoa,’ said Ferriter, looking around.

  The apartment was sparse, but full of old sixties furniture, gathered in from junk shops.

  ‘Nice,’ said Ferriter.

  ‘Not mine,’ said Ross. ‘My bloodsucking landlord’s. He says he’s going to evict me for non-payment of rent.’

  ‘So . . . they told us you’re not working at the gallery any more?’

  ‘They let me go,’ he said archly, amused by the phrase. ‘It was just a probationary period. It wasn’t really my thing anyway. And after the incident . . .’

  ‘That doesn’t seem fair.’

  Ross shook his head. ‘It didn’t suit me anyway.’

  ‘We came here because we wanted to interview you about finding the remains. It was nothing to do with your phone call.’

  He sat down on an ancient leather sofa whose stuffing leaked out of the arm. Cupidi found a plastic dining chair and placed it next to him; Ferriter remained upright, facing the window, looking out.

  ‘Why did you call us this morning?’

  ‘I have been very . . . affected by all this. I wanted to find out whether you had found out anything.’

  Ferriter turned, sneaked a glance. Cupidi said, ‘People generally call us when they want to give us information, not the other way around.’

  ‘There has been nothing in the papers that makes any sense. It’s all just speculation.’

  ‘So you didn’t have anything you wanted to tell us?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Because on the day we were at the gallery you seemed very interested in the investigation,’ said Cupidi. ‘We noticed you watching us.’

  ‘Of course.’ Ross nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you expect me to be interested?’

  Cupidi smiled. ‘Yes. But most people pretend hard not to be.’

  ‘Do they? Why?’

  ‘Because they’re worried people might think them prurient. And because maybe they think it’s none of their business.’