The Love of the Dead

by Craig Saunders

  Miles did it for her. He pulled the card from the woman’s teeth, and her mouth dropped open. Her features, her muscles, her mouth, all suddenly slack.

  Her eyes rolled in her head. The whites of her eyes were shot through with blood and one pupil was huge and red and awful to look at. Then she spoke.

  “A gift for you, Beth. Are you grateful? Are you? His gift to you. He told me to tell you that. He told me to tell you, and that he’d let me go. God, let me go! Let me go now.”

  Tears pooled in the dead woman’s eye, tainted by blood. She looked so sad. A last sigh came from her lips and she was gone. The sigh sounded like relief, like a lover giving a last mercy fuck and knowing for sure, at last, it’s over. All the pain, all the hurt. Like letting go and being happy to fall.

  Beth felt her stomach clench but she wouldn’t throw up. Not here. Not on the woman’s head.

  She dropped it like it was something dirty. She was sweating and shaking, but Miles was there by her side, stroking her hand, trying to comfort her as best as he could with no words.

  The head hit the cupboard under the sink. The cleaning products and the bin and the whiskey cupboard.

  Miles tugged at her hand. She looked down, and he held the card out to her.

  The Fool.

  She laughed as she moved the head aside with her toe and opened the cupboard and took the whiskey out. It was okay to break the rules. Sometimes it was okay to be drunk at any time of the day. All day, if necessary.

  When she finally called Coleridge she was very drunk, but thank god she’d stopped laughing, because it was the kind of laughter that hurt her head, right back where her skull joined her neck, and not the kind that split your sides.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The police came and brought the circus with them. The crime scene technicians, someone to pronounce the woman’s head dead, which nearly made Beth laugh again, but she managed to cover it by biting down on her cigarette filter so hard she cut it in two. Detectives came, people took photographs, made drawings, took notes, asked her questions.

  They did what the police always do: clean up other people’s shit. They went again, like they always do. But Coleridge came with them, and they either left him behind because he’d failed, like a punishment, or he stayed off his own back. Beth couldn’t decide, and she was far too drunk to think much about it.

  She looked at him but her eyes hurt. Her head hurt. She wanted to carry on drinking, but drinking with an audience had never been her thing. It was a private solace, something for her to know, maybe Peter, of course Miles, but it was nothing to do with the policeman.

  With the rest of them, it had been impersonal. It hadn’t mattered that she was falling down, pissing herself drunk. They hadn’t mattered. Just a bunch of people, treading softly ’round the blood but traipsing shit everywhere else.

  But Coleridge...Coleridge had a way of looking at her that was making her angry, because his face said he thought he understood.

  But he didn’t understand a damn thing.

  “You got coffee?” he said.

  “You staying?” she said.

  “I am.”

  “Can I do anything about that?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s the way it’s going to be.”

  “I could kick you out.”

  “You could. It’s pretty windy. Cold out this time of year. Fat man like me, bad circulation?”

  “I don’t care.”

  He pursed his lips, looked at her sadly. She got angry all over again. But she didn’t really want to be on her own. She didn’t know why. It wasn’t like her. She didn’t need people. She didn’t need company.

  She sure as hell didn’t need a fucking friend.

  “Coffee’s in the cupboard in the corner. Pot’s in the cupboard over there.”

  He nodded, busied himself making coffee. She thought about talking to him, but she figured it wasn’t up to her to make conversation. If he wanted to talk, he could come out on the porch.

  The back door slammed in the wind, so she put a chair from her garden set in front of it. She could hear the coffeemaker going in the kitchen. She tried to ignore it and focus on the sea. Whiskey in hand, glass on the table. Cigarettes in her pocket. Should be a lovely night.

  The sky was clear and black, no clouds or moon, just a cloak of stars. The wind was chilly—probably freezing, she knew—but she’d drunk enough to be insulated against the worst of it.

  She tried to light her cigarette, but the wind snatched her flame again and again.

  “Fuck it.”

  She got up and went into the kitchen. The policeman was sitting at her table. Her kitchen table. It was hers. Not his. He looked completely at home, even though he had no right to be.

  He nodded at her.

  She lit her cigarette and went back out to the porch to smoke.

  The sea was high. She could see the whitecaps foaming in the weak light from her kitchen. She watched that and tried not to think about the policeman. She tried hard, but she was angry and wasn’t thinking straight. She was scared. Pretty drunk, too. She didn’t need him here. She could feel him, right there. Looking at her. Sizing her up, like he was waiting for the right moment to hit her, but with kind words instead of a bunched fist.

  She lit a second cigarette from the butt of the first and pretended she didn’t know he was standing behind her in the doorframe.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t want you here,” she said. Like it would do any good. She couldn’t throw him out. She probably couldn’t even push him an inch. He must weigh as much as your average hatchback.

  “Not that.”

  “What else is there?”

  “Mrs. Willis...”

  “Don’t call me that. If you’re going to rape me in my own home call me Beth, at least, or bitch, or whatever rapists do, but don’t be fucking polite.”

  “What?”

  “This is my home!”

  “Beth, I’m not here to wind you up. I’m here because you were sent a human head by a man that’s killed seven people for sure, maybe more we haven’t heard about. I’m here because you’re in danger and you can’t look after yourself.”

  “You don’t know a fucking thing!”

  “Why are you shouting at me?”

  “I don’t know! Stop being so...so...fucking reasonable!”

  He shut up. Pursed his lips. He didn’t look at her. She was shaking and the wind had smoked the last of her cigarette right down to the butt.

  “The card.”

  Now it was her turn to be put on the wrong foot. “What?”

  “The card. It’s different. Tell me about it.”

  She shook her head. Thought about shouting at him, but it was about as much good as trying to throw him out.

  “It’s from the Crowley-Harris Thoth Deck.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The other cards, they’re Rider-Waite. The Crowley-Harris deck differs. Different pictures, full of weird symbolism. Some of the names are different. See, the Fool, the card in...” She took a breath. Settled herself. “The head. The woman’s...oh.”

  “Yes,” he said, gentle, low, soothing. Just loud enough so she could hear. She wanted to punch him for it, even though it wouldn’t do any good.

  She pushed her whiskey away. Maybe she’d had enough. What was she going to do? Bottle him? Bottle him for being kind?

  “The horns, for example. I guess it’s all part of the symbolism. The Fool on the Rider-Waite deck doesn’t have horns, but the card in the woman’s mouth, that Fool had horns. Like the devil, you know? The Father of Lies. The Fool’s a liar.”

  “He got that right.”

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “The woman he killed, her name was Sam Wright.”

  She looked blankly into his soft face. Shook her head.

  “The reporter. The one who wrote the article.”

  She took a moment to figure out what that meant. What
the head had said. What that meant for her and Coleridge. The depths the killer could go to. The fact that he said she was a gift.

  What kind of creature could think such a thing?

  She laughed out loud.

  “What?” he said. She shook her head. She couldn’t explain it. It just struck her as funny all of a sudden. Not in a good way.

  Why was she even speculating? Coleridge didn’t know the half of it. She hadn’t told anyone what the head had said. She was keeping a lot of secrets. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she could tell him. He looked like he could be a listener. She didn’t just need a listener, though. She needed a believer.

  Could he believe? Was he even capable of it?

  The fact was, she didn’t know. Not yet. And she wasn’t quite ready for a long stint in a room with bars and all the starchy food she could eat.

  With what he told her, and what the head had said, it made sense. It also meant the killer wouldn’t kill her.

  But then maybe he was the fool. Maybe he was the liar.

  And she’d be a hell of a fool herself to trust the word of a killer, wouldn’t she?

  “A gift,” she said.

  Coleridge nodded. “A sick gift,” he said. “He’s marked you. I just don’t know what he’s marked you for.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be comforting me?”

  He opened his mouth, like he was going to call her ma’am. Shifted his weight from one chunky leg to the other.

  “Beth, this is serious. Honestly, I haven’t got a clue what we’re up against, but I got you into this. I can’t let you...”

  “Get killed? Detective, I’m not your responsibility. I can look after myself. It’s what I do.”

  “I’m sure you can. You ever faced up to a killer who cuts off people’s heads and sends them as gifts?” he asked, and his voice was suddenly hard. Not comforting at all.

  “Don’t.”

  “Okay, I won’t. But don’t bullshit me, Beth. I’m full of it. I smell it every day, even when I’ve had a really long fucking shower.”

  She burst out laughing at that, and he smiled.

  “You should get some sleep,” he said.

  “You can sleep in my boy’s bedroom. The bed’s made up.”

  “I’m not sure that’d be appropriate.”

  “He’s...he’s not here. I sent him away. It’s all right.”

  “Well...”

  “That’s settled then.”

  “I’d be happier on the couch.”

  She waved at him, swaying slightly in her chair. She was pretty drunk. “You’re making headway, detective. Don’t fuck it up.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Coleridge, though,” he said with a smile.

  “Coleridge, then. Night.”

  “Shout if you need anything. I’m a light sleeper.”

  “Okay,” she said. She felt like something else was required. She hadn’t had a man in the house since Peter. She’d always kissed him goodnight. In bed. Before they rolled over, or after he rolled on top of her.

  The thought made her uncomfortable. She got up and walked past Coleridge, being careful not to touch him. He backed up, like he sensed she was uncomfortable. His consideration somehow made things worse.

  Flustered, not really knowing why, Beth went straight to her room without bothering to brush her teeth. She laid in bed and watched the ceiling spin around and around. She listened to Coleridge in the toilet. The heavy splashing in the toilet bowl of pent-up piss. The sound of a toothbrush being used hard. A burp, the tap running. He blew his nose, flushed the toilet.

  Miles’ bed groaned as he settled into it.

  She listened to the sea in the distance and the occasional grunt as he rolled, the unhappy springs of her son’s old bed.

  He fell asleep. The windows rattled a little in their frames. She couldn’t tell if it was because the wind was picking up or because of his snoring.

  She found she didn’t mind. It was soothing, but in a way she couldn’t figure out.

  Beth drifted off to the sound of Coleridge sleeping, and she slept like a log. She woke up with a bastard of a hangover, but she woke up, and that was always a pretty good start to a day. It was a shame really, because things had a tendency to go downhill fast after that.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Saturday 15th November

  Miles sat on the beach, sifting sand through his hands. Beth watched him with a motherly smile and felt like a fraud, but it was nice to see him happy. She thought she knew why he was happy. But she couldn’t quite figure out what it was about Coleridge that had settled Miles. He hadn’t been like this for so long. Surly, yes, uncommunicative, which is somehow worse when the child in question can’t even speak, and harder work than a bloody teenager.

  Now he was playing in the sand like he was a normal eight-year-old kid—aside from the ribs sticking through his T-shirt and the gaping wound in his neck.

  “Morning,” said Coleridge, making her jump. For such a fat man, he made surprisingly little noise.

  “Morning.”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “One night stand?”

  He gave her a sad smile. “I’ve got a lot to follow up. You know. Be a detective. Some days it don’t feel like it, but it’s what I do.”

  “You coming back?”

  “They’re sending a car over, but I’ll be back. You’re a key witness.”

  “An asset?”

  “Sorry. That’s not what I meant. I mean you’re the closest thing we’ve got to a witness, so from the point of view of my bosses, they’re not taking their eyes of you.”

  “And you?”

  “Me either. It ain’t the way it should be, but you’re all right. I don’t make a habit of leaving a job half-done. Shit. I’m not very eloquent in the morning. I mean I’m going to try my hardest. It ain’t your fault all of this happened. It’s mine. I’m sorry, too. But I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  “Well, Coleridge, you got there in the end.”

  He blushed, right down to his chins. It made her smile. Made him human. Sober, he wasn’t as bad as she thought.

  “You know, I know it’s not your fault. The article.”

  “Partly. I spoke to her. I didn’t give her nothing about you, but she got to you because of me.”

  “It was her, but it doesn’t matter. She paid enough, I think.”

  “You’re right, it don’t matter. And yes she did. She did.”

  “Didn’t deserve that,” she said. Stupid thing to say, but she wasn’t so hot first thing in the morning, either.

  “Not many people do.”

  Like, maybe some do. She liked that. He wasn’t all black and white, but he didn’t lie, either. At least, it seemed so, but her days of being a good judge of character had been drowned a long time ago.

  But then there was Miles. He was rapt. Looking at the policeman, his game with the sand forgotten.

  There was something, alright.

  It might be that she could trust him, but she was basing it on her shaky reasoning and a happy little dead boy. It wasn’t the soundest way to go about making decisions.

  She heard a car pull up in front.

  “That’ll be my relief.”

  “I bet it is, too.”

  “No. I meant it. You’re all right, Beth. Some people in this job...well. They ain’t the best. But you didn’t do anything to bring this on. I’ll do right by you, if I can. I promise you that.”

  That nearly brought a tear to her eye, but she didn’t usually cry unless she was drunk, and she was stone-cold sober this morning.

  “Thanks. I mean, seriously. Thank you.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She heard him close the front door. She lit a cigarette and watched the tide come in. Miles, down by the water, feet in the surf. Running.

  She could almost hear him giggling, as the breakers chased up the sand and wet his feet. It might only be her imagination, but it was sweet. She le
t it be, and smoked, and smiled.

  Part Three

  The Hermit

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sunday 16th November

  Coleridge ate a cold bacon roll for breakfast while he watched the pathologist, Donald Freeman, work on Sam Wright’s corpse. He couldn’t help thinking she looked pretty good for a chain-smoking hack. He didn’t reckon she’d been one for exercising, but everything seemed to be in the right place.

  Well, mostly.

  The bacon was pretty gross. He ate the roll, though. He was upset, and being upset made him hungry.

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm, what?”

  “Have a look at this.”

  Coleridge stepped up and craned over Sam’s body. Freeman pointed at something stuck in the torn windpipe, right the way up her throat and probably into her mouth.

  “You mind not dribbling crumbs on the evidence, detective?”

  “Sorry, doc.”

  He put the remains of his bacon roll on the instrument tray.

  “These are clean, right?” he asked.

  Freeman shook his head and ignored Coleridge.

  Some people, Coleridge thought, had no manners.

  “See?”

  “I see, but...”

  “It’s a feather.”

  “I know it’s a fucking feather. What’s it’s doing in her neck?”

  Freeman shrugged and took a camera from beside the body. He snapped a couple of photos, spoke into a mike for a while, then clicked the recorder off.

  “Let’s have a look shall we?”

  “Knock yourself out,” said Coleridge, pushing the last of his breakfast into his mouth.

  Freeman pulled out the feather with a pair of long tweezers. Held it up. “A feather.”

  Coleridge sighed. “What kind of bird?”

  “I’m a pathologist, in case you hadn’t noticed the body of the decapitated woman I’m working on. I am not an ornithologist.”

  “Fair enough, doc. I’m a detective. I’ll do some detecting, I guess. I reckon that might be what we call in the trade ‘a clue.’”

  “I would surmise as much myself.”