by Mo Hayder
He pulls back, suddenly unsure. 'Nah. Don't like this.'
'It's OK, son,' goes a voice he hasn't heard before. The driver? 'D'you want us to take you back?'
Already Mossy can feel that the hit's got to its best. There's that faint sinking of something in the back of his neck that's telling him the turning-point isn't far. That in a few hours he'll be back in the agonies, wanting to die.
'You've got something for me? There'd better be something for me.'
'Come through,' goes the voice. 'You can see it. As soon as you step through.'
There's a bitter taste in his mouth, but he steps through anyway. He has to lift his feet because the opening is smaller than a normal door and he wonders what the fuck sort of a place he's in. Behind him he hears the door being locked and again he pulls a little, but he can feel Skinny's small scratchy hands on his arms, leading him, pushing him forward. The air's better in here, just a faint smell of burning and damp, but better than it was in the other place.
'Here,' goes Skinny. 'We's here.' And he pushes him down on to a seat.
Mossy gropes for the mask and drags it off. He blinks. They're on their own, no driver, in a room with no daylight coming in – the only light is a lopsided standard lamp next to the sofa – and a three-bar electric fire plugged into an extension lead that trails off into the darkness. There's old wallpaper on the walls, but it's been scribbled on like this is where kids have been living and someone's pinned up teenagers' magazine posters of Russell Crowe in Gladiator, Brad Pitt in Troy – another one of Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones wearing shades, the words Protecting the World From the Scum of the Universe blazing above them. Mossy shuffles his feet. The carpet is worn out, a sort of sickly purple colour, you can see the foam backing in places, and in the corner a ghetto-blaster, a kettle, a box of tea-bags and a packet of sugar.
'Where's this place to, then?' He turns to look over his shoulder. There's a little corridor with a window behind them, but the glass is broken and it's covered with a grille, 'SITEX' stamped on it like the stuff the council used to cover up the ones in the crackhouse after the dead body on the table. It feels like someone's started to convert this place into something then got bored, because bare wires are poking out of the plaster in places and holes are bashed in walls and Mossy knows that the only way out is through the gate they just came through. 'This where you live then, is it?'
'Yes'm,' goes Skinny. He's standing at a wooden unit that's been torn out of a nameless kitchen and stranded here in this fuck-awful place. 'I live here. This be my home.' He gets something out of the drawer and brings it to Mossy, whose heart jumps. He knows what's in it even before Skinny opens it. He can feel his legs and stomach go a bit fluid.
'Well?' he says. 'What've I got to do for it?'
Skinny doesn't answer. He rubs his brown finger over his top lip and doesn't meet Mossy's eyes. Mossy makes a grab for the bag, just misses. Skinny steps out of reach and stands a few feet away. Something in his eyes has closed off and gone all evasive.
Mossy sits back in the sofa, breathing hard. 'Come on – spit it out. What do you want? No weird shit, OK, no "red" or anything. But fists is OK and you don't need to wear nothing.' He rubs his crotch a little, gives Skinny a sly look. 'And there's lots of me if it's you wants the fucking. I'd fill you up, little thing like you.'
Skinny sits down on the sofa next to Mossy and gives him such a sad look that Mossy has another flash that they're about to kill him.
'What?' he goes, trying to make it sound light. 'What's that look for?'
'Blood,' says Skinny. 'Just a little blood. A little blood and you get plenty H. Plenty money too.'
'Blood? I just told you, I don't do no weird shit. No "red". You ain't going to knock me around, sweetheart, not for all the gear in the world.'
'A needle.' Skinny taps the inside of Mossy's arm, just where the H went in. 'I is put little needle in here, and take a little of yours blood.'
There's a long silence. Mossy stares at his arm, then looks up into Skinny's liquidy eyes. They meet his, and Mossy can see blood in the whites, like he's ill. But he's not being threatening and, anyway, there isn't enough of him to put up much of a fight – though he's wiry and doesn't look like he's a user so he'd have the edge if anything did kick off.
'You a vampire, then?' He laughs hoarsely, a little nervous. But Skinny keeps on looking into his eyes, all serious. So Mossy stops. He swallows. This is so fucking freaky. He uncurls Skinny's fingers from his arm.
'What're you going to do with my blood, then?' he asks tightly, because something about this is making him feel sick. 'What're you going to do with it? Drink it?'
7
13 May
Caffery came quicker than he'd meant to. Maybe it was the stress of the day, maybe the long hours, or maybe something else, but almost as soon as he was inside Keelie, her legs hooked up over his shoulders, it was over. She was lying on the back seat of the car with her skirt hitched up, holding the back of his head in both hands and pulling his face down so it was pressed against hers, and maybe she didn't want it to have been that quick because it took him a minute or two to get her to loosen her grip on him, untangling her fingers from his hair and moving her shoulders back. He knelt up in the well of the car, moved her legs and fell sideways on to the seat, one hand loosening the collar of his shirt, the other resting on his chest.
She didn't say anything so neither did he, just stared blankly out of the window, feeling his heart thudding under his ribcage, his pulse making him vaguely aware of a conversation he'd had three months ago. It was the day he'd left London, and when one of his colleagues had asked him, 'What the hell do you think you're going to do out there in the middle of nowhere with the woollies?' he'd answered, with no trace of a smile, 'Don't know. Probably fuck myself to death.'
A joke, of course, but now the words came back to him because he didn't know how else to explain what he was doing, seeing girls like Keelie week after week. He hadn't wanted to tell the truth: that he'd left London, the city he'd lived in most of his life, because one day he'd woken up to find he'd lost the only connection he had to the place – the disappearance, thirty years ago, of his only brother Ewan, age just nine. The question of what had happened to Ewan had been the only question in Caffery's life. Ever since he remembered, it had coloured everything he did, and for a long time he was sure the answers were in London, across the railway cutting at the back of the family garden, in the house of the ageing paedophile, Penderecki. Caffery obsessed about that house, the place he was sure Ewan had died, for years. Then suddenly, overnight, it had gone. Vanished into nothing. Yes, he still dreamed and thought about his brother. Yes, he still had the drive to find his body, but it wasn't London he felt connected to any more. He'd stopped wanting to stare out of his window at Penderecki's house, and he couldn't remember why he'd once thought he'd get an answer out of the damned place.
But he still wanted his job. He'd gone into the Metropolitan Police force because every case he solved felt a little bit more like balancing out what had happened to Ewan. And although he wasn't a ladder-climber – he'd got a jumpstart on the HPD scheme in the Met but at thirty-seven he didn't want to think about Chief Inspector exams – every conviction helped nail down the thing in his chest that kept him awake at night. His connection to London might be weakening, but the link to the firm stayed hard. He could do the job anywhere – even here, in Bristol. And, anyway, there was someone out here in the west that he hoped would help him untangle the Ewan equation a little further.
Next to him Keelie coughed and put her fingers to her throat, rubbing it a little as if it was sore. Then she put her index fingers into the corners of her eyes and wiped them, clearing out the caked make up. She pulled her skirt down from where it was rucked up round her waist and leaned over the front seat, clicking the passenger side sunvisor down to check her face in the mirror. The skirt was tight across her backside so the dents of her knickers and suspenders were visible.
Suddenly out of nowhere Caffery felt his throat get tighter, his eyes sting. He sat up a bit, putting his hand out, resting it on her calf, wanting to speak to her suddenly, ask her if she had kids, ask her just to say one human thing to him. But Keelie took the touch the wrong way. She raised her eyebrows at her reflection in the mirror and gave a small smile. 'What's that for?' she said, and was about to say something else when the car dipped violently. There was a boom of metal, and out of the corner of Caffery's eye something dark seemed to cross in front of the windscreen.
'Fuck!' Keelie grabbed the back of the seat, hanging on as the vehicle bounced. 'What was that?'
Caffery fumbled his zip closed, shouldered the door open and leaped out into the deserted alley. 'Hey!' he shouted into the darkness. He looked behind him, his back to the car, scanning the shadows. 'What the fuck was all that about?'
Hey, the echo came back, fuck was all that . . .
Silence. The only sound was traffic and the distant ring of women laughing on City Road. The alley was empty – just a carrier-bag spilling out rubbish on to the pavement and the reflection of a few neon lights on the stone kerb. He walked the length of it, up to the road, inspecting every doorway, every dip in the contour of the old brick walls. He turned back to the car. Keelie had switched on the interior light and was staring out at him, white-faced and scared. He knew what she was thinking – that it had been like someone flying past them, bouncing once on the bonnet and disappearing into thin air. Or – because the idea of someone flying was crazy – it was as if someone had been sitting on the bonnet the whole time, and when the sex was over had jumped off and run away, hiding somewhere neither of them could see.
Caffery had a thought. Carefully, moving quietly, he fastened his belt. Don't go to war with your trousers undone. He rolled up his sleeves, got down on the cold pavement and tipped on to his side, lying close enough to the wheels of the car that he could see under there, but not so close that if something rushed out at him he wouldn't have somewhere to go. He lowered his face on to the kerb, levering it forward so he could see under the car. There was nothing – just the smell of petrol and the faint burr of orange streetlight reflected on the road. He used his heel to push himself further under the car so he could see behind the wheels but, again, there was nothing. He rolled back and turned his face up to the sky, the clouds lit orange by the city, the stars beyond. He studied the tops of the buildings and thought hard about the feeling he had that they were being watched. Even now.
After a while he got to his feet and brushed himself down, thinking about suspension systems and whether they could get latched down. Maybe a car could stay caught that way for a while, waiting for a movement inside to release it like a coiled spring, then unexpectedly bounce itself free.
Keelie was still staring at him and he raised a hand to her. The need to have her again had gone, but he knew he'd have to speak to her, and the thought made him feel tired. There'd been more to the move to Bristol than just wanting to get away from London. There'd been a giving up, an acceptance that he'd never meet the human being who'd understand how guilt and loss can take a person and squeeze the life out of them. A long time ago he'd stopped looking at women and thinking one of them might bring it back for him.
Yes, he thought now, feeling in his pocket for a smoke and checking the walls for anything he'd missed, he'd got over that one long ago. And life was all the better for it.
8
After the dive in the harbour Flea's legs were like lead. She felt every second of twenty-nine years weighing on her. Coming out of Bristol she let the car slow. She pulled into a lay-by, switched off the engine and got the bag of mushrooms out of the glove compartment. She sat for a moment, studying them, feeling the last exhausted scraps of imagery tinker in the back of her head. We went the other way. She wanted to open the bag and shovel them into her mouth. More than anything she wanted to be back in those woods, going down the path where she knew her mother was still crouching, examining dog violets.
But she didn't. She put the mushrooms back into the glove compartment and fumbled out her phone. Earlier this evening, when she'd checked her texts, there'd been one from Tig. She liked the irony there: Tig, one of the few people in her life who would understand everything about her hankering for those mushrooms, literally everything, and after three months of silence he'd chosen tonight of all nights to text her. As if he was reading her mind. His flat was on the Hopewell estate, not far – with the streets this quiet she could be there in twenty minutes. It would be easy, and comfortable, to tell him about Dad and the drugs, and the trip, about how she wanted to take the drugs again and slip back into that forest where Mum was waiting. But then she thought about the way the mushrooms had been so carefully coiled into the jewellery roll, she thought about her father lying on the sofa with a cushion on his face, and right away she knew there was someone else who could unravel it for her even better than Tig. One person who could really set her straight.
She shovelled the mobile back into her pocket, fired the engine and swung the car into the road, heading south. Quickly the houses on either side of the road thinned. Soon she was past the last of the streetlamps and on to the dark roads that would take her into the lonely Mendip Hills.
Kaiser Nduka.
If Dad had ever admitted to having a close friend it would have been Kaiser Nduka. They'd been undergraduates together at Corpus, and at first sight two more different people you couldn't imagine: Dad with his Swedish heritage, papery, bruisable skin and delicate hands like a child's, and Kaiser, the eldest son of an Ibo chieftain, a spectrally tall man with shinbones thinner than walking-sticks, a greying halo of curly hair, and a face so heavy it looked as if it might unbalance his body. Kaiser had been sent in the nineteen seventies from Nigeria by his oil-rich family to study in England and had arrived wearing an abeti-aja dog-ear cap and a Western suit. Somehow the two misfits – Kaiser and Dad – had found a common ground in their studies, applying philosophy and psychology to world religion. A professor of comparative religion, Kaiser's speciality was hallucinogenic experience in shamanic ritual. His career path was smooth until, with a chair at a Nigerian university, he'd become involved in a research project that had gone disastrously wrong and had been thrown off the faculty. At the same time his fiancée had left him.
'They probably worked it out . . .' Mum had said darkly. 'His girlfriend and the university probably worked out that he was only half human . . .'
Kaiser always made Mum edgy. She never said why but she'd find excuses to stay at home when Dad came out to the Mendips. Thom was afraid of Kaiser too – he said he looked like the devil and that he'd had nightmares about him hunting people in the streets. Flea tried to imagine where he'd got that idea from, and what he'd seen in those fevered childhood dreams: the greasy half-lit streets of Ibadan, the hawkers and never-ending traffic, a silent shape slipping through the alleys: Kaiser. It struck her as almost humorous, Kaiser, his big head wrapped in a cloak, prowling the streets for human beings. She laughed at the idea, but Thom wasn't swayed. He was terrified of the house, the way it was always being worked on, boarded up, tarpaulined, sometimes unexpected parts of it peeled open and exposed to the sky.
Pulling into the long, darkened track now, the only illumination the moon cutting a sharp circle against the sky in front of her, Flea sort of knew what Thom meant. The place did have a remote, forgotten feel you could think of as spooky, isolated out here in the rainy limestone forests of the Mendips. Wet weeds hung over the car as she drove, trailing long fingers on it until she had to turn on the wipers to clear them. Up and up she went, the headlight beams bumping all over the place, almost a mile, until the driveway opened to a pocked field that stretched out silver under the open sky. At the furthest end the land dropped away to nothing – the furthest ridge of the valley was two miles distant – and it was there, at the edge of the drop, poised as if ready to tumble, that Kaiser's house stood, built from the local blue lias, once pretty but scarred by his perpet
ual renovations and changes. A single light was on in the living room, dim, barely visible behind a tackedup blanket. He'd be in there, in his usual place – slouched in his reclining chair in the corner.
She parked, shoved the bag of mushrooms into her fleece pocket, and crossed to the back door, arms folded, shivering because suddenly it seemed so late. She went inside, into the kitchen, closing the door carefully, and breathed in the heat and the good spicy smells.
Kaiser's house was full of clutter. Every surface in the kitchen was piled with dusty stacks of journals and letters and oddities he'd collected from around the world. Just like Dad's study. So it always seemed utterly improbable that Kaiser's biggest hobby was cooking. Over the years he'd singled out Flea for his attention. It was always her he took aside, telling her stories, showing her secret places in the garden, letting her put her fingers through the eyeholes of his family's traditional masks. But, most of all, he showed his affection by cooking. His recipes were borrowed from every nation and tradition. Sometimes it was coconut pie, sometimes it was couscous sweetened with condensed milk served in chipped bowls from Woolworths. Tonight it was sticky date loaves – two were cooling on a wire tray. Flea sliced one, arranged the pieces on a plate, and carried it through into the draughty corridor.
'Just me,' she said, lowering her head and pushing through the plastic sheeting hanging over the living-room doorway. 'Only me.'
The room was dimly lit and chaotic with its stacked shelves and lumpy furniture, a tattered standard lamp on in the corner. Kaiser was exactly where she'd known he'd be: in the chair in the corner, his legs elevated and lightly crossed, his hands steepled contemplatively. He didn't move when she came in, didn't look surprised or pleased. Instead he seemed to be concentrating on a space a few inches in front of his nose. He was dressed in pyjamas that ended mid-calf, ridiculous blue Turkish slippers on his long feet.