Infixion (Mesmeris Book 2)

by K E Coles

  She squeezed his hand. ‘Don’t be sorry.’

  Her hand looked tiny on top of his. Not girly though – no polish – a strong hand, a good hand.

  ‘Can’t believe I’m talking about it,’ he said. ‘I never do.’

  She was a virtual stranger, and yet she didn’t feel like a stranger. Her eyes glowed with something - something good – a flash of light in a dark life.

  ‘She’ll get better,’ she said. ‘I was ill once, and look at me now.’ When she smiled, she was really quite beautiful. The kind of beauty that made him sad. She was from a different world, a world Spicer would never know.

  She checked her watch and stood up. ‘I’d better go.’

  He stood too. ‘I’ll walk you.’

  ‘Finish your drink,’ she said. ‘I have a trial for a new job.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘See you again, maybe?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  ‘I’m not usually such a misery.’ He tried a laugh.

  ‘You weren’t,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I don’t remember your name.’

  ‘Spicer,’ he lied.

  She frowned. ‘Thought it was something more normal.’

  ‘Everyone calls me Spicer.’

  ‘Fine. Spicer it is.’ She gave him a sunny smile, and walked away.

  He sat for a while, coffee forgotten. Damaged, they said. So how come it felt as if she was the strong one, him the weak? The sun went behind a cloud, and didn’t come back. He shivered in the chill breeze, pulled up his collar, and headed for what passed as home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE PEARL

  It was weird, meeting Spicer there, so far from home. It seemed bizarre that I’d ever thought he could be from Mesmeris. He was nothing like that lot.

  Where Mesmeris guys had sculpted faces, shadowed, tired, jaded, Spicer was tanned, sporty, healthy - the kind our school always picked to be Head Boy, the kind who always expected to win. Tall, fair hair, broad shoulders, muscles. Where they were edgy, Spicer was solid. He’d stood in the vicarage hallway, his feet planted on the floor as if a full-blown hurricane wouldn’t shift him, as if he owned the place.

  His confidence, arrogance, had annoyed me at the time, but that wobble in his voice when he talked about his mum showed he had a heart. I liked that.

  I headed off to the cafe, and arrived five minutes early.

  The trial went much better than expected, was actually enjoyable. I loved chatting to the people that came in. It made me feel good. The other new girl, Nula, looked as if she’d been made for the place. Tall, no make-up, with golden hair in dreads. She wore Jesus sandals, and a long, linen dress. Next to her, I knew I looked ridiculous, as if I’d accidently landed on the wrong planet. She was friendly though, maybe too much so, filling every silence with questions. I found it difficult to answer without lying, so I made up an imaginary past, an imaginary family, imaginary friends. The only truth I told was that I hated the place I lived.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘my aunt’s got a room to rent. She’s in her sixties, but she’s cool.’

  ‘Um . . .’ Did I really want to live with an old biddy? ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, think about it,’ she said. ‘She’s taken lodgers for years. You wouldn’t have to pay rent until you get paid – not if I recommend you.’ She smiled.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘That sounds . . .’

  She handed me a scrap of paper with a telephone number on it. ‘Her name’s Mrs Arnold. Give her a call. She’ll be expecting you.’

  ‘Thanks, Nula.’ A new job, and a new place to live? For once, things were going my way.

  When I got back to my room, a note had been slipped under the door.

  Called to see if you needed anything. Obviously not. Please call at your earliest convenience. Ed

  Crap! I felt bad for lying but before I told Ed the truth, I needed to make sure I could move out.

  I called the number Nula had given me.

  ‘Hello?’ Mrs Arnold said.

  ‘Hello, um, I . . .’ Oh God! Why hadn’t I worked out what to say before calling?

  ‘You must be Pearl,’ she said. Her voice sounded lovely, warm and motherly - just what I needed. She said she’d been expecting my call, as Nula had promised, and that I could move in any time I wished.

  ‘Don’t you want to meet me first?’ I said.

  ‘You’re a friend of Nula’s,’ she said.

  Hardly a friend, I thought. I’d spent less than two hours with the girl. ‘Could I come and see the room?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘How about tomorrow, at, say, half past ten? We can have a cup of tea and get to know each other.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That would be lovely.’ Another day off work, then.

  I called Ed, told him I’d poisoned myself, and must have been in the toilet when he called. He patently didn’t believe me, but that was tough.

  *

  The small, white-painted house was within walking distance of the market. It sat between two other identical houses, all three of them well-kept and clean, each with a large bay window on the ground floor, and two windows above.

  Mrs Arnold looked how she sounded - motherly. Short and round, with no sharp edges or angles. Her head barely reached my shoulder. Her plump skin had no wrinkles, just soft folds.

  The house reminded me of my grandparents’, all chintzy furniture, and soft, floral cushions scattered about. No photographs though, which seemed odd. Old people always had photos everywhere – ugly babies, weddings – but there wasn’t one.

  My room was the first on the right at the top of the stairs. A large room, plenty big enough for the double bed, small sofa, and coffee table. A chest of drawers and wardrobe stood against the far wall. It was decorated in neutral colours – nothing garish or too bright.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I said.

  I wandered over to the window, and looked out over the long, narrow garden, to the large, grey church behind.

  Like home from home.

  We had tea in the living room, and arranged that I would move in that Saturday, a full two weeks before I started work at the cafe.

  ‘Don’t fret about the rent,’ she said. ‘We’ll sort that out once you get paid.’

  ‘Really? That’s so kind of you.’

  ‘You’ll be doing me a favour,’ she said. ‘I like to have someone in the house – feels strange when it’s empty - and you can look after Tootsie when I’m out.’

  ‘Tootsie?’

  ‘The cat.’ She pointed at the corner, where a fat, black cat lay curled up on a cushion.

  ‘She’s lovely,’ I lied. Cats were assassins. They killed for fun, although Tootsie didn’t look in any fit state to catch anything, unless it was already dead. At least cats didn’t take much looking after. Even I could manage it. ‘This’ll make such a difference to me,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘Yes, I think it will.’

  I couldn’t believe my luck. New job, new home, all within a week. Maybe it was fate compensating me for all the crap that had gone before. My turn to be happy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY PEARL

  Everyone in work seemed genuinely pleased about my new job - everyone except Ed. He kicked up a fuss, as expected.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘You can’t possibly be protected anywhere but here.’

  ‘I’m perfectly safe,’ I said.

  ‘Well, you can’t live in the section house.’

  ‘I don’t want to. I’m moving out on Saturday.’

  Less than five minutes later, Jim rang, then Dad. I recited the same argument to them both.

  Dad, at least, understood. ‘We did wonder how you’d manage in that soulless place,’ he said. ‘Mum’s been worrying you’d be lonely.’

  ‘I was.’ A bit of an understatement.

  ‘And this woman is nice, you say, the landlady?’

  ‘She goes to church,’ I knew nothing of the sort, but she seemed the
type who might, so it wasn’t really a lie, more a supposition.

  ‘Good,’ Dad said. ‘That’s good.’

  It took no time at all to pack my things, since I hadn’t unpacked most of them in the first place. Mum and Dad insisted on checking the place out, so drove up to help me. They were impressed with the house, and even more so with Mrs Arnold.

  ‘Jim’s not happy,’ Dad said, as we walked back to the car, ‘but we are, aren’t we, Maddie?’

  Mum nodded. ‘I never liked you being in that place. It’s not natural to spend so much time alone, and what with you being so fragile . . .’ Her mouth turned down.

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ I hugged her. ‘I’m okay now. I’m normal. You don’t need to worry. Please, please don’t worry about me.’

  Mum smiled as Dad slipped his arm around her waist, and squeezed her.

  Watching them drive away, I thought how lucky I was to have two parents who loved me, and loved each other. And I thought how I owed it to them to be careful, to keep well away from Art, to keep out of trouble.

  I wandered down to the shops and bought a new window box, this time with pansies – already alive and flowering. ‘They’ll last all year,’ the shopkeeper told me. I wasn’t so sure after my failure with the herbs.

  My new bed was so much more comfortable than the section house, I slept solidly, without dreaming, until sunlight woke me, streaming through the gap in the curtains. A lovely autumnal day. I decided to go to church. I’d been lucky, hadn’t I? Been blessed with a new job, and a place to live that was almost too good to be true. The least I could do was go along and say thank you.

  I sat next to an elderly woman with dyed, bright orange hair and drawn-on orange eyebrows. She smelled of lavender with just a hint of urine. She introduced herself as Eileen and offered me mint imperials throughout the service.

  The vicar looked in her forties with dry, straw-coloured hair that stuck out here and there, and an earnest, slightly pained expression. The familiar words of the Eucharist, the smells – musty books, candles, incense - made me feel at home, but her sermon went on and on – and on. The prayers were even worse. I got the distinct impression she was making them up as she went along – and having trouble doing it.

  She shook my hand at the door, with a vague smile. ‘How nice to see you. Are you local?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m from Gloucester. My father’s . . .’

  She smiled at someone behind me, her hand still resting in mine like a dead fish.

  I felt myself flush with something – embarrassment, or humiliation, as I slid my hand from hers. I didn’t go for coffee, went straight home instead.

  Eileen shouted, ‘See you next week.’

  Unlikely, I thought.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE PEARL

  It took longer than I’d envisaged to get to work from my new home. I arrived half an hour late on Monday morning, but no one seemed to notice. It didn’t look as if they were going to be exactly lost without me.

  Knowing I’d be leaving in a couple of weeks made the time pass even more slowly than usual. The monotonous work made my head ache with boredom. By the end of the day, I had trouble keeping my eyes open.

  Halfway home, my phone rang. No number, but I answered, in case it was the guy from the cafe.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Don’t go home.’ Art’s voice.

  The phone almost slipped from my trembling fingers. I held it with both hands. ‘How did you get my number?’

  ‘You’re being followed.’

  ‘What?’ Instinctively, I looked behind me. A woman with a pram, a little one by her side, and a scruffy old man. No one else.

  ‘Go somewhere safe, somewhere public. I’ll find you.’

  I staggered a few hundred yards on wobbly legs that threatened to fold under me. I dived into the nearest café – half full, smelling of coffee. I ordered tea and sat at the back, where I could watch the door. Each time it opened, my pulse went berserk. What if the guy found me before Art? I sent him a message, told him where I was.

  The tea sat cooling in front of me, scum forming on the surface. Trying to swallow, or even attempting to pick up the cup, seemed impossible.

  At last, Art arrived.

  The sight of his dark hair, that leather coat, released the tourniquet around my chest. I breathed, huge, gasping breaths of caffeine-laden air.

  ‘You didn’t need to message me,’ he said, an irritated edge to his voice. ‘I knew where you were.’

  ‘Sorry. I was frightened.’ Damn it! Why did my eyes have to sting.

  He looked away, grunted.

  I glanced at the door again. ‘Is he still . . ?’

  ‘He’s dead.’ He went to the counter and bought a coffee.

  Dead? Just like that?

  He sat opposite me, stirred his drink. ‘He was off-guard.’ He looked up, eyes expressionless, empty, as dead as his victim.

  ‘Are you sure he was following me? He could’ve just been walking in the same direction.’

  He half-smiled, as if it amused him, examined his hands. ‘I’m sure.’

  I stared at my tea. The sight of it, the smell, made me queasy. I wondered what he’d done with those hands of his. ‘I hate it,’ I said, ‘violence.’

  He sat back. ‘The guilt trip won’t work on me. I’m not Jack.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘you’re not.’ Stupid tears sprung into my eyes. I bent down to hide them, pretended to tie my shoe. Tears plopped onto the wooden floor. I stayed there until the pain eased.

  When I sat up, he was watching me, his eyes serious. ‘He wasn’t just some random guy. He was going to kill you.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ I said. ‘Not everyone’s like you.’

  ‘So why did he need this?’ He opened his coat. A gun poked out of the inside pocket.

  I stared at it. It looked plastic.

  He must have read my thoughts. ‘It’s a Glock,’ he said, ‘and it’s real.’

  I swallowed. The thank you wouldn’t come, my mouth too dry to form the words.

  He leaned across the table, brushed the hair back from my eyes. ‘You’ve gone a funny colour.’

  I coughed, cleared my throat. ‘Not surprising, is it?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but don’t worry. I’ve got your back.’

  So it seemed he was my protector, after all.

  Sirens grew nearer, louder. A police car shot past the window, closely followed by an ambulance.

  Art yawned. He looked tired, his eyes weary and dull.

  ‘Why do you bother?’ I said.

  ‘Bother?’

  ‘To protect me.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ He glanced around the cafe. ‘Jack and I were cousins, apparently. Our mothers were sisters.’

  It didn’t surprise me. They were so alike – and yet so different.

  He pursed his lips. ‘Also, you may be of use to me.’

  ‘What kind of use?’

  His lip twitched. ‘Not that kind, although, now you mention it . . .’ He tilted his head to one side. His gaze roamed over my body, lingered on my mouth.

  I hunched my shoulders, crossed my legs. ‘Well?’ Heat radiated, pumped from every part of my body.

  He shrugged, eyes laughing, and passed a red notebook across the table. ‘Take a look at this.’

  I recognised the scrawly writing. ‘It’s my dad’s.’

  He nodded.

  Some words jumped out at me: Pitt, Brighton, Leonard Wilfred Bell.

  ‘Leo,’ I said. ‘Leonard Wilfred?’

  Art nodded, smirked.

  Andreas Richard Todd, known as Art - Elite. First abductee. Reportedly close to Pitt and influential in running of sect as well as political machinations.

  ‘Andreas,’ I said. ‘That’s, what, Italian? Greek?’

  He shrugged. ‘So?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I turned back to the notebook.

  Kidnapped, aged three, from beach in Somerset. Mother, Maria, sole parent, convicted of murder. I
mprisoned. Indeterminate sentence. Prosecution witness: Howard Pitt.

  ‘Papa gave evidence?’ I said.

  A spasm of irritation crossed his face. ‘That’s a lie, obviously.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Yes, obviously.’

  His jaw tightened. A nerve twitched at its base.

  ‘So, what d’you want me to do?’ I said.

  He raised his eyes to mine. ‘Find her - my mother.’

  ‘Find? How?’

  ‘You do data input.’ It seemed he knew everything about me. ‘You have access to parole lists – names, addresses, hostels.’

  ‘Do I?’

  He nodded.

  ‘If you know all that, why don’t you find her yourself?’

  ‘I can’t look as if I’m looking, can I?’ he said, as if it was obvious. He looked away, stared at two middle-aged men as they took their seats. ‘I can’t sleep,’ he said.

  I sipped at my drink and watched his face, his pale pink lips, his downcast eyes, black lashes stark against ivory skin.

  In the harsh light, he looked tired. He exhaled through his mouth, closed his eyes. The sockets were bluey-grey, sunken. ‘That book’s unlocked something,’ He tapped his temple, ‘in here. I need to put the lid back on, need to know if what I see is a memory or . . .’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘Just before I go to sleep, I see – something.’ He shivered, stared at his cup.

  ‘Something?’

  He took a deep breath, kept his eyes lowered. ‘I’m in the sand, digging. Plastic spade. Blue.’ He glanced up, flashed a wary smile, looked down again. ‘Something presses my head down from behind, shoves my face into the sand and I can’t breathe.’ Another quick glance, perhaps to see if I was listening, and down again. ‘Then my head’s up and I see the sea and then something, some kind of fabric, comes over my face and everything’s black. And I’m in the air like I’m flying but I don’t know where the sky is, or the ground and I try to . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘There’s something in my mouth.’

  ‘You’re afraid,’ I said.

  The blue eyes flashed. ‘Of course I’m fucking afraid. Wouldn’t you be?’