Infixion (Mesmeris Book 2)

by K E Coles

  He dragged himself to his feet, terror running through his veins. Silver stars clouded his vision. Music came from somewhere. Real or in his head, he didn’t know. People danced around him, their bodies tangled together in wild, frantic gyrations. He staggered towards the sanctuary, but there was no Papa, no Richie, no altar, just a red velvet curtain.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR PEARL

  The darkness in that tiny room was solid, thick like tar. At first, I’d stayed still, afraid of touching the dripping walls. Once my heart rate settled, I heard trickling water, and scurrying sounds of insects or rats. Moronic chants and cheers seeped through the wall from the church. They grew louder, faster.

  Adrenaline kept me warm for a while, but as the minutes stretched on, and on, the chill got through to my bones. I crouched down, hugged myself. When my left foot started to tingle, I stood up, jigged from foot to foot to get the circulation going. How long did a sabbat last? I had no idea.

  Music – heavy, dark drums and bass guitar followed a particularly loud cheer. It seemed hours before it stopped, longer before the voices and laughter and footsteps died away. Now, surely, Art would come and release me. Silence. I waited for his footsteps. Nothing. I counted the seconds, the minutes – five, ten.

  He’d left me there. No window, no way to escape. I kicked at the door, once, twice, hoping it would be rotten and fall apart. It wasn’t. It was solid. I tried to stop the wave of rising panic, couldn’t afford to think about how small the cupboard was, how close the walls, how little air there was.

  I kicked at the door again and again because I had no other ideas. The door didn’t budge one millimetre. I shouted and yelled at the top of my voice, but the chances of anyone hearing me were nil, I knew. They’d picked this place for a reason. It hit me that I might never be found – not until they demolished the building.

  A harsh, scraping sound, and then the door inched open. I felt faint with relief.

  ‘I thought you’d left me.’ I shoved him out of my way, desperate for air, space, light.

  ‘I had to see Papa off. Couldn’t risk anyone seeing you.’

  I kept walking, out of the door, into the night air.

  He locked the door behind us. His profile looked beautiful in the moonlight, like a classical sculpture. He handed me my phone, smiled.

  ‘Was there a sacrifice?’ I said.

  ‘Of course.’

  Of course. There was always a sacrifice. We walked for a few seconds in silence. I wouldn’t ask, then I wouldn’t know, and what I didn’t know, wouldn’t . . .

  ‘Human?’ I blurted.

  His stared straight ahead. ‘Despite what you may have heard, we rarely indulge in human sacrifice these days.’

  That was an answer, wasn’t it? A no. So why did my stomach tighten yet again?

  ‘Is that a no?’

  ‘If we sacrificed humans every time we had a sabbat,’ he said, as if he was talking to an idiot, ‘there’d be a hell of a lot of people missing. I think someone might notice, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ I turned away, but he caught my arm.

  ‘See you later?’ he said.

  I walked away, kept my gaze on the pavement.

  ‘Is that a yes?’ he called after me.

  I didn’t answer, because I didn’t know.

  I went straight to bed, but even with a hot water bottle, I couldn’t get warm. The cold had gone right through me. Why hadn’t he answered? Why couldn’t he just say no?

  I knew why, deep in my heart. I got up and locked my door. Sleep would never come as long as I kept quiet. Too much of a coward to risk calling the police, I decided to report it online, anonymously. I typed that I thought someone might have been murdered. I read over my words – vague, uncertain – a suspicion, nothing more. I sent it anyway, for all the good it would do.

  An hour later, the door rattled. I watched the handle turn, felt rather than heard him push against it. I couldn’t let him in, not knowing what he might have done with those hands of his.

  Once more the handle turned. Then footsteps went downstairs, then came back. A slip of folded paper appeared under the door. I stared at it, shining white in the darkness, and tried to imagine the words written on it. I waited for the footsteps, but they didn’t come. Instead, another scrap of paper came under the door. This time, the footsteps didn’t come back. The front door clicked closed, and yet still I waited, afraid he’d crept back upstairs silently, was waiting to hear me move. Afraid I’d hear his voice, afraid I’d let him in.

  Minutes passed. I crept out of bed, picked up the notes, and turned the lamp on.

  The first was a sheet of writing paper, thick and unlined. I unfolded it.

  Will you still see my mother?

  Large, jagged writing. Upright, sloping neither forward nor back. Letters formed like weapons – sharp, spiked, serrated. No rounded, lazy loops, like mine – no softness – all harsh, mountainous peaks, and hazardous descents.

  The second was a flyer for a Dry Cleaning company with one word written on it.

  Please

  How had I ever thought we could have a proper relationship? I’d been kidding myself. Even if there hadn’t been a human sacrifice that night, there would be other nights, and I’d never know what those hands of his had done. Human life wasn’t sacred to him. Still, I would see his mother because she, at least, seemed to be important to him. Even if he cared for nothing, I cared for him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE PEARL

  I didn’t sleep, but writhed about, imagining innumerable scenarios. Would Art’s mother even agree to see me? If she did, would she welcome me reminding her of her long lost son? What would I say? Oh, by the way, your son’s a psycho who kills for fun? Maybe no one would believe me anyway. How would I convince her I knew Art, and what the hell was I going to tell her about Papa?

  Constant, churning anxiety kept me awake. Drifting off to sleep was no relief. Every time I did, I was back in that dark hellhole, and in my dreams, I heard screams, and yelps, and whimpers. I’d sit up, heart banging against my ribs, and listen. The empty house made noises I’d never noticed before – creaks and clicks, knocks and bangs. Every one filled me with dread.

  I wanted tea, but was afraid. What if they’d found me – Papa and Leo? What if they knew I’d reported it, and traced me? What if they were in the kitchen or the living room, waiting for me to come downstairs, ready to cart me off, make me the next sacrifice?

  My mouth was so dry I couldn’t swallow, and yet I daren’t move. Only when the sky lightened to pale grey did I finally slide my feet out of bed. I typed Maria’s postcode into my laptop, and planned my route.

  Nerves frayed, I finally ventured downstairs.

  The kitchen door was ajar. I always closed it – always. I paused, left hand still on the banister. There it was, a sound – tiny, quiet, stealthy. I glanced behind me at the front door. Run? In my pyjamas? Bare feet?

  ‘Dash it all.’ Mrs Arnold.

  Air filled my starved lungs. Something like hysteria welled up at the back of my throat.

  I pushed the kitchen door open to see her standing on a stool, head in one of the cupboards.

  ‘Mrs Arnold,’ I said, in the kind of voice I imagined long lost hikers in the Outback used to welcome their rescuers.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ she said. ‘There’s fruit cake in the carrier.’

  Fruit cake? For breakfast?

  The bags stood against the wall. A suitcase, a tapestry overnight bag, and two Waitrose carriers. I knelt to search for the cake, pulled the heavy, foil-wrapped lump out of the bag. My hair stuck to the back of my neck, to my forehead. Wooziness washed over me as I stood, and with it, nausea. I held onto the wall.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she said.

  ‘Stood up too quickly, that’s all. I’m fine.’ I filled the kettle, switched it on. ‘I didn’t realise you knew Art.’ I said it casually, but my pulse picked up all the same.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  I put two heaped teaspoons
of tea into the infuser. ‘Have you known him long?’

  ‘Since he was tiny,’ she said, her head back in the cupboard. ‘He’s a darling boy.’

  Darling boy? Killer, manipulator. Oh, yes, darling boy.

  ‘I’m going to see his mother later,’ I said.

  She dropped a packet of Darjeeling tea on the unit. It bounced onto the floor.

  I picked it up, handed it back.

  ‘Thank you.’ Her hand appeared to shake, or perhaps it was my imagination, because her voice was anything but shaky. ‘I’d leave that well alone if I were you.’ She clambered down from the stool.

  I poured the teas. ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘She tried to kill him,’ she said, ‘when he was tiny.’

  So she believed the story too.

  ‘He doesn’t remember, of course,’ she said. ‘I helped him over the trauma.’

  ‘So, you know Papa then?’ I wanted to see her expression, see if she knew what Mesmeris was, but she was putting a slice of cake onto her plate.

  ‘Know of,’ she said. ‘He paid for Art’s keep, that’s all. I never met him.’

  Look up, I thought. Let me see your eyes, let me see if you’re telling the truth. It sounded so reasonable, and surely her voice would betray her if she was lying.

  When, finally, she did look at me, her eyes told me nothing, after all.

  ‘He’s my son,’ she said, ‘in every way that matters. I will not let you do anything to hurt him.’

  My mouth dropped open at the harsh tone of her voice. Me hurt Art? As if that was even possible. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ I said, once I’d recovered. I headed for the door. ‘I don’t really have time anyway.’

  ‘How did you find her?’ she said.

  I stopped, one hand on the door. ‘Coincidence. I was working for the probation service.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I see.’

  ‘Tootsie’s been an angel,’ I said, hoping it would distract her from wondering how I’d made the connection, how I’d even known Art’s mother’s name.

  As if on cue, the fat ball of fluff wandered past me into the kitchen, nose in the air, sniffing for food.

  Mrs Arnold scooped her up. ‘Mummy’s home.’ She kissed the cat on the head. ‘Did you miss Mummy? Did you?’

  I shot upstairs, all tiredness gone. My brain buzzed with ideas, plans, theories. If Mrs Arnold had Art as a little one, then he hadn’t been at Papa’s home as Dad and Jim thought. So, perhaps I was right, and he wasn’t the desensitised psychopath he appeared to be. Perhaps the coldness was an act, after all, his way of dealing with what he had to do. Maybe the Art I wanted still existed.

  Being hyper was as bad as the other side, the down side – that’s what they said, although it felt so good. I sat on the bed, breathed, slowly, in, out, until my heart rate settled, at least a little. Euphoria was not a sane reaction to my situation. I knew that, and yet it felt as if a booster rocket had been set off inside me, firing my senses. Colours were brighter, edges cleaner. Everything in sharp focus. I saw Art for what he was – a man, damaged by Papa, by what he’d seen and done. And I wished I didn’t want him, but I did. And that was no good. No good at all.

  I had a shower, but kept dropping the shampoo, the soap, my hands twitching because I had things to do, so many things to do, and they couldn’t wait. I arrived far too early at work, had to stand outside in the drizzle. In my haste, I’d forgotten an umbrella, which meant my hair would be a frizz bomb, an explosion.

  Perhaps I laughed, because a couple of passers-by turned my way. I lowered my head, stared at my shoes. Doc Martens really were the best, but mine were scruffy now, and needed new laces.

  ‘Are you okay, Pearl?’ Stefan touched my arm.

  ‘Yes.’ I gave him my biggest smile. ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He shook his head. ‘I thought you said something, that’s all.’

  Had I? ‘Singing,’ I lied. ‘Not much of a tune.’

  ‘Didn’t think much of the lyrics either,’ he said. ‘To do, to do, to do.’

  We sang it together, and laughed, and I thought, it’s all right, because he’s laughing, and it’s just a bit of fun. Just a bit of fun.

  As the day went on, bit by bit my euphoria seeped away, leaving me drained, tired and irritable. The last thing I felt like doing was traipsing halfway across London to Maria’s.

  Still, I did it, for him, and found it easily enough. A two-story building, all cream paintwork and concrete. The reception area smelled of disinfectant, like a hospital. A youngish guy sat behind the desk, playing with his pen. He looked up as I came in, sat up.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. His smile was warm, and I thought how safe he looked, with his solid, kind face, and big hands. A few fair hairs curled over his cuff. I wondered if he had a girlfriend, thought how lucky she was.

  His smile broadened.

  I must have been staring. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for my aunt, Maria Todd. I’ve been told she’s here.’ It felt like a sin, lying to someone so nice.

  ‘Ah, Maria,’ he said. ‘She was, but she’s left now. Got herself a flat in that new block down the road.’

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t . . ?’

  ‘Third block along, second floor, number twenty-three. You’ll see her name on the intercom.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Why couldn’t I have fallen for someone like him? Perhaps he was damaged too, but I didn’t think so.

  Larchfield Court was made up of three red brick blocks, with white-painted balconies. I hung around, trying to look inconspicuous, until I spotted a woman and young child walking towards me. I bent down, pretended to tie my shoelace. As she passed, I straightened up and followed her. She held the door open for me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  The little girl stared at me but the mother said nothing. I decided to go up the stairs rather than in the lift with them. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck, even though it was chilly. I kept expecting someone to catch me out, felt as if I was committing a crime. Perhaps I was.

  Number twenty-three was halfway down the corridor on the second floor. I rang the bell, heard footsteps. Nerves made my heart stutter. The door opened an inch, held by a chain. Wide, startled, blue eyes stared out at me.

  ‘Maria?’ I said.

  ‘Who are you?’ Her dark, tousled, shoulder-length hair was streaked with grey.

  ‘My name’s Pearl. I know your son, Andreas.’

  She stared. ‘And?’

  ‘Um.’ Her lack of surprise threw me. ‘He’s alive.’

  She blinked, stared, said nothing.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m . . .’ Crap! This was much more difficult than I’d envisaged. ‘I’m from the er, probation service.’

  ‘I haven’t said anything,’ she said, a note of panic in her voice. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘No, I . . .’

  The door shut. Damn it! I looked around, wondered what to do next. Then I heard the chain being pulled across and the door opened. She held a finger to her lips and beckoned me inside. Shopping bags, shoes and a pair of wellington boots cluttered the narrow hallway. I followed her down to the living area. The whole flat stunk of fish and old cooking fat.

  The living room was bare, except for a fake leather sofa and a television. A breakfast bar separated off the kitchen area. A washed-out pink, quilted coat hung over the back of one of the two green plastic garden chairs that stood either side of a small, wooden table.

  She went behind the breakfast bar. ‘He’s having a nap,’ she said.

  ‘Who is?’ I stood in the living area, uncertain whether I should sit down or wait to be asked.

  ‘He said you’d be coming.’ She moved between me and the door, one hand behind her back. ‘I won’t let you take him.’

  What the hell? ‘Take who?’

  She pulled a knife out from behind her back - long, serrated, deadly. ‘Andreas,’ she said.

  A jolt of fear ran through me. I
cleared my throat, swallowed. ‘He’s here?’

  ‘Of course he’s here. Where else would he be?’

  ‘I – I don’t know.’ Nothing made any sense. I couldn’t think at all, my mind totally focussed on the shiny blade in her hand. ‘I’ll . . .’ I licked my lips. ‘I’ll just go.’ I took one step forwards.

  She jabbed the knife at me. ‘Sit down.’

  I sat, folded my shaking hands in my lap. ‘Maria,’ I said. ‘I promise I haven’t come to take anyone away.’

  ‘He said you’d say that.’

  ‘Who said? Andreas?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ She laughed. ‘Why would a three year old say that?’

  ‘You have another child?’ My brain whirred. How long had she been out of prison? Not three years. Not anywhere near three years. It wasn’t possible.

  She pulled her sleeve up and looked at her watch. Underneath it was a purple smudge – a bruise. ‘It’s time for his lunch.’ She put the knife down on the unit and began setting the table.

  A shiver ran over my skin, raised the hairs. She thought Art was still three years old. The woman was crazy.

  ‘What happened to your arm?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing.’ She pulled her sleeves down, eyes wide. ‘Nothing.’ She may have been crazy but she was afraid too - maybe more afraid than me.

  ‘You have a bruise,’ I said.

  ‘I haven’t. I haven’t.’ She pulled, tugged at her sleeves.

  She filled an orange, plastic beaker with squash, and laid out a child’s knife, fork and spoon on the table. The poor woman’s mind was completely messed-up, wrecked by Papa.

  She seemed to have forgotten me. At least, she didn’t watch me the whole time, even turned her back to open the freezer. The whole thing was full of fish fingers – packet after packet of them. She took one pack out, put three fish fingers on to fry and buttered two slices of bread.