Poison City

by Paul Crilley

  I frown. ‘Why? That’s not living. It’s just . . . surviving. People with no goals. No ambition.’

  She tuts at me. ‘So judgemental, Gideon. Just because they are forced into survival mode does not mean they are not ambitious. It means they do not have the means to attain their ambition.’

  ‘Blame the government, then.’

  ‘There are any number of people to blame. Parents, teachers, themselves.’ She shrugs. ‘After tonight it will not matter.’

  ‘What will happen to them?’

  ‘It depends on whether they are good people or not. That’s what everything will come down to. One simple question. Are you a good person, or are you not.’

  I stare at her, then shift my gaze to the queue. Laughter. A couple arguing about something. A drunk staggering, leaning against the person in front of him. A little kid asking about the toy that comes with her kid’s meal.

  For the first time since Lilith’s arrival in my jail cell I have second thoughts. What I’m doing . . . there’s nothing to compare it to, no way of knowing what comes after. With my actions I’m changing the entire world.

  But the thing is, I’ll take the blame. I’ll stand up and say it was me, for better or worse. I’ll own my actions. Which, admittedly, will be small comfort to those who don’t come through it in one piece.

  To be honest, I don’t think I’ll come through it in once piece. Not after I get my hands on Cally’s killer.

  Thinking of Cally makes me straighten up, my doubts forgotten. She’s why I’m doing this. I reach into my pocket and take out the plastic box, lay it on the table between us.

  Lilith stares at it hungrily. She reaches into her shirt pocket and takes out a folded piece of paper. She slides it over to me.

  I can see her neat, cursive writing through the paper. I reach out. My hand is shaking. My fingers rest on it and I pull it towards me. Lilith does the same with Jengo’s soul.

  I open the paper and smooth it out. My heart is hammering in my chest. My mouth is dry.

  My eyes skim over the words. I force myself to read them again and again.

  Timothy Evans. 5 Hunter Crescent, Morningside.

  My eyes burn as I stare at the name and address. For three years I’ve been after this guy. Morningside? That’s only a few kays from where I’m sitting now. I’ve probably driven past the fucker on my way to work.

  ‘Is it worth it?’ Lilith asks.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I drag my eyes away from the paper. ‘How will I know? When he has his memories back?’

  ‘I’ll text you when I’ve found the Sinwalker. When I no longer need my sin-eater.’

  I nod, get to my feet. I look down at her. ‘You’ll keep your word? Only people who . . . deserve it?’ I realise how stupid and naive this sounds as soon as I say it. I think back to that night in the car, when I tricked them into driving into the wards around Delphic Division. I’d been thinking that night about how naive I was for trusting Kincaid. Am I doing it again?

  She laughs. ‘Oh yes, Gideon. Only people on the naughty list will be judged.’

  I shake my head. Hesitate. A feeling of unease building.

  ‘On you go then,’ she says. ‘Go and get your revenge. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?’

  It is. Of course it is. I need to get this person. He has to be punished. Not just him, but all those people at the manor. All the people just like them.

  I return to my car. By the time I climb inside Lilith has vanished.

  Timothy Evans’ place is utterly nondescript. A single-storey, three bedroom house that needs a coat of paint. Kids’ toys litter a slightly overgrown lawn.

  I stare at these toys from where I’m parked across the street. I’d never even entertained the thought that Cally’s killer would have children of his own. How could anyone with his own kids do something like that? It doesn’t make sense to me.

  I open the glove compartment and take out a creased photograph of Cally. It was taken on the esplanade when she was trying to learn how to roller blade. She’s soaring past the camera as I take the picture, her eyes wide with fear and exhilaration, screaming with delight.

  She was dead five days after the photograph was taken.

  I stare at her, study every plane of her face, stoking the fury, feeling the rage rising inside me like a tide of flame, burning through my veins.

  A few minutes later a minivan pulls up outside the house. An Alsatian appears at the gate, barking and wagging its tail. The electric gate slides open and the van drives in, stopping in front of the garage.

  I lean forward, watching as two kids, a girl and a boy, hop out and run after the dog. A woman climbs out the passenger side, calling to the kids as she unlocks the front door and heads inside.

  The kids and the dog follow her.

  And then Timothy Evans climbs out from behind the wheel.

  I stare at him, burning every detail of his face into my mind. He’s about 5'8", balding, a pale blue golf shirt tucked into his jeans.

  He looks utterly . . . normal.

  I’d only ever seen the briefest glimpse of him, and he’d been wearing a cap at the time. But still. I didn’t expect him to look like . . . like a school teacher.

  I should know better by now, especially after the last few days. Evil can wear the blandest of faces.

  He grabs some grocery bags from the back of the car and carries them into the house, closing the door behind him. I get quickly out of the car, wanting to make my move while the dog is inside the house. I climb over the gate, hurry to the front door. I listen, can’t hear anything.

  I carefully turn the handle and open the door a crack. I peer inside. A passage ends at the kitchen before turning to the left. The sounds of the Cartoon Network blast suddenly from the right. The kids are occupied. Mum and dad in the kitchen.

  I enter the house, pause and peer into the lounge. The kids are seated directly below a massive LCD screen, utterly transfixed.

  I move quietly past the door, heading towards the left turn in the passage. The kitchen door is wide open. I can hear plates clinking, the low murmur of conversation. The wife appears, her hand on the door, glancing over her shoulder as Evans says something to her.

  I freeze, halfway between the kitchen and the front door.

  ‘What?’ the woman says. She waits. Then her hand leaves the door and she turns back into the kitchen. ‘Why did you promise them pizza? They had it yesterday.’

  I dart past the door, left. Doors open to either side. Kids’ rooms, bathroom, and . . . Ah. An office. Perfect. He’ll either come here or the bathroom when the memories hit. I’m betting on it being here.

  I sit in the darkness for the next four hours. I listen to the family sounds echoing through the house, kids squabbling, complaining about having to go to bed, being ordered to brush their teeth, that kind of thing. All the sounds a normal family makes.

  That will all change. Because they aren’t a normal family. Their father is a murderer and he’s going to face his punishment before the night is out.

  I try my hardest not to think about how it will affect the kids. They’re not my problem. It’s not my fault their dad is a psycho.

  I won’t be deflected. It’s too late for second thoughts, anyway. Everything has been set in motion. When the sun rises tomorrow, the world it looks upon will be partially my creation.

  How many will hate me? How many will curse my name? Will I be turned into some kind of demon? The Lucifer of humanity? The man who sold out the human race?

  At some point while I’m waiting, my phone beeps with a Push news notification. I quickly mute the sound, but my eye is caught by the alert. It’s a news headline about some street fights going on over at Albert Park. Nothing new there, it’s a haven for users and pushers. But the reports say these fights are unusually violent. Over twenty people have died already.

  During the next hour, more notifications come in. I keep my phone out, staring at the screen. Street riots, looting. Lovers’
quarrels that turn violent. Family murders. The incidents cover the whole city, slowly getting worse and worse. Fires. Buildings being set alight. Flash mobs protesting God knows what. It’s as if Durban has gone to war.

  I feel a heavy knot in my stomach but I try to ignore it. This has nothing to do with me.

  I switch my phone off and lean my head back against the wall. Nothing to do with me.

  At about midnight, I hear a low moan. My heart quickens. I take the Glock out and lay it across my lap. I stretch my legs, twist my neck from side to side to loosen my muscles.

  The office door swings open, the light from the hall spilling inside. Evans lurches in and shuts the door behind him. He staggers towards the desk, slumps into the chair. His face is hidden behind his hands. He’s rocking back and forth, making a high-pitched keening sound.

  I stare at him, enjoying his pain.

  I get quietly to my feet. Pad across the carpet and flick the desk lamp on. White light floods the room. Evans jerks back, staring at me with wide, tear-filled eyes.

  ‘W-who . . . who—’

  I point the gun at him. ‘How are the memories, Tim? Feeling good about what you did?’

  ‘Wha— what? How . . . who told . . . ?’

  I take the picture of Cally out of my pocket and lay it on the table. He looks at it and jerks away as if it’s poisonous.

  ‘Yes. You remember her, don’t you?’ My voice is shaking. ‘She was my daughter, Evans. My daughter.’

  ‘You . . . you don’t understand. I didn’t want to do it. I had no choice!’

  ‘Funny how they all say that. The paedos. The murderers. The rapists.’

  ‘No. You don’t get it. I . . . I really had no choice. They said they’d kill my kids if I didn’t . . . didn’t do it.’

  I frown. I hear the distant sound of a chopper outside. Through the office window I catch a glimpse of a spotlight shining down from the sky, dancing across some distant hot spot.

  The voice in my head is telling me to just kill him. To put a bullet through his brain. This is what you wanted! Three years you’ve been waiting for this. Three years. Just do it. End him!

  But another voice, one I haven’t heard since before the Manor house, is telling me to wait. This isn’t making sense. It’s not how I thought it would be.

  ‘Who said they’d kill your kids?’

  The tears stream down his face. ‘I can’t tell you. You wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  I push the suppressor into his temple, twisting it against his skin. ‘Tell. Me.’

  ‘The monsters! The . . . things . . . from my dreams! They’re real, you see.’ He giggles and cries at the same time, looking down at Cally in the photograph. He reaches out to touch it and I snatch it away. ‘The monsters under the bed are real. They made me do it.’

  I shake my head in confusion. ‘What are you saying? That these . . . creatures made you murder those kids? My daughter?’

  His head jerks up and he looks at me in shock. ‘Murder? What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. You killed the kids at the lodge.’

  ‘We didn’t kill them.’ He sounds astonished. ‘They’re still alive. At least . . . I think they are.’

  I stare at him. His words don’t make any sense. My whole body reacts, starts shivering. My head pounds. I can hear a fierce wind whistling in my ears.

  ‘What are you talking about? The blood . . .’

  His face clouds. ‘That was Simmons. The other guy. They made me work with him. He was sick. He thought we were doing that. Taking the kids there to . . . to murder them. It’s what he wanted to do. I wasn’t there. I’d left the room to let the sin-eater in. When I came back, he’d . . . already started.’

  I shake my head. ‘No. You killed them all. That’s why the blood was there.’

  ‘No! I saved them. Saved your daughter. When I got back Simmons was about to kill her. I pulled her away. He . . . came after her . . . after me.’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Then a . . . a hole opened up. In the air. And these . . . things came through. They . . . said they were faeries. They had these . . . white faces. Long, like a fox. Black eyes.’ He shivers as the memories come back to him. ‘They took your daughter. And the other kids. Stopped the bleeding. Healed them. Took them through the hole.’ He reaches up, touches the side of his head. ‘Then the sin-eater took my memory. That was the only way I’d do it, you see. They gave me a list of names. Threatened me. But I’d only do it if I didn’t remember.’

  My gun drops to my side. ‘You’re really saying they’re still alive?’ My voice is a whisper.

  He nods. ‘I asked those . . . things why they wanted them and they said something about needing their belief.’

  I stagger backwards, bang up against the wall. The room is swimming, tilting crazily. The blood is pounding in my ears. Evans is talking, but I can’t hear a word he’s saying above the rushing sound.

  Cally is alive?

  Is that possible?

  Can it be?

  All this time she’s been alive, somewhere in the Nightside? Kidnapped by . . . by the fae?

  She’s not dead?

  I straighten up.

  She’s not dead.

  My whole life suddenly shifts focus, coalesces into a bright, burning pinpoint. Everything changes. Three years of being driven by revenge, by grief, by loss. They all drop away, sloughing off me like a decaying snake skin. I find myself standing taller, my mind clearing.

  Which is when I realise what I’ve done.

  ‘What’s happening outside?’ I demand.

  Evans glances out the window. ‘It’s crazy. Everything’s gone to shit. Riots, fights, people killing each other.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s . . . it’s like something out of a movie. When they get infected by a virus or something.’

  Lilith.

  Fuck. It has to be related to the first sin. She’s found the Sinwalker. But . . . why are the sins leaking out? If she killed the Sinwalker like she said she would, all the sins would return to God. What’s going on now . . . it’s what would happen if the Sinwalker was woken up. Not killed. God’s sins are leaking out into the world, infecting people. Just like Stefan said.

  Which means . . . which means she lied to me about what would happen. There is no process here. No control. God’s sins are infecting everyone, turning them crazy. Whether they’re good or bad.

  She betrayed me.

  I point my gun at Evans. He flinches back, hands coming up to shield his face.

  ‘Give me your passport and your ID book.’

  He opens a drawer and fishes around, finally handing me his documents. I put them in my back pocket.

  ‘What was the creature’s name? The one that took my daughter.’

  ‘I can’t remember. But I don’t think he was one of them. The fae. He looked . . . different.’

  ‘I don’t care! I just want his name!’

  He closes his eyes, thinking.

  ‘Come on, Evans. I’m not playing around.’

  His eyes snap open. ‘The Marquis! The others called him the Marquis.’

  The Marquis? I’ve never heard of him. But still, someone will know who he is. Someone will know how to find him.

  I take my phone out and dial Armitage’s number.

  She answers on the second ring.

  ‘You are in so much trouble, lad.’

  ‘Armitage. Listen to me. I think I’ve made a huge mistake.’

  ‘You’re bloody right you have!’

  ‘Armitage, just shut up and listen. The riots? That’s Lilith. She’s waking up the Sinwalker. God’s sins are leaking out, infecting everyone.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock. Because you gave her the ramanga’s soul.’

  ‘I know that! I want to fix this. Are you still in the evidence room?’

  ‘No. Eshu let me out.’

  ‘Meet me outside Durban Museum. Soon as you can. And Armitage �
� don’t tell the others. I can fix this.’

  I hang up. Evans is watching me. ‘You’re going to jail, Evans. You know that, right?’

  He doesn’t say anything.

  ‘You can’t go anywhere. And if you run, I’ll hunt you down myself and I will slice your skin from your body. Understand?’

  He swallows nervously. Nods.

  ‘Open the window.’

  He turns and unlocks the window, pushing it wide. I put my hand onto the frame, then pause. I turn and I hit Evans as hard as I can. Using every bit of the grief and horror and hatred that I’ve been carrying around with me for the past three years.

  He hits the floor and doesn’t move.

  I hop out the window, run through the garden and climb over the high wall into the street beyond. I can smell smoke in the air. I turn towards the city and see an apocalyptic glow illuminating the undersides of the clouds from one side of the horizon to the other.

  Durban is burning.

  Chapter 20

  The apocalypse has come to Durban.

  I want to say something cynical, like, I don’t really notice the difference, but that would be a lie.

  There’s a roof of darkness smothering the city, thick columns of smoke that connect the sky with trouble spots on the ground. Hundreds of cars have been set on fire, the fierce heat shattering shop windows, setting off alarms. The stench of burning tyres is thick and cloying.

  Shops have been utterly destroyed, looters grabbing what they can and making off with their spoils, ruining livelihoods without a second thought. As I drive along Church Street I have to brake to avoid ploughing into a mob of about thirty people running with flat screen televisions, Blu Ray and DVD players. They’re met by another mob coming from the opposite direction, this one wielding knobkerries, knives, and guns. The two forces meet with screams and jeers. Gunfire rings out. The televisions become weapons, thrown at the enemy.

  I turn down a side street to avoid the fight. The police radio is going crazy. Dispatch issuing increasingly panicked requests for backup along with updates on the worse-hit areas. Although, from the sounds of it, the whole city is under attack.