Dead Girl Walking

by Sant, Sharon

  ‘We’re working on bits and pieces the forensic guys have turned up. But it looks as though our killer has stayed under the radar previously as we’re not turning anything up on the database so far.’ He grinds his teeth and I can see his jaw clench. ‘He’s boxing clever, that’s for sure, but we’ll get him one way or another.’

  ‘Even if you have to resort to highly unorthodox measures,’ I say, repeating another overheard phrase.

  He turns to me with a low laugh. ‘You weren’t supposed to be listening to any of that.’

  ‘It was kind of hard not to.’

  ‘Then you must know that I’m desperate for any leads I can get.’

  I nod. ‘The visions come to me in dribs and drabs, as time passes. Just because I can’t give you anything today, doesn’t mean I won’t have something for you tomorrow. Does that help any?’

  ‘It’s certainly given me something to hope for. How long are we talking for this to happen?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. The only people whose deaths I have seen before are my family so I suppose it makes things different. I was pretty screwed up and not well myself for a long time, so for months after the accident little details were still coming back to me. In this case, although I now know it works on people other than my family, I can’t tell you what a different emotional involvement with the dead person will mean for my recollections.’

  He nods thoughtfully as he opens the entrance door for me. ‘So when you came here today you didn’t know if it would work?’

  ‘I couldn’t know. Nobody else I know has died since the accident. I kind of like it that way.’

  ‘But you came anyway, because you wanted to help.’

  ‘Yes, if I could. I mean, what’s the point of having this curse if I can’t turn it into a gift? It’s been given to me for a reason, I realise now I just need to work out what that is. Maybe if I do that, I can master it. Maybe I can even get rid of it.’

  ‘Well…’ he says slowly, ‘I can’t say that it doesn’t all sound completely bonkers, but right now I’ll take any help I can get.’

  I drag the bolts across the door and slide down it onto the floor, head held in my hands. Now I’m alone I feel like I want to collapse. I’m exhausted and spent, my mind still reeling from the experience of another’s violent end. She was strangled and she welcomed it. What in God’s name had he done to her first? Suddenly, I’m gripped by a feeling of profound connection to a girl I’ve never met. I have her name – Rachel Pietrzyk – but that’s all. And yet, I have so much more than that. I have a shared consciousness, a shared trauma, but she’ll never know. If I could tell her, would that make her feel better?

  Keys still in my hand, I push up to stand and make my way to the kitchen. Finding the light switch my gaze travels over the open journal, cold tea, scraps of paper, still spread over the table from before I left. I rub my eyes as I look it over. I don’t know why, but everything seems like it’s in the wrong place somehow. I stagger over to the kettle. I put my hand to it and it feels slightly warm. Perhaps I haven’t been out as long as I thought. There’s a dirty cup in the sink too. I don’t remember leaving it there. Perhaps I’m actually going nuts and it’s taken me this long to notice it.

  My gaze is drawn to the table again. Dante’s number is there. I pick it up and pore over the slanting letters, the high crossed T. I start to dial the number.

  I drop the phone onto the table. Every part of my body aches. If Mum was here she’d sit me down and stroke a hand over my forehead to see how hot it was. Then she’d make me drink hot chocolate, whether I wanted it or not, and run me a deep, foamy bath. She’d wait until I got out and then she’d build a big mountain of cushions on the sofa and cover me up to watch TV, just like she’s always done since as long as I can remember. But she’s not here, so I take myself upstairs, a little orange ball of fur appearing from the kitchen to follow me. Then I curl up in my cold bed and seek the welcome oblivion of sleep.

  I wonder whether to tell Helen about Rachel but in the end I don’t. Her death has now joined the others to haunt my dreams, another consciousness crowding out my own.

  ‘You’re keeping the journal?’ Helen asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it’s helping?’

  I think carefully before offering a reply. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe it is.’

  She gazes at me expectantly.

  ‘I forgot it,’ I say.

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘I was in a rush today.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she says, ‘I don’t necessarily need to read it. I just need to know that you’re keeping it and it’s doing some good.’

  ‘I am and it is.’

  ‘Is there anything in there that you can remember? Anything you’d feel happy sharing with me today?’

  I shrug. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well,’ she says, swishing the tea at the bottom of her mug, ‘have you done anything different this week – anything more adventurous, out of your normal routine?’

  ‘Nothing I can talk about,’ I say.

  ‘Nothing you can talk about?’ What does that mean? Is it that you don’t want to talk about it?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  She frowns as she places her mug very deliberately onto the side-table. ‘We’ve discussed this, Cassie. If you can’t open up to me it’s a waste of time you coming.’

  Her tone shocks me. Before now we’ve always had Mrs Understanding-sympathy-take-your-time-tea-lady. Is this another of her counsellor ploys? She fills my silence. ‘You need to work with me. It’s beginning to strike me that you enjoy wallowing in this state of punishing self-pity.’

  ‘I wonder, Helen…’ I begin, ‘if that assessment of my mental state is entirely professional.’ My words are coated with ice.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way – ’

  ‘No, I’m sorry you feel that way. If my presence in your office bothers you so much I’ll take my sorry self out of your sight.’ I snatch my bag and coat from the floor at my feet.

  ‘Cassie!’

  The door ricochets off the frame behind me as I leave.

  I hardly notice how angry I am until I realise how hard I’m scrubbing at the window pane. It’s weird, the cleaning thing – I don’t really care how clean the house is and I don’t care what the neighbours think, but knowing that Mum would have done drives me to clean like a demon, especially in the places where people outside will see. The back of the house, hidden away, can have dishes lying in the sink till kingdom come. But the front of the house – the windows, nets, front door – they have to be respectable, just like Mum would have kept them.

  I can’t stop thinking about my last meeting with Helen. Why does she rile me so much? Is it because I know she’s right and I don’t want to admit it? My gaze travels the space, over the mirror and the rug and the pot on the shelf – familiar objects, the sight of which bring so much comfort and yet so much pain. I dreamt again last night; that Mum and Dad and Tish had just walked in with Chinese takeaway. It was so vivid I could practically smell the spices on the air. They were laughing and teasing me because I’d fallen asleep on the sofa in my coat. Mum kissed my head and went into the kitchen to find plates. Tish flicked my ear as she walked past. At times like these, I almost crave the nightmares and flashbacks – they’d be easier to bear. This would have been the thing to share with Helen, and maybe she’d have been able to talk me through it. This would have been the thing to focus on to blur the images of a cold sky above me as I’m strangled. Sad memories, painful and gut-wrenching, but safe ones; at least, safer than the new ones Karl Massey has gifted to me.

  It’s hard to admit, because I want to do some good with this… this thing I’ve been landed with, but since I went to the mortuary with Karl and experienced Rachel’s death all my grief for my own family is raw again, like a wound that has been reopened. Maybe that’s why I flew into a rage with Helen, and why my dreams are like knives into my soul just when I thought things might be
getting better. I hope to God that Karl catches this killer soon; I’m not sure I can go through this again.

  My mouth is dry and my stomach groans and I realise that I haven’t eaten since early this morning. I stretch and throw my cloth into the bucket. Maybe I’d feel better if I ate something. Gran always said a hungry man was an angry one. I’m no man but I sure am hungry. Hopping down from the ladder, I make for the kitchen. I wonder how many missed calls I have from Helen now, who has been diligently trying, even though she probably doesn’t want to. I have to hand it to her; she is dedicated even if she is annoying. Pulling my phone from my pocket I check the display. Five missed calls. Four of them are from Helen but the other is Meadowview, who called only five minutes previously. I wonder vaguely if it was a bit stupid to put my phone on silent, considering Gran’s recent hospital stay, as I dial their number.

  ‘Hello, it’s Cassie Brown - Evelyn’s granddaughter. You tried to call me earlier?’

  ‘Yes, Cassie, it’s Gail here, I’m so glad you called back.’

  ‘Why, what’s she done now?’

  ‘Cassie, you need to get to the hospital. As soon as you can.’

  Six: Cold Comfort

  The nurse shows me in to a side room where Gran lies. She’s unconscious, grey-skinned and slack-mouthed, the rise and fall of her chest barely noticeable. As I walk across to the bed I notice that she seems to be slipping awkwardly down to one side from the pillow and I heave her up straight. There’s a quiet cough from behind and I turn to find what I presume to be a doctor looking at me. He doesn’t look much older than me but I suppose he must be. Looks like he smiles a lot when he’s off duty, likes the odd curry and a pint.

  ‘You must be Evelyn’s granddaughter. Is there anyone else to come?’

  ‘No, why?’

  He hesitates, shuffles through the notes balanced in the crook of his arm. ‘I need to explain the prognosis to the next of kin.’

  ‘That’ll be me then. Fire away, I’m a big girl and I understand big words.’

  He stares at me for a moment. ‘Do you want to sit down?’

  ‘Spare me the bull,’ I say. ‘It’s not good, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not. The blood clot is in her brain stem. Even if she survives she’ll have permanent damage.’

  ‘Like a vegetable?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  My gaze travels to the figure in the bed. Already she looks less like a human and more like a corpse. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘It’s been there for a while, by the looks of things.’

  ‘So why didn’t you find it when she was here before?’

  ‘These things aren’t always visible. If we weren’t looking for it then her symptoms would have seemed like something a lot less sinister.’ He pulls at the cuffs of his shirt. ‘I can only apologise.’

  ‘You can, but that doesn’t help me or her.’

  He is quiet for a moment as my attention is turned back to Gran. ‘Would you like to be alone for a while?’ he asks finally.

  I nod and he leaves us with a soft click of the door.

  ‘Gran, it’s me,’ I say as I take a seat by the bed.

  Not a flicker of recognition registers on her formless features. It’s like she’s gone already. She looks thinner than I remember, the very fabric of her dissolving.

  ‘Gran, you old cow, don’t you dare do this to me.’ I rub at my eyes. ‘Who will bitch at me about washing my hair and wearing inappropriate footwear if you leave me?’ I can feel my throat tighten. I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to cry… ‘Gran… please… I need you. I can’t be alone…’

  Maybe she’s dead already, even though she’s breathing, a kind of death-in-life limbo. My hand lingers just above hers, and then I grasp it and close my eyes. I’m not sure what I feel – relief or disappointment – when no vision comes.

  I’m lying on cold concrete. I can’t think - there’s too much pain, too much fear. Hands at my throat. Nails draw flesh but he doesn’t flinch. My thrashing weakens. He lifts a hand to my hair. A flash of something – an image. Something sinuous, black lines curling around his wrist. The dark is coming for me. Soon I can sleep…

  I clutch at my throat and draw a panicked breath as I take a moment to remember where I am. Gran remains motionless in our silent room. Beyond the heavy door, the faint sounds of activity at the nurses’ station and the low hum of voices. I fumble in my pocket for the phone and the card. A scrap of paper falls out and I pick it up from the floor. Sloping script and high crossed T. I fold it and shove it back into my pocket. I’m distracted by the door opening.

  ‘There’s really no point in you staying here,’ the nurse says cheerily. ‘You’d get more rest at home and we can call you the minute there is any change.’

  I look up and rub at the crick in my neck. Gran is still unconscious, and beginning to slide down the pillow again. I get up from the chair to set her straight.

  ‘Had you nodded off?’ the nurse smiles.

  ‘I suppose I must have done,’ I reply, sitting back in the chair. Gran still looks uncomfortable, but it’s the best I can do.

  The nurse crosses to the bedside lamp and switches it on before putting out the starker overhead light. ‘That’s better for you, isn’t it?’ she says, looking in our direction. For a moment I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or Gran, but I nod anyway.

  ‘It’s blowing a right gale out there tonight,’ she comments, her attention drawn to the gloom outside the window. ‘It’s never right, this weather. Global warming and all that.’

  I know she’s trying to be friendly and kind but her voice reminds me of that mosquito in your room at night that you just want to slap to stop the incessant whining.

  ‘Shall I close the blinds?’ she asks in a voice that’s far too happy.

  I shrug. ‘I don’t suppose Gran cares either way.’

  She glances at the bed and then back at me, a disinterested sort of sympathy on her face.

  ‘More water?’ she asks, nodding at the jug on the side-table.

  ‘What’s she going to do with it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the nurse replies, putting her hands on her hips, a harder edge now creeping into her tone. ‘But maybe her visitor would like some.’

  ‘Her visitor just wants to be alone with her,’ I say.

  She throws a disdainful glance in my direction and bangs the door as she leaves. I give her a moment to get back to the nurse station.

  ‘Sorry, Gran, I won’t be a minute.’ I kiss her forehead. ‘I think you’d approve, though.’

  Pulling my coat from the chair, I head out into the darkened corridor.

  ‘It’s Cassie,’ my voice is low as I clutch the phone to my ear, shivering outside the main doors of the hospital.

  ‘Cassie, it’s late… what’s wrong?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m ok. But I think I remembered something about Rachel’s attacker.’

  Karl’s voice sharpens. ‘Are you at home?’

  ‘Not right now. I could come to the station tomorrow if you want.’

  There’s a brief, hissing silence. ‘Can I come and see you now? Is it somewhere convenient?’

  Gran is dying, or at least, no longer really living. I should be with her; she should be my only focus right now. But then, if she was able to unleash the full force of her acid-coated tongue onto me, I know what she’d tell me to do. And for the first time, I feel certain that there is a purpose to me, a reason I came back from the dead.

  ‘I’m at the City General. I’ll wait for you in the café.’

  The imprint of creased cotton is still faintly visible on his cheek as Karl scans the café for me, barely fifteen minutes later. When I see him at work he has a tie and suit on – the whole professional nine yards. Tonight he’s thrown a denim jacket over combats and a sweatshirt and his hair could give Einstein something to be jealous of. As soon as he clocks me he strides across to the table where I nurse a cup of weak tea.

  ‘I’m s
orry if I woke you,’ I say as he takes a seat and pulls off his jacket. ‘I hadn’t realised it was so late or I would have phoned you tomorrow.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you phoned straight away. Time is the one thing we don’t have – the quicker I can wrap this investigation up the better.’

  The memory of my dream is sucking the moisture from my mouth and my palms are beginning to slick with sweat. I take a gulp of my tea. It’s like warmed up water but the action of hugging the cup somehow helps me to feel better.

  ‘So, you said you remembered something about the attacker. Did you see his face? Could you identify him if we showed you some photos?’

  ‘Would that stand up in court?’ I say, momentarily thrown off track by the idea.

  ‘Probably not,’ he replies frankly, folding his huge hands across one another on the table. ‘But it would give us somewhere to start.’

  I stare into my tea, suddenly feeling foolish. ‘I didn’t remember it at first. But I dreamt about it again – like I said before, that seems to happen once I’ve connected with someone. And in the dreams the details always seem sharper, like my brain has had time to process them so I can see them more clearly. I don’t suppose that will stand up in court either.’

  His appraising gaze holds mine. Behind those unruly-browed eyes is a human lie detector. I feel sure he knows every criminal’s guilt as soon as that look bores into them. There is no reply and I continue.

  ‘There was a tattoo, like this…’ I trace a line around my wrist and down the back of my hand towards my index finger. ‘It was a snake, maybe a cobra or something. Its mouth was open with fangs showing. It was really unusual; at least, I’ve never seen one like it before.’

  He continues to stare at me for a moment before seemingly snapping from some trance.

  ‘Could you draw it?’ he asks, pulling a small notebook and a pen from his coat pocket.

  ‘I’m not a very good artist,’ I say. ‘I could try.’ I drag the pad across the table and try to sketch a coiled, scaled body and fangs dripping with venom, just like the one I saw in my dream. I can feel Karl watching me as I work.