by Matt Hilton
As before, it wasn’t Girl.
The figure was ill defined, a hint of wavy hair, a twinkle of silver earring, a wolfish leer…
‘Oh my God!’ Every muscle in her body cramped. ‘Y…you can’t be here.’
‘Can’t I? Think again, bitch.’ The disembodied words scratched at the inner surface of her skull. ‘I can be anywhere I please, and do anything I want, and you can’t stop me.’
Breath shuddered from her, spurts of condensation visible in the frigid atmosphere. ‘No. You can’t be real. You…died.’
‘Yes. I died. And we both know who’s to blame.’
Erick Swain lunged, emitting a hiss that filled her skull, and his cuffed hand snatched at her hair.
With a squeal, Kerry jerked out of reach, tumbled off the desk. She cracked her elbow off the floor but ignored the pain, scrambled to make distance between her and the clutching hand of…
Nobody.
Swain had disappeared.
The breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide and dry. She stared, too afraid to blink in case she summoned him again. Her head shook as if palsied, and her breath wheezed out. There’s bugger all there, Kerry!
If he’d ever been present, then Swain had left as abruptly as he’d appeared. A quake ran through her. It had nothing to do with the temperature this time, if anything the stuffy atmosphere had returned to normal. She grew aware of her unceremonious position on the floor. Grasping the desk for support she clawed upright, then sat on its edge. But seating herself went against her impulse to run away.
Her hands covered her face. Who are you going to run away from when there’s nobody there? He wasn’t real. Get a bloody grip, for Christ’s sake!
She yelped as the door handle turned.
She scrambled back across the desk again expecting—
Korba backed into the room, juggling two large mugs of steaming coffee. With his hands full, he’d employed an elbow and hip to work the handle and nudge the door open. Thank God. It gave Kerry precious seconds to get composed before he turned and aimed one of the mugs at her. ‘Just what the doctor ordered, eh?’
She knew her eyes were wide, her tongue wedged between her teeth, and how plain stupid she looked. She tried to smoothen the disbelief from her features, but Korba wasn’t fooled. He wasn’t a detective for nothing, and knew when something was wrong.
‘What’s up, boss?’ He asked. ‘You look rattled. Is it something to do with Swain?’
Oh, Danny, she thought, why did you have to ask that?
14
Baxter Court was mausoleum quiet. Even the drizzling rain failed to add any sound to the pall of sorrow hanging over the row of bleak apartments at the end of the cul-de-sac. All Kerry could hear was the movement of blood through her inner ears. She’d expected to find the press camped outside the apartments, hoping for a photo or quote from the distraught father, but they’d withdrawn so Suleymaan Ghedi could grieve the loss of his wife and daughter in peace. Then again she thought not. They’d probably got their pictures and story earlier, and quickly moved on to record the misery of other victims elsewhere in the city. She was relieved. Visiting Mister Ghedi was difficult enough, without first negotiating a crowd of insistent journalists.
Out of her car, she stood a moment on the pavement, feeling the drizzle on her exposed cheeks. There wasn’t another living soul in sight, and more importantly nothing that could be defined as undead. The last she wanted was for Swain to follow inside the home of those he’d slaughtered. She was unsure if she’d be able to handle things any better than when he’d come at her in the office. She might have convinced Korba she was fine, even if she was in denial. She’d even persuaded herself that Swain had been nothing but a figment of her imagination, brought on by fatigue, and the blows she’d taken to her head. Blatantly she ignored the fact he’d also materialised in Porter’s office before that. Also, she was relieved that Girl had backed off for now — being in the presence of the shade of a child could prove emotional considering the reason for her visit.
The Ghedis’ neighbours kept to a respectful distance, their doors closed. Kerry approached the apartments without attracting attention. A short flight of stairs allowed access to a row of first floor apartments, and she counted down the doors. The Ghedi family home was modest. A blue door and one window, the drapes currently drawn to block out the world, were almost identical to their neighbours. A pink bicycle, with streamers of ribbons tied to the handlebars, propped against the wall under the window was the single unique detail. Her chest tightened: little Bilan would never ride that bike again. Kerry halted, took in a deep breath, and shivered as she expelled it. She’d arrived at Baxter Court despondent, but reminded of the act perpetrated by Erick Swain the embers of righteous anger were fanned. More determined, she knocked on the door.
The curtains shifted open an inch. She held up her warrant card, kept her features neutral. Suleymaan Ghedi needed reassurance that the detective on her case was professional. She could offer compassion but more so a dependable crux to rely on. The curtains dropped shut. A soft murmur of conversation filtered through the door. Finally the door edged open and an older, coffee-skinned woman, dressed in a conservative sash scarf and jilbab, greeted her politely with downcast eyes. Kerry identified herself, and accepted the invitation to enter and immediately saw Suleymaan, who’d risen from a chair at the centre of a small, but neat sitting room. He was a tall, slim man, his features sparse, his eye sockets scooped out with grief. Unlike the woman, he was dressed in western clothing, a shirt and necktie, and dark grey trousers, black shoes, and surprisingly a cross was pinned to his shirt. A matching grey suit jacket hung on the back of the chair he’d vacated. He’d clasped his hands against his abdomen, but lowered his right, cupped, and indicated Kerry to take his seat.
‘Please,’ Kerry said, aiming a gesture at the chair, ‘sit back down, Mr Ghedi, I’ll take the sofa.’
Suleymaan nodded, but didn’t sit again. He turned his back and approached the fireplace: more likely the photos of his dead wife and child displayed upon it. Kerry was unsure of Somalian tradition. Hopefully she hadn’t committed a breech in etiquette by refusing his offer to take his chair. She sat on the edge of the sofa, her hands on her knees.
‘Can I get you something? Tea perhaps?’ The woman’s English was heavily accented, but clear.
‘Tea would be nice,’ Kerry said, conscious of getting her response right this time. ‘Thank you.’
The woman moved for the kitchen and Suleymaan turned to watch her go. A weak smile of affection rode his lips.
‘My sister Filan.’ His voice was brittle. ‘She has come to help me with my son Taban. Would you prefer that she leave the house while we speak? I can have her take Taban out for a walk.’
‘No. It’s not a problem, Mr Ghedi. Besides, it’s beginning to rain…’
The man nodded, looked at the floor. He visibly trembled. Maybe he was reconsidering the idea to send his little boy out: his wife and daughter had been murdered while strolling with Taban.
‘How is your son?’ she asked.
‘Thankfully unaffected by what he saw,’ Suleymaan said, ‘but that is bound to change.’
Undoubtedly it would. The boy was young enough that he might not later recall witnessing the murders, but in the days and years to come he would begin wondering where his mother and sister had gone, and their loss would eat at him, the way Sally’s disappearance had with her.
‘You wish to see him?’ Suleymaan suddenly asked. As if she’d a hidden agenda for visiting. ‘He is perfectly fine. Filan put him down for his nap, but I can have her wake him.’
‘No, let your boy sleep.’ Kerry would have liked to see Taban, so that in some way she could import a message to him that she’d do everything she could to bring some kind of resolution to him, as she hoped to do with his father. But seeing the little boy might crack her professional veneer. It was difficult enough containing her emotions already. ‘I imagine his routine has been…distu
rbed these last few days.’
Suleymaan exhaled sharply.
‘It must be a difficult time for you too,’ she added.
‘My sister’s a great help. She is a good person.’ Suleymaan’s bottom lip trembled. His eyes shone with unshed tears. Kerry guessed what he was thinking: Filan was helpful but would never be a replacement. He finally sat, lacking the strength to stand any longer. There was white stubble on his chin, and wrinkles in his shirt. His routine had not merely been disturbed but shattered. They sat in silence a moment, both lost in sadness, faces downcast, before she leaned forward a fraction.
‘I wanted to pay my respects, to say how sorry I am for your loss.’
Suleymaan nodded at the floor, his fingers twining together in his lap.
‘But this isn’t just a social visit, Mr Ghedi. I’m the lead detective on your family’s case.’
‘I know.’ Suleymaan looked up: his tears had glazed over. ‘I recognise you from the news. I am a religious man, a Christian, and it shames me to admit it, but I have no forgiveness in my heart at this time. I cheered when I heard you avenged Nala and Bilan. Thank you for what you did to their murderer, Inspector Darke.’
Her abdomen clenched. Before, with DCI Porter, and with Adam, she’d defended the fact that Swain’s death was accidental, and she was not to blame for his fall, but it was unnecessary to do the same with Suleymaan. It would be unseemly when offering his gratitude. Still, having him thank her for killing another human being was uncomfortable. ‘My regret is that Erick Swain escaped proper justice. He should’ve been tried and punished accordingly.’
Suleymaan exhaled sharply again, and glanced towards the door. ‘He will suffer the consequences of his sins in the afterlife. I am certain of that.’ He suddenly leaned forward and reached across to grasp Kerry’s hands. His gaze slipped once behind her towards the front door again, before he settled it on her. ‘A greater power was at work on that rooftop, Inspector. You must know this, and accept it yourself. You were protected.’
He was referring to God, or maybe even to the vengeful spirits of his wife or daughter: yet she knew different, and was unsure how she felt about it. Accepting that Girl was real meant also accepting the truth of her most recent, and more terrifying visitations. ‘There’s nothing more I can do to punish Erick Swain,’ she said, ‘but I assure you I won’t leave any rock unturned. Mr Ghedi, Swain might have been the gunman, but he wasn’t alone when those shots were fired. I’ll do everything in my power to ensure anyone involved in the murders of your family are brought to justice.’
‘Catching these people will not bring back my wife or daughter,’ said Suleymaan, ‘but knowing they’re suitably punished will bring a small measure of accord to their loved ones.’ His words sounded hollow, as if he’d answered by rote, and had no belief that any peace would extend to him. ‘Nala’s parents and siblings are devastated; they wish to travel here to attend her funeral, but it’s impossible for them. If I can tell them that her killers are all dead or behind bars, it will help them come to terms. At this time they know only loss.’
In her job Kerry had come across people in many stages of bereavement. Suleymaan was in one of the earliest, where initial shock could become denial. She’d noted more than once that his attention had flicked from her to the door, almost as if he expected Nala and Bilan to enter at any time. By diverting his grief to his wife’s family, he could hold onto hope that this was all a nightmare he would soon wake from to find his loved ones safe and sound. It wasn’t her place to bring him out of denial, not when she’d clung to a similar hope of Sally’s return for decades. In truth they both understood they were grasping for the impossible, but it was easier coping with fantasy than reality.
He squeezed her hands gently. Then sat back, releasing her as Filan tentatively entered the living room carrying two small china cups on a burnished brass tray. Suleymaan gestured, Kerry should be served first. She accepted the delicate cup, and held it under her chin. The tea was weak, but fragrant. Nothing like the stewed brew she was used to back at the nick. Milk was absent from the tray, but there was a pile of brown sugar cubes on a saucer. Out of politeness she tried the drink without sweetening it, and was glad she hadn’t. It tasted like honey as it were. Suleymaan dropped four cubes into his cup and stirred with a tiny spoon, but without drinking, he set his cup aside to cool. Filan returned to the kitchen and closed the door behind her. Kerry was grateful for the brief interlude as she drained the small cup. She placed it on a small table at the edge of the sofa, dug in her coat pocket. She held out her card. ‘On here you’ll find my contact details; if there’s anything I can do, any question I can answer, please don’t hesitate to call, OK? Also, I’ll give you this…’ She took out another card. ‘This is the number for Victim Support, they will be able to assist you through the process of—’
Suleymaan took her card, but was uninterested in the second. He read her details, looked back at her and his gaze was earnest. ‘I trust in you to help, Detective Inspector Darke. I said earlier I’m a man of faith; I believe my faith in you catching the others is not misplaced.’
She didn’t know how to answer. Making bold promises was never a good idea, especially when so many variables could get in the way of a successful conviction. ‘I’ll do my very best,’ she whispered. Her eyeballs were hot, and she steeled against shedding any tears.
He nodded, sat back, and Kerry took it as a sign to leave. She’d expected more questions, perhaps even recrimination and anger, and was thrown by Suleymaan’s demeanour. He was in denial about Nala and Bilan’s deaths, but conversely sincere in his belief she’d bring justice to their killers. She stood, and Suleymaan mirrored her. He extended his hand and she accepted it. He didn’t shake it, only held her fingers in his, squeezing gently again. ‘I can tell you too have lost someone dear to you,’ he said, and for the third or fourth time his attention slipped past her to the door. She couldn’t resist taking a furtive glance. Girl, for once, was caught full on. She stood in the shadows in the corner where the front door met the living room wall. Her head was tilted down, hair hanging loose over her features, and her hands clasped at her midriff: a similar pose to that adopted earlier by Suleymaan. The instant she realised she was observed, she jerked up her head, mouth slipping open. Kerry blinked, and in that fleeting moment, Girl wavered, then blinked out of existence.
Suleymaan looked back at Kerry. ‘Do you believe in guardian angels?’
Taken aback, Kerry didn’t answer.
He smiled sadly. ‘So I’m not the only one refusing to accept the truth. Please, Inspector, whether you believe or not, consider this: there’s a divine balance in the universe. For every act of evil, there are equal acts of virtue. My beloved wife and daughter died, but the only thing that gives me comfort is the knowledge that other lives will be spared in their place.’ He gave her hand an extra squeeze. ‘I mentioned guardian angels; not all are in spirit form.’
She coughed in embarrassment. ‘You’re thinking a little too highly of me, Mr Ghedi. I’m just a police officer…’
‘Who, I know, would’ve fought as hard against the devil to save Nala and Bilan given the chance, as you did when you met his servant on that rooftop.’
Swain was not a pawn of the devil. He was a horrible human being, capable of evil acts, but driven only by his twisted psyche. That was as far as it went. There was nothing supernatural about him…at least, not then. The afterthought made her scalp crawl.
Suleymaan again looked at the door. Kerry checked surreptitiously, expecting Girl to have reappeared, but she was absent. Had Suleymaan seen her, or were his actions and words nothing but a strange coincidence? She couldn’t bring herself to ask. Never before she had to Erick Swain had Girl appeared to anyone but her, and there was a part of her that wanted things to stay that way. While Girl was hers to see alone, she could continue fooling…if not herself, then everyone else.
She left the apartment, troubled by his assertion about a divine balance in the
universe. To believe in angels you had to accept the existence of demons. Had Girl returned to level the playing field with Swain, or for some other reason? Nala and Bilan had died, but other lives would be spared in their place. What path had she set out on since attending the shooting on Wandsworth Road? She laughed without humour, and again tears threatened her eyes. ‘You’ll be on the road to madness if you keep thinking this way,’ she whispered.
15
There was no illusive figure lurking on the pavement outside her house when she arrived home that evening, neither Girl nor one more sinister. Adam’s Ford Focus was missing so she grabbed the opportunity to park before anyone stole the spot. As she got out the car, she felt a drip or two of rain, but the heavy showers of the past couple of days were finally passing. A warmer spell had been forecast, some laughingly predicting an Indian summer. Just then the skies were a uniform grey, similar to her mood.
It had been a long day, and, especially after her visit with Mr Ghedi, one that left her in a confused fog. By the time she went off duty, she was so tired that Korba offered to drive her home. She reminded him he’d been on the go as equally long, and ordered him to go home and rest, shower and change his clothing, although the latter two instructions with a hefty pinch of salt. Perhaps accepting a lift home wouldn’t have been a bad idea. Twice she’d zoned out at red lights, with the genuine fear that on one of those occasions she’d taken a micro-nap. It took the blaring horns of impatient drivers behind her to get her moving. She’d earlier resolved to make amends with Adam, but she was thankful she’d beaten him home. In her near-zombified state she hadn’t the energy. Hopefully she could grab a couple of hours’ sleep before he got back.
She stumbled inside to a living room that stank like a distillery. The stink was cloying, but cleaning the carpet would have to wait. In her bedroom she plugged in her phone charger, and attached the lead to her phone. Visited the loo, then staggered back to her bed. It hadn’t been slept in last night. She crawled on top of the duvet, fully clothed, kicking off her shoes and letting them fall wherever gravity took them. Sleep came instantly and it was absolute…but it didn’t last.