The Society of Dirty Hearts

by Ben Cheetham

  THE SOCIETY OF DIRTY HEARTS

  Ben Cheetham

  Copyright © Ben Cheetham 2011

  All Rights Reserved

  http://bencheetham.blogspot.com/

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  Prologue

  2001

  When Christine and Julian arrived at Grandma Alice’s house, the dining-room had been made ready for communing with the dead. A blind had been lowered and thick curtains drawn, shutting out the early evening light. Six candles were lined like a fence around a bowl of steaming tomato soup in the centre of the oval dining-table. Six chairs were arranged at equal distances from one another around the table. In front of one was a slate and a piece of chalk. The house was bathed in the smell of fresh-baked bread. Grandma Alice was busy in the kitchen, removing a loaf from the oven, tapping its golden-brown crust.

  “What are you doing, Grandma?” asked Julian.

  Alice smiled down at him, her heavily made-up face wrinkling like an overripe peach. “Checking to see if it’s baked through, darling. If it’s not, it’ll make a sound like tapping on a hollow box.” A mischievous gleam came into her piercingly blue eyes, which seemed to shine out of her face as if gazing at something beyond Julian. “Or like the echo of a ghost’s voice.”

  “Mum,” Christine said, in a rebuking tone.

  “What? Well, it’s true.” Satisfied by what she heard, Alice took the bread into the dining-room and placed it on the table beside the soup.

  “What’s the food for?” asked Julian.

  “It’s to help attract the spirit we’re going to try to contact. You see, darling, the spirits of the dead still hunger after their favourite foods.”

  “Mum,” Christine snapped again. “I’ve told you before, I don’t want you talking about this stuff to him.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Christine, he’s ten-years old. You knew everything there was to know about my business by the time you were his age, and it didn’t do you any harm.”

  “I had nightmares for years.”

  Alice waved her hand dismissively. “You shouldn’t coddle the child, Christine. He’ll end up a sissy.”

  Lips compressing into a tight line, Christine grabbed Julian’s hand and pulled him towards the front door. “Where are you going?” asked Alice.

  “Home. If you’d told us you were holding a séance today, we’d never have come in the first place.”

  “Oh come on, Christine, there’s no need for that. Please, I’ve been looking forward to your visit all week. I hardly ever get to see you and Julian anymore,” Alice said, suddenly contrite.

  Christine hesitated, puckers of uncertainty forming around her eyes. “Okay,” she sighed. “But you’ve got to promise me, Mum, that you won’t go filling Julian’s head up with all your mumbo-jumbo.”

  A twitch of irritation passed over Alice’s face at the word mumbo-jumbo, then her smile returned. “Whatever you say, darling.” She made a mouth-zipped gesture.

  Christine closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead. “Are you getting one of your headaches?” asked Alice.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look it, you look wiped out. Why don’t you go lie down? I’ll keep an eye on Julian.” As Christine’s brow contracted, Alice added, “Don’t worry, I’ll send him up to you as soon as things get under way.”

  “Aw, do I have to go upstairs?” Julian groaned. “There’s no telly up there.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told, young man, or your father will hear about it,” Christine warned him. “Do you hear?”

  Julian nodded sullenly.

  “Don’t worry, darling, the séance won’t last more than an hour,” said Alice. “Then you can watch whatever you want all evening.”

  Christine made her way upstairs. Near the top, she turned and called down to Julian, “And stay out of the dining-room. I don’t want you fooling around in there.”

  Alice put her arm around his shoulder. “Come on, you can help me in the kitchen. I’m making your favourite. Chocolate cake.”

  His face brightening, Julian followed her into the kitchen. She handed him a whisk and a bowl of cake mixture. “Give that a good whisk.”

  He did so until his wrist ached, while Alice lined two cake moulds with well-buttered paper. “That looks just about perfect,” she said, taking the bowl back and spooning its contents into the moulds. When she was done, she handed him the spoon to lick clean, which he did with relish.

  Julian watched Alice with big curious eyes as she buzzed around the kitchen, humming to herself. Once or twice he opened his mouth, but snapped it shut again with a click. “Grandma,” he began sheepishly at last, then fell silent, chewing his lip, as if he’d been about to say something he shouldn’t.

  She looked askance at him with a knowing, amused glance. “Yes, darling, what is it?”

  “I was wondering,” Julian chewed his lip a little more, working up the nerve to continue, “who’s the ghost you’re going to speak to today?”

  “You know we’re not supposed to talk about that, Julian.”

  “I won’t get scared.”

  “I know you won’t, but I promised your mum.” Smiling, Alice reached to stroke Julian’s cheek. “Someday, sweetheart, you’ll find out that there’s a great big world beyond this speck of a town, but not today. Now go on, go watch the telly.”

  Seeing that he wasn’t going to get anything out of his grandma, Julian mooched into the living-room and switched on the cartoons. A short time later, there was a knock at the front door. Alice poked her head into the room. “They’re here, you’d better go upstairs.”

  Julian gave out a groan, but did as he was told. His mum was asleep in the back bedroom, which was above the dining-room. In the chilly grey light that filtered around the edges of the curtains, she looked washed-out, faded, like a sun-bleached photograph of herself. Lately she always seemed to be tired, and she was losing weight too. Julian had asked her if she was ill. She’d assured him she wasn’t, but looking at her now, at the dark smudges under her eyes, the shadows under her cheekbones, he found himself wondering if she’d lied. He just couldn’t believe she’d do that, though. She’d always told him, lying is the worst thing in the world, Julian. I can forgive almost anything, but not a lie.

  He took a comic out of his bag and lay down beside his mum to read it. After a while, he became aware of a murmur of voices from below. He heard his grandma’s voice and a man’s voice, but they were too indistinct to make out what was being said. His grandma sounded strange, a little shrill and strained, almost scared. The man’s voice came in short, jerky spurts, as if he were being forced to speak. Suddenly there was a burst of laughter. It wasn’t pleasant to hear. It was discordant, harsh, more like a threat than a laugh. It sent a crawling feeling across Julian’s shoulders and down his back. His mum stirred, but didn’t wake. He lay perfectly still, holding his breath, listening. A powerful urge, almost a compulsion, was growing in him. He had to know what that awful voice was saying, and more than that, he had to see who it belonged to.

  Quietly as he could, Julian rose and padded from the room. His heart beating so that he felt every pulse, he crept downstairs to the dining-room door. His grandma’s voice was clearly audible now. “Give them the closure they seek, give them peace,” she said.

  There was a pause, then the voice s
narled with such acid fury that Julian flinched, “What fucking peace?”

  “Tell them where to find Susan.”

  Another pause, then, “Fuck you…Fucking whore-bitch…Fucking slut…Dried up old cunt...”

  As the voice ranted off a string of staccato insults the likes of which Julian had never heard before, he reached for the door-handle. It felt greasy and cold in his hand as he slowly depressed it. He opened the door a crack, squinting through. In the gloomy candlelight he saw first a man and a woman sat with their backs to him, hands resting palm down on the oak table. The man’s head was stooped as if he had a heavy weight on the back of it. The woman was staring towards the head of the table. Her eyes were wet, her lips trembled. Then he saw his grandma. Only it wasn’t his grandma. Her mouth, the corners of which were drawn up into a sneering grin, opened and closed mechanically. And from it, like some kind of ventriloquist’s trick, came the voice. Saliva stretched from her lips to the tabletop. Her nostrils flared like a mad bull’s. Her eyes were unrecognisable, the pupils dilated and bulging. They seemed to spit hate at everything they saw. They shrivelled Julian’s insides with fear. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t. He stood transfixed, like someone trapped in a bad dream. Then, suddenly, the eyes turned their glare on him, and he fell backward as if he’d been punched in the chest. Scrambling to his feet, he ran upstairs, no longer caring how much noise he made. He dived under the duvet and hugged his mum tightly, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in short gasps. Without waking, she put out an arm to hug him back.

  Gradually, Julian’s breathing slowed and he drifted into troubled dreams. He was staring up into a face as ugly as a Halloween mask, his body heavy and immobile. The monster bent close, sniffing and licking his face. Its breath stunk like something rotten. Hands seemed to be on Julian’s throat, squeezing. Tears welled in his eyes. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a pathetic little squeal. His head felt swollen, like it would burst. The monster’s face began to blur and melt into darkness. He felt himself stop breathing. He felt himself die. Then he awoke screaming, screaming and screaming.

  Christine’s eyes snapped open. “What’s going on?” she gasped. “What’s the matter? Julian, calm down and tell me what’s the-” She broke off as the door swung open and Alice staggered into view.

  Alice was pale and sweaty. Her make-up had run in streaks, giving her a ghoulish look. Her eyes were her own again, but clouded and distant, as if seeing through a veil of pain and fear. “It knows you’re here,” she cried, clinging to the door-handle for support.

  “What are you talking-” Christine started to say, then a frown of realisation hardened her features. “What’ve you done, Mum? Tell me.”

  “There’s no time. You must leave right away. Go. Get out!”

  Putting her arm around Julian and pressing his face into her shoulder, Christine shepherded him from the room. She paused by her mum, staring at her with something close to detestation. “I don’t know what’s gone on here. But I do know one thing, if you’ve messed Julian up like you messed me up, I’ll never forgive you. I’ll cut you out of our life forever. Do you hear? Am I coming through the ether loud and clear, you selfish old witch?” Without waiting for a response, she hurried Julian downstairs and out the house.

  Chapter 1

  2010

  A fifteen-year old girl was missing in Julian’s hometown. He saw it on the news in the student union bar. Her name was Joanne Butcher. They showed a picture of her. Eyes rimmed with heavy black mascara, straightened reddish-purple bangs hanging into them, an anaemic emo kid pout. She’d gone out to meet some friends nearly a week earlier and never come home. Her mother made a tearful plea for information. She looked gaunt and glazed, like a heroin addict. She probably is some sort of addict, thought Julian. He didn’t know the Butchers, but he recognised their name. They had a bad reputation in the town as petty crims.

  The dream came that night for the first time in months. Only this time it was different. This time Julian was the monster and the person beneath him was a girl. Not the girl who’d been missing for days, but another girl who’d been missing for years. Her name was Susan Carter, and she was fifteen too. She had a cute, girl-next-door face, sandy blonde-hair in a ponytail and baby-blue eyes – eyes that were swollen and wet with fear. He bent to inhale her scent. She smelt of perfume and soap, and underneath them something else, something far sweeter. His blood quickened through his veins, pulsing in his temples and groin. Horrified at what he was doing, but unable to stop himself, he ran his tongue over her face, tasting her make-up, her skin. She shuddered and struggled, but his hands were on her like steel claws, tearing at her clothes, prising her legs apart. With a loud animal grunt, he penetrated her and felt something give. Then she was screaming, and his fingers were around her throat, squeezing and twisting as if he was wringing out a dishcloth. Suddenly, he was wracked by an orgasm stronger than any he’d ever known. Bucking like he’d been shot, he laughed with triumph and pleasure until the last of his semen had pulsed into her.

  When Julian woke up, his boxer-shorts were wet and sticky. A crawling sick feeling rose in him. “What’s the matter with me?” he murmured to himself. “I must be losing it.”

  He switched on the bedside lamp, got out of bed and washed his groin at the sink in the corner of the room. Staring at himself in the mirror, he was vaguely surprised to see the same face as always staring back. Shaking his head with shame, he returned to bed. He couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes, though. The thought of the dream made him tremble with little shudders of revulsion. Finally, when he couldn’t stand lying there any longer, he rose, showered and dressed. He didn’t go to his lectures. He stayed in his room all day, ignoring knocks on his door from hall mates, flicking through the TV and radio channels, searching for news of Joanne Butcher. There wasn’t much to find. A missing teenage girl from a bad family didn’t generate much air time.

  Julian went to bed that night determined not to dream. Closing his eyes, he meditated until his mind was a blank white space, like his therapist had taught him. But the dream came anyway. He awoke with his head reeling and his pulse pounding. He made it to the sink just in time to empty the contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl. Overwhelmed by dread and disgust, he couldn’t even bring himself to lie down. Instead he stood at the window, staring at nothing, his forehead tensed into deep lines, like he was debating with himself. Suddenly, as if he’d come to some decision, he turned and began pulling clothes out of a chest of drawers. He packed them and a few other bits and pieces into a rucksack, dressed and hurried from his room to the carpark. He flung his rucksack onto the backseat of his car, got in and drove off the campus.

  The greyish light of dawn was gathering as Julian passed beyond the suburbs of the city. He headed north along roads flanked at first by out of town shopping-centres, and light industrial estates, then by fields of tall wheat, bright yellow rapeseed and grass grazed by cattle. As he neared home, the fields gave way to a mixed forest of light, airy deciduous trees and dark, claustrophobic pine plantations. His heart lifted as he passed into the forest’s dappled sunlight. He loved the forest. He loved its sounds, its scents. But most of all he loved its secrecy. As young boys, he and his friends had spent days and weeks at a time hacking their way through its thick undergrowth of bracken and bramble, exploring its darkest recesses. They’d pretended to be outlaws in hiding, building dens, starting fires, setting rabbit snares. And as teenagers, they’d got drunk and stoned and popped their cherries in its secret gloom.

  Julian’s heart fell again when he saw the police cars at the entrance to the Five Springs picnic area – a favourite spot for local teens to gather on a weekend. Drivers were slowing down, rubbernecking. There was nothing to see, except a few policemen and bored-looking journalists.

  Beyond Five Springs, the road descended gently towards where the forest pressed against the town’s affluent southern suburbs. At its outskirts a group of school-children and adults were h
anding fliers to passing motorists. Julian opened his window to take one from a pale, skinny girl with a swirl of self-consciously messy black hair hanging down almost over her eyes. Looking at him with a searching intensity that made him want to blink, she asked, “Have you seen this girl?” There was a picture of Joanne Butcher on the flier, the same one they’d shown on the news. Printed beneath it in large blood-red lettering was the word ‘Missing’. And beneath that was a brief narrative that read ‘Joanne Butcher has been missing since 13th of May 2010. Her parents and the police are concerned for her safety. If you’ve seen her or have any information regarding her please contact us on the number provided below.’

  “No I haven’t,” said Julian. He drove on, turning into a broad street of large detached houses hidden behind tall hedges and fences. At a set of wrought-iron gates, he punched a code into a control box. The gates swung open and he drove along a tarmac drive through a meticulously cared-for garden to a single-story house of concrete, wood and glass. As usual, a feeling of ambivalence arose in him at the sight of the place. On the one hand, he loved the way its glass walls allowed the garden and the forest beyond to penetrate into the heart of its interior. On the other, he hated it for the same reason. He could never quite get used to its openness. It made him feel exposed and vulnerable, especially at night, when the darkness pressed in on him like a physical weight.

  Julian left his car and climbed a gentle ramp to the front door, which slid rather than swung open. As he entered the house, a black Labrador ran up to him, whining and wagging its tail. “Hello, boy. Hello, Henry,” said Julian, scratching the dog’s ears, ruffling the fur under its chin. Henry followed him through a minimally but expensively furnished, open-plan living space to a gleaming kitchen of stainless steel and granite. The kitchen had low work surfaces and no high cupboards. A brunette woman, about forty, with thick wrists and powerful sloping shoulders that looked like they were used to heavy work was in there chopping vegetables. She started and turned her head. “Bloody hell, Julian, you gave me a fright. What are you doing back from university?”