Dead Souls

by Campbell, Ramsey; Warren, Kaaron; Finch, Paul; McMahon, Gary; Hood, Robert; Stone, Michael; Mark S. Deniz

  He strolled idly. Music was throbbing, but he couldn’t locate its source. Ragged children played on the wrecks of cars, jumping up and down on metal, smashing glass; older youths hung about in silent, watchful groups — they looked as if they would kick you to death as soon as spit. More disturbing was the graffiti. Every type of mindless drivel was scrawled or sprayed on the walls and floors, but one particular symbol repeated itself again and again; a horned-head with no facial features. Nick wasn’t sure how or where, but he felt he’d seen that distinctive image before.

  He was on a street-corner, puzzling over one large example of this when a car suddenly screeched up and two men leaped out. They had him against a wall in seconds, and were patting him down. He didn’t know either one, but made them for local plain-clothes. They wore casual suits and hard frowns.

  “Mr. Waldron,” one of them said loudly. “A rare pleasure. Carrying, are you?”

  Nick sensed the faces appearing at windows and balustrades. “You bastards are harassing me,” he protested. “I’ve not done anything.”

  They rousted him anyway, pushing him face-first into the brickwork, telling him he could have it easy or rough, and that it would be better for all concerned if he went back where he’d come from. Things were bad enough round here without scum like him lowering the tone even more. They then left, but only after warning him at the tops of their voices to piss off or expect the most miserable time of his life.

  He glared after them, before hurrying back to his flat. As he closed the door, his phone rang.

  He lifted it to his ear. “Brooker!”

  “How are you?” came a Glaswegian voice.

  “You might’ve told me. Scared the crap out of me for a minute.”

  “Got to keep up appearances,” Knox replied.

  “There’s nothing else I don’t know about, is there?”

  “You’re probably wiser than us already. What’s it like in there?”

  “Like a castle ready to close its doors. Whoever designed these places really knew what they were doing.”

  “That thought’s crossed my mind a couple of times,” Knox said. “Almost like it was pre-planned. Take care, Nick.” And he hung up.

  ****

  The Sleeping Prince was a pub that had actually been built into one of the residential blocks. Its inn-sign showed a knight in armour reclining under a leafy tree, though years ago someone had spattered it with scarlet paint. The front door was set in a metal frame and its windows covered with wire-mesh grilles.

  Inside it was a little more wholesome. Air-conditioning hummed gently. The upholstery was of plush blue velvet, the brasses and woods all polished and shining. Aside from Nick, only two other customers were present; two scruffy men shooting pool. A young woman was mopping the bar-top; a shapely, rather handsome young woman. Her long red hair was tied in a neat pony-tail, her lithe figure clad in jeans and a t-shirt.

  “Evening,” he said, approaching. “Bitter, please.”

  She nodded and began to draw a pint.

  “How’s business?” he asked.

  She glanced at him suspiciously; up close, her eyes were forest-green. “Who wants to know?”

  Nick shrugged. “Sorry. Just trying to be friendly.”

  He paid for his drink, and sat down in a corner. The seat-cushions, he noticed, had been repeatedly slashed but fastidiously re-stitched. Above them, a chunk of plaster had been knocked from the wall and later repaired with Pollyfilla. He didn’t doubt that similar patch-up jobs had been carried out all over the establishment. Suddenly the barmaid’s lack of welcome was understandable.

  Five minutes later, he went back to the counter and ordered the same again, fixing her with his best ‘average-kind-of-guy’ smile.

  “I’m sorry about before,” she said, refilling his glass. “I didn’t mean to seem rude.”

  By her accent, she was local but educated. She seemed an unlikely employee for a place like this.

  He leaned on the bar. “Must get a few tough-nuts in here from time to time.”

  She moved empties to the sink. “I wish it was only time to time. What brings a northerner like you to this neck of the woods?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Been here for a while...at Her Majesty’s convenience.”

  She didn’t seem surprised. “Well you’ll be right at home in Underwood.”

  “What keeps you here?” he asked.

  “Work. But it won’t for much longer.”

  “Oh?”

  “Brewery closes this place down in a couple of days.”

  He sipped his beer. “Pity.”

  “Only temporarily,” she added. “Until autumn. Things get a bit too hot around here in summer.”

  He watched her over the rim of his glass, but she didn’t elaborate. A moment later, she’d moved away to serve somebody else. He drank up and left; better not to press things too hard at this early stage.

  On his way back to the flat, he spotted several more of the horned-head symbols. It was clearly an insignia, but whether denoting a gang or an individual artist he couldn’t be sure. He’d definitely seen it before.

  It was late-evening, warm and very sultry, the sun glaring orange from the blank faces of the buildings. Additional people now seemed to be hanging around. The teenage gangs haunting the walkways and underpasses had been supplemented by characters in their twenties and thirties. Most were smoking and drinking from bottles of cider, talking and laughing in loud guttural voices. Nick passed few without drawing curious stares. One bunch was particularly menacing; they hung around a bench at one end of the plaza in front of his block. One had a fully shaved head and cobwebs tattooed on his face and neck. As Nick passed, the Cobweb Man directed a big grin at him, as if in response to some quietly whispered joke. Nick didn’t bother to ask what it was. He was sure he’d find out in good time.

  That night he had a nightmare. He was lying in bed when someone beat on the frosted glass panel of the front door. Approaching it, dressed only in underpants, he saw a fearsome silhouette on the other side. It was vaguely humanoid, but low, hunched and of abnormal breadth, with a wide, flat head. A terrible stench of fish seeped in from it. Nick shouted at the monstrosity to go away, to take its fat ugly bastard face back to Hell, but it beat on the door again, this time with the flat of its hand, which was huge and had webbed fingers.

  He woke up shuddering, his body damp with sweat. For a few seconds as he lay there, he fancied he could still smell it. The memory alone put him off breakfast, so he got dressed and went for a walk. He’d made some headway with the barmaid from The Sleeping Prince, he decided. Later on, he’d see if they served lunches there, and try to make a little more. For the time being, he’d scout the estate properly — if nothing else, he’d be able to provide the tactical support groups with detailed reconnaissance.

  The bench where the gang had hung out the previous night was deserted, though surrounded by empty bottles and cans. The flagstones around it had been heavily inscribed with the horned-head symbol. Nick stared at it, wondering.

  Then someone cried out.

  He looked up sharply. The plaza was deserted, morning sunlight bright on its cracked paving. The cry came again; now there was pain in it. He pivoted round, looking for the source, and spotted movement in a shadowy entry — violent movement. He hurried towards it. It was a narrow passage, and, thirty yards down it, an old woman cowered against a wall as a youngster kicked her. A second child emptied her shopping bags.

  “Hey!” Nick shouted, sprinting.

  They glanced in his direction, unconcerned. Nick continued to run at them. If he’d learned anything in dealing with criminals, especially urban Apaches like these, it was that positive, aggressive action always got the best results. No matter how tough they thought they were, they were essentially animals of instinct, and would run if they sensed danger. He was right. The young hoodlums — they couldn’t have been a day over ten — looked surprised that someone was actively intervening. They backed away, t
urned and fled around a corner.

  Nick kept up the chase. He couldn’t afford to arrest them, of course, but he wanted to make damn sure they were scared enough to think twice before casually committing day-time robbery again. He ran round the corner and found himself in another back-street, this one lined down either side with bins. The youngsters had made it to the far end, stopped and were now staring back at him. They began to catcall, throwing him the V-sign. He hesitated before walking towards them. Suddenly there was something about this he didn’t like. He halted — and sensed figures emerging from behind the bins.

  He swung around, hands balled into fists, but someone he hadn’t seen smashed a bottle across the back of his head. There was a hollow explosion in his skull, and his legs turned to rubber. He had a vague impression of dark shapes closing in, and then the concrete floor hit him in the face.

  ****

  The next thing Nick knew, his hands had been cuffed behind his back and he was seated at a wooden table, the surface crusted with drying bloodstains. It took a second for him to realise that the blood was his own; his hair was thick and sticky with it.

  Someone was leaning on him from behind, forcing him forward. Someone else shone a bright torch into his face. He fleetingly glimpsed a black leather rapist-mask with zippers on the eyes and mouth, before his head was shoved down again.

  “So...who the fuck are you?” a voice asked, in nasal Scouse.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Nick replied.

  Someone punched him in the kidneys. “What are you doing here?”

  The blow sent shivers of nausea through him. A moment passed before Nick could say anything. “Name’s...name’s Todd Waldron. I got out of Blakenhurst six weeks ago. I’ve been looking for somewhere to live and they dumped me here. I wish they hadn’t!”

  A gloved fist with steel knuckle-rings on it appeared next to his face. “You’ll wish they hadn’t if you’re fucking lying to us!”

  “Who are you people?” he said, struggling. “I’ve not done anything to you!”

  More weight was applied from behind. “Not done anything? You interfered in our business!”

  “Knocking an old girl about! What kind of business is that?”

  Again he was punched — with sickening force.

  “We’re asking the questions! Reckon yourself a hero, eh?”

  “I just...I just reacted.” He tried his best to sound frightened, which wasn’t hard. “I didn’t mean to screw anything up for you. Look...I’ll leave the area. I’ll just go.”

  “You’re going nowhere.” Now the guy with the Scouse voice leaned fully into view. The rapist-mask was diabolical, but it didn’t conceal the cobweb tattoos on his neck. “What did you do time in Blakenhurst for?”

  “I got pissed, battered a couple of coppers.”

  “How long?”

  “Year and a half.”

  “Sawney!”

  A burly, thickly muscled figure, also masked, stepped forward. His eyes were like lumps of broken glass in the gleaming leather.

  “Sawney here gets around,” the Cobweb Man said. “I’m sure he must know someone in Blakenhurst.”

  “As it happens, I do,” Sawney replied. He gazed down at Nick with a fierce intensity. “Sam Duggan. You heard of him?”

  “Yeah,” Nick said. “I knew Sam Duggan.”

  “What was his line?”

  “Burglary. He was doing ten for aggravated.”

  “Alec Fageline.”

  Nick shook his head. “I think you’re making a mistake there, but I’m sure it’s an honest one. Alec Fageline was never in Blakenhurst — least, not while I was there. Far as I know, he was in Brockhill. And before you ask, he was doing six for knocking over a building society.”

  Sawney stepped back. “Seems to know what he’s talking about.”

  Nick struggled to free himself, but again they leaned on him.

  “Look...I didn’t get sent down because I’m a nice bloke,” he said, “but I couldn’t stand by and let those little bastards work that old woman over. Listen, if it’s fucked anything up for you, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Bloody right it won’t,” the Cobweb Man said. “Make a habit of battering folk, do you?”

  “Been known to.”

  “That might be useful to us.”

  “I don’t do old women, though. You’d better get that straight!”

  The Scouse voice laughed. “You’ll do whoever the Dead Names demand.”

  Then the knuckle-dustered fist re-appeared, and smashed into the side of Nick’s face. Again and again and again.

  ****

  When he came round, someone was dabbing his cheek. He reached up and felt gingerly at his jaw. The inside of his mouth tasted coppery. Loose teeth waggled under his probing tongue.

  “Welcome back,” said a friendly voice. “Someone gave you quite a kicking.”

  Through bleary eyes, he spied the barmaid of The Sleeping Prince. She was sitting in front of him, delicately touching his cheek with a ball of wet cotton wool. Behind her lay the pub’s interior; a hefty man watched from over the pumps.

  Nick groaned. His neck was stiff, his head and face throbbing. Several strips of Elastoplast had already been applied to his various cuts and bruises. A roll of bandages and a bowl of bloody water sat on the table in front of him.

  “How did I get here?”

  She dabbed at his swollen cheek. “Bill found you. He’s the landlord.” She nodded towards the man behind the bar. “You were lying in the alley at the back, with your jacket thrown over you. You’ve been unconscious ten minutes at least.”

  “You didn’t think to call an ambulance?” he asked.

  “Nope,” she said simply. “The emergency services aren’t too popular round here, and it isn’t just the police. I’ve seen fire engines torched, ambulances stoned. We can’t have that at the pub. If you want to go to hospital, you’ll have to make your own way.”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  She shook her head. “I thought you might have fitted in here, being a jailbird and all. Seems I was wrong.”

  He sat up painfully. “I don’t go looking for trouble, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Generally speaking, you don’t have to in this neighbourhood.” She gathered her first-aid gear together and took it back behind the bar.

  “Want a drink or something, mate?” the landlord asked him. “It’s on the house while you’ve probably been robbed.”

  Nick checked his pockets — the money and key he’d taken out with him had indeed been lifted. “Er yeah...I’ll have a whiskey. Might help.”

  A moment later, the barmaid re-appeared, placed his drink in front of him and began to mop the table with a cloth.

  “Thanks anyway,” Nick said. “Er...I don’t know your name.”

  “Valda.” She smiled.

  “I’m Todd.”

  “Hi Todd.”

  He couldn’t help ogling her as she leaned in front of him. Her light summer dress showed her generous cleavage to perfection. Her flaming hair, now loose, hung in lustrous waves about her shoulders.

  “Surely someone like you could find something better than this?” he said.

  “It’s only part time. Paying my way through uni.”

  “What you studying?”

  “History and folklore, would you believe. In particular the Midlands region. That’s one reason I hang out here all summer. Not that there’s much potential for field-trips.”

  “I can imagine.”

  She folded the cloth. “It’s always been a rough place though, this. Lots of killings.”

  He wasn’t sure if he’d heard right. “Killings?”

  “In the past. Back in 1768 there was serious rioting. I mean, there was trouble all over the country — John Wilkes and all that — but nowhere worse than round here. A lot of troops got killed. During the Civil War, this place was a village and a centre of Royalist sentiment. Its population got wiped out by Roundheads. Literall
y butchered. Even Oliver Cromwell was shocked.”

  “Never been boring, then?”

  “Oh, it’s never been boring. Historically it’s very interesting. Sometime between 60 and 70 AD, there were mass executions on this site. Thousands got the chop apparently. Probably Roman prisoners captured by Boadicea’s rebels. They say the ground ran red for days.”

  She moved onto the subject of excavation rights in built-up areas, and the many obstacles archaeologists routinely faced. But Nick was hardly listening. Something she’d just said — about the ground running red. As with the horned-head symbol, it seemed weirdly familiar.

  “Everything alright?” she suddenly asked.

  “What? Oh yeah...thanks.”

  “Sorry...I get boring about history. My pet-subject. It’s just...well, there aren’t many people I can chat to during the summer, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well,” he said, seizing the opportunity, “why not pop round this side of the bar sometime and have a chat with me? I’ll even buy you a drink or two.”

  She laughed, and moved back behind the counter.

  He got up, somewhat unsteadily, and followed. “I’m serious. I mean, I know I’ve looked better than this, but bruises fade. Besides, I like history.”

  “Yeah, right.” She started washing glasses.

  “I’m serious...honest. Even if it’s just to thank you for patching me up. When do you get off tonight?”

  She appraised him warily. “Ten. You’re not really thinking of bringing me here?”

  He smiled. “I’ll meet you here. You can choose.”

  Valda didn’t seem convinced she’d made the right decision, but she finally nodded. “Okay. Ten.”