“Oh my god.” I stumbled backwards away from the door towards the middle of the carriage.
Mr Smug followed my gaze, squinted, and then, looking bewildered, he backed away from the door to stand with me.
“This is all about you!” I hissed at him. “What are you on about?”
“That woman!”
“I’ve never seen her before!”
“You knocked her over at the station. At Paddington. As we were coming down the stairs. You were in such a rush.
You knocked her flying!”
“I don’t remember her.”
“She was climbing the stairs, coming towards us. She had baskets. You pushed her down.”
Mr Smug’s mouth dropped open in recognition of what I was saying. He didn’t look so smug any more, though.
“She was in my way.”
I glared at him. “Are you for real? You knocked an old woman down the stairs! She could have been badly hurt!” “Well, I’m sorry, ok?” Mr Smug was starting to panic.
“I really don’t think that’s going to cut it,” I replied.
The carriage door exploded into a million tiny shards of glass behind him. We both ducked at the sound and shielded ourselves from the flying glass.
Mr Smug hitched his breath in, audibly. Standing at the door was the old woman from the train station, the woman I’d seen in the mirror in the toilets. But she wasn’t human. No way. Her eyes glowed in the palest of cold green hues.
Her hair, once greasy and plastered against her skull, swam around her head, long and full, in a luminescent silver halo. Energy poured from every pore of her body, and the air around us fizzed with static. The carriage lights flickered and blinked in response, buzzing noisily.
She advanced into the carriage, jittering and juddering as she came, her movements unearthly and stiff. She didn’t walk, but floated three or four inches above the floor, swept in with the green mist that rolled freely from the vestibule. It was uncanny to watch, and my stomach turned in fear and revulsion. The closer she moved towards me, the more nauseous I became. She was old, her skin lined and parchment-dry, with wrinkle forming on wrinkle.
Her eyes sliced through the air around me, looking this way and that, then settled on Mr Smug. I inched backwards as the woman advanced, but my companion seemed locked in place.
“Come on!” I said urgently. “Come away!” But he was paying me no heed.
Frantically, I grabbed his arm. He was a complete idiot, but I couldn’t just leave him. I pulled with all my might, but he seemed entirely oblivious to me and only had eyes for the apparition as she drifted towards us.
I moaned in frustration, and the spirit’s eyes locked on me briefly. I waved at her, hoping for some recognition. “Hey, hey! It’s me! I helped you. Remember?” I could hear the desperate plea in my voice, but she was completely unmoved and after regarding me for one moment longer, turned her attention back to Mr Smug, heading our way faster than before. I didn’t want to find out what she was intending to do to us. My mind ran riot with the possibilities. Rip us apart. Eat us. Turn us into the Borg or some wretched idiotic zombies. It would hurt. I was going to die. I had to get out.
I raced back to my seat to search my handbag for something I could use to break the door or a window. Nothing was immediately obvious. I turned it upside down on the table: Used tissues, clean tissues, tampons, book, pens, mints, business cards, a note from my Mum, my mobile, an ancient plastic green top from a packet of Smarties I had kept forever, the package the old woman had given me at the station. Nothing useful. Nothing.
I stared down at the table. Watched as the little package twitched just once. Then it began to pulse. I held my breath. The little paper packet was definitely moving—or more correctly, whatever was inside it was. Could this situation get any more bizarre? With shaking hands, I tentatively reached out and touched the package. It was warm and soft.
I snatched up the package. It fitted comfortably in the palm of my hand and wriggled in my grasp. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind I understood that whatever this was, it could save the situation. Carefully I tore at the edges of the paper packaging and caught my breath as a tiny feathered head appeared through the hole I had created. It was a bright yellow bird. It twisted and turned and made the hole wider. Then it forced its body out and flew into the carriage, settling on the headrest of a seat in front of me. The package shuddered in my hand and there was another bird working its way out of the hole. And then another. And another.
Dozens of canaries struggled out of the package and found somewhere to settle. The carriage was quickly filled by the twittering of noisy birds. Their chatter grew more and more animated and urgent as increasing numbers of birds sought somewhere to perch. Within a minute of the first bird appearing, there must have been hundreds of its friends jam-packed on every available perch.
And just like that, there was silence. The woman hovered in front of Mr Smug, who was incapable of doing anything to break the spell he was under. The birds watched her carefully, with unblinking, shiny black eyes.
And then one bird—I fancy she was the first one out of the package, but who would know?—started to sing. It was a sweet lyrical song. At first she sang alone, but one by one, the others joined her. The old woman cocked her head and listened to them. The birds sang and sang, initially just a random cacophony of notes, but after a minute or so, I realised there was a great deal of repetition.
The woman nodded in time to the rhythm of the song and held her arms aloft. She swayed and danced, her movements clumsy and rigid. A few of the birds swooped down from their perches to fly around her, and the other canaries sang, faster and faster, encouraging her. Round and round flew the birds, until the old woman was lost from my sight for a moment behind this twisting yellow vortex.
I moved tentatively towards Mr Smug, hoping I could pull him back or wake him up, but as I approached him, the flying birds broke away, and the woman was there, in front of us, close enough for her to touch him. She put one hand up to me in a halting gesture.
My shoulders slumped. I would not be able to help him. “You told me it was important to be kind,” I said softly.
I didn’t think she would hear me, but she became very still and nodded slowly. For a moment, in my terror, I fancied that her eyes softened a little. A small smile flickered on those dry, cracked lips and she nodded, once. “In kindness,” she whispered and then she leant forward, wrapped her arms around Mr Smug, and kissed him full on the lips.
I thought then that it was going to be all right. But certainly her idea of kindness and my idea were at variance. Mr Smug leaned into the kiss for a moment and then he crumpled a little. As I watched in horror, his skin became as pale as paper and he started to lose bulk. The old woman carried on the kiss, and Mr Smug sagged. His legs were paper shells, they no longer had the strength to hold him up. The woman gripped him, her lips elongated, sucking away his life and soul. Within twenty seconds it was all over and she dropped the dry crust that had once been Mr Smug to the floor and stepped back, her face glowing with the brilliance of a supernatural inner light.
She clapped her hands and the birds took flight once more. Fluttering at first, they gained momentum, and faster and faster they circled the carriage. I covered my head with my arms and moved back towards my seat, birds bumping into me and the beating of a thousand tiny wings creating a ferocious draught. I climbed into my seat, drawing my belongings close to me. I hugged my head and slumped forwards against the table. The train lurched, and I cried out in fear. Someone put their hand on my arm; I screamed.
“Sorry,” a voice said. Mr Chunky peered down at me, looking slightly embarrassed. “You er... ah ... seem to have been having a bad dream. We’ve just arrived into Exeter and the train is terminating here.”
I sat bolt upright and stared out of the window. We were at Exeter. Lots of people were milling around on the platform outside.
“There’s flooding farther down the line at Dawlish, so the tr
ain is stopping here.”
I looked back at Mr Chunky gormlessly.
“They said there’ll be buses.” Mr Chunky obviously mistook my silence for dismay at the disturbed travel arrangements.
“No! No! That’s great!” I jumped up, hitting my head on the luggage rack. “Thank you, thank you! That’s really... kind.” I stopped. “To wake me up.” I paused. “Thanks.”
Mr Chunky nodded, blushed, and made for the carriage door.
He stood behind Mr Distinguished, waiting patiently to leave the train. My head was singing in delight. It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen.
I moved into the aisle and packed all my belongings into my handbag. Checking above me, I spotted one long gentleman’s coat left on the luggage rack. It could only have been Mr Smug’s, although there was no sign of him. I took the coat from its place, noticing his briefcase underneath. The coat unrolled as I dragged it out and I gasped in horrific recognition as I was suddenly showered in bright yellow canary feathers.
THE INSTALLATION
The fans were hysterical. Seth loved it that way. The girls at the front of the stage—squashed, sweaty, weeping—turned him on. He grinned out at them as he hung the microphone back on its stand. Dramatically, he ripped his silk shirt off, ran to the edge of the stage and threw it into the mosh pit. Girls opened their mouths to him—wide cavernous Os of ecstasy—screaming themselves hoarse and fighting like piranha fish for a scrap of the expensive purple shirt. The arena stank of sexual possibility. Yes, Seth was aroused.
Behind Seth, the bass player parked his guitar against the amp. Feedback reverberated and shrieked throughout the auditorium, so loud that some members of the audience covered their ears, and the security guys were thankful to be wearing noise dampening earphones. The drummer clambered down from his pedestal and moved with the other members of the band to join Seth at the front. The band looped arms slick with perspiration around each other’s necks and took a series of bows. The drummer threw his sticks out into the crowd and these disappeared as speedily as the shirt had done.
With a final wave at the amorphous mass of fans, Seth loped off stage to be handed a towel by a dark-haired girl with crew written on her sweatshirt. He kept walking through to the backstage area where food and drink had been lain out and grabbed a bottle of fizzy water. He couldn’t stomach alcohol, and he refused all drugs. He liked his mind clear. Crystal sharp. Backstage, he didn’t live up to his hell-raising rock image at all.
He scanned the crowd milling about. His manager routinely brought in ‘interesting’ people for the group to meet and greet. Many of the girls were barely legal, and they bored Seth rigid. They were clones of each other. All fake tan and skimpy outfits, bouffant hair, too much make-up and iPhones. They had no conversation and fewer ideas. He let the rest of the group take their pick and knew that invariably they would end the night back in a strange and anonymous hotel room with two or three at a time. In the morning the girls would be lucky to get a taxi back to their mothers. They were entirely disposable. Any port in a storm.
No, Seth wanted something entirely different. He looked around again wistfully. His eyes settled on the crew member who had handed him the towel. She was taking a bottle of beer from the table and levering the cap off it using a Swiss Army implement that hung from a chain on her belt. A tall woman of about twenty-four, she had a muscular build especially in the arms and thighs, and large breasts that were settled comfortably on her chest beneath the loose black sweatshirt. She had drawn her long, shining hair back in a tight ponytail. Seth licked his lips. Perfect.
He sidled up to her and smiled. “Hi! I’m Seth.”
The woman looked at him and blushed scarlet. Of course she knew who he was; she worked for him. “I’m Cilla,” she stammered. “I’m part of the crew.”
Seth nodded as though she’d said the most intelligent thing anyone had ever said to him. “Do you enjoy working on the tour?”
“Yes, of course! I’ve always loved rock music, and I’ve been a huge fan of this band since I was at school. It’s great to be a part of this arena tour. I’m hoping that Jamie will recruit me for the European leg.” Cilla indicated the road manager, who had a brittle blonde on each knee, then smiled at Seth.
“Oh I’ll have a word with him. I’m sure he will,” Seth replied airily. He picked up a couple of bottles of beer and steered Cilla by the arm over to a corner sofa. Cilla blushed again and looked around. No-one paid them any attention so she perched awkwardly on the sofa next to Seth. “Tell me … what other tours have you done?” he asked her, trying to set her at ease.
For the next ninety minutes or so, Seth listened while Cilla told him how she had taken a degree in Media at University and had then worked for a music magazine for a while before joining a small tour as a roadie. He swapped stories of hedonism and excess from his tours. Cilla listened agog. Seth plied her with bottles of beer, while pretending to drink his, flattering her with references to her practicality and capability.
Cilla started to relax. After a while she shook her long hair out of its pony tail and Seth caught one of the tresses in his hand, commenting on its healthy shine and staring into her brown eyes with his unusually pale blue ones. Cilla was charmed. Seth bent his head and kissed her gently on her mouth, and Cilla’s heart exploded in excitement.
The backstage party started to break up. Seth drew away from Cilla and sighed dramatically so that she looked at him with concern. “I hate going back to those anonymous hotels with all these loose girls,” he explained, glaring morosely at the bounteous teenagers draped over various band members and management bods. “Look, I don’t suppose ...” he pursed his lips and stopped. “No, no. You’re far too lovely, I really couldn’t impose.”
“What?” asked Cilla. “Go ahead, its ok.”
Seth shrugged. “I have my car outside. How would you feel about driving back to my house? It’s maybe an hour from here. I’d appreciate the company. Nothing untoward. I have loads of … bedrooms ... you know. We could have toast and marmite.”
Cilla laughed at this atypical rock star’s peculiar supper penchant. She looked at Seth, pretending to consider this for a moment. Really, there was nothing to contemplate. She nodded. “Okay,” she said, “I love marmite.”
Cilla couldn’t quite believe all that was happening to her in the space of one evening. Realistically, she understood herself to be a plain woman with few opportunities in life and yet here was Seth Blackman, a multi-millionaire rock star, fawning over her and treating her well. For the first time in her short life, Cilla felt glamorous and desirable. Beneath her blushes she secretly relished the poisonous looks the other women sent her way, when she left the venue with Seth holding her hand.
Seth drove a bright red, rock star corvette, flashy and gorgeous. A charming and attentive companion, he unlocked the car and opened the door for Cilla. Her heart pounded when Seth leaned across her to fix her seatbelt. She held her breath as his face brushed her breast. He looked up at her, smiling knowingly, and Cilla tingled. Her nipples hardened under her sweatshirt, and she shifted her weight, feeling her own mounting desire. Her mouth opened involuntarily, and Seth stared at her lips hungrily.
Seth’s driving was slick, confident, and sexy—just like him. He had strong hands and muscular forearms. Cilla imagined those on her body, exploring hidden nooks and crannies, and she shivered in anticipation. She lifted her chest and tried to relax.
They drove from London into Surrey at a fast pace. At this time of night, the roads were quiet and the going was easy. Seth drove steadily down the leafy roads and they continued to chat about pets and books and films. Cilla laughed on cue and tried to seem entertaining and intelligent.
Seth drove up to a pair of large gates and took a remote control from the glove box. The gates slid open, and he manoeuvred through, turning up the winding drive, hung with weeping willows. His huge house, set well back from the road, had a gravel turning space out the front, with mock Grecian p
illars for an entrance, and a four-door garage. Seth bounded out of the car and ran to open the door on Cilla’s side. He took her arm and walked up to the front door, unlocked it and stood back to let Cilla enter first.
Cilla stood and looked in awe at the huge hallway. The floor was a rather sensational pink marble, and a grand staircase with white carpet and black semi-quavers spiralled away from her, drawing her eye to an enormous chandelier made of Grolsch beer bottles hanging down from the top of the house, several storeys above her. A large grandfather clock ticked from a recess to her left, and she could smell the faint scent of paint.
Seth observed her. He was fixated by her mouth. He watched her sniffing the air and smiled reassuringly. “I’ve been doing a lot of interior design around the house. I’ll show you later,” he said, casually.
Cilla nodded, and he took her arm to lead her through the house to his kitchen. This was a cool room, with everything either white or stainless steel, and immaculately clean. Seth excused himself after asking her to help herself to whatever she wanted and disappeared back the way they had come.
A fresh loaf of bread had been placed in a pristine bread bin, so Cilla cut half a dozen slices and toasted them. She located the fridge and found the butter, but she couldn’t find any Marmite. In fact, she couldn’t find anything in the cupboards worth spreading on the toast. The cupboards were beautifully organised but contained little of nutritional value.
The toast popped out of the toaster. Seth had still not returned. Cilla poked her head out of the kitchen door and listened. She could hear music playing somewhere in the house, and the grandfather clock ticked ominously in the hall. Otherwise there was silence. Cilla listened hard and shivered suddenly. Something seemed amiss.
She left the kitchen and moved into the hall. The mellow glow of lamps illuminated the way, and she opened doors as she went, locating a library, a music studio, and a large lounge. She called out for Seth but received no response. She heard the tremble in her voice.
Deadly Encounters Page 11