He pulled at the bathroom light switch and shoved up the toilet seat. The room was surprisingly warm. Humid. He glanced around. Above the sink there was a white melamine cabinet with mirrored doors. They were misted over. He flushed the toilet and turned to wipe the mirror with the heel of his hand, as if not quite convinced by what he was seeing. Beside him, the shower curtain was drawn across the bath. His belly contracted and he whipped the curtain back; it was warm, clingy, damp beneath his hand. The great iron tub was empty, a puddle of recent water coating the bottom. The back of his neck tingled. He scanned the tiled walls. Vapour trickled down in little rivulets, pooling around the lotions and potions that stood in a line at the tap end: shower gel, shampoo, conditioner.
He stepped back. Had Alys been showering in the middle of the night? It didn’t fit. Cursing, he scoured the bathroom for signs of alien occupation. He dumped the toilet rolls from their wicker basket and flipped the laundry hamper. Slightly disgusted with himself, he raked through pink knickers and socks and bloodstained shirts belonging to Alys before stuffing them back in and securing the lid. Next he opened the cabinet doors above the sink. The inside smelled of Germolene. Mouthwash, antacid, women’s aloe vera shaving gel. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. What the fuck was he looking for? There were little white pharmacy boxes on the top shelf, the type you get with proper meds in, blood pressure tablets and so on. He raked them out and two fell into the sink. He looked at the labels: Farmacia Antoja, La Rambla, Barcelona. The name hit him like a truck. Señor Coburn Morrison.
He staggered back, leaving the boxes in the sink and the cabinet doors wide open. His only thought was William. If Coby was keeping his medication in the bathroom cabinet was he actually living here?
Hiding in plain sight.
He needed to get back upstairs and tell Mouse. They had to confront Alys, find out what was going on. Swinging round to grab the door handle, he came face to face with an old army coat. It was hanging on a hook at the back of the door, but its sinister, empty shape made him want to wrestle it to the ground. Adrenaline burst through his system. He touched the coat with the tips of his shaking fingers. It was a dull grey-blue and the last time he’d seen it was when Mrs Petrauska draped it around the fragile shoulders of Mouse’s father.
Jesus. Walt seized the lapels, already knowing what he would find, muttering under his breath. The buttons. Let me see the fucking buttons! Two rows of imperial eagles. And the last one missing.
Fighting down nausea, Walt drooped his head for a second. The smell hit him hard, triggering a host of memories he’d put down to cooking smells or bad ventilation. All those times his door had popped open and, half asleep, he had smelled the scent of onions . . .
He used to wear a big old army coat, summer and winter, but he always had a cold . . . He ate boiled onions to boost his immune system, so if you couldn’t see him, you always knew where he was by the smell.
He backed away, ice-cold sweat breaking out on his lower back. Slamming out of the bathroom, he came to an uncertain halt on the landing. Should he wake Mouse? Did he need more evidence? What more evidence did he need, for God’s sake? First William’s suspicions and now this . . .
Down below, he heard the front door close softly.
Walt pressed himself against the banister, scanning the empty air, every one of his senses prickling. No noise. Nothing. Had he imagined it? Silently he negotiated the stairs, edging past the great bear, rearing like a phantom out of the gloom. The hall swam with a pre-dawn unfamiliarity; concrete things wavered and reformed, ghosts at the edges of his vision. The loudest thing, the sound of his own breathing. Somewhere a clock ticked in time with his heart. Up ahead, the kitchen door was firmly closed.
It could have been any back alley in deepest Lashkar Gah: you never knew what you were going to find behind the door.
He pressed his ear against it. A faint lapping sound could be heard from inside the kitchen. Every fibre of his system was wired, his body gearing up for battle. For the first time in a long time he itched to have a rifle in his hands. The door, when he pushed it, swung open with the high-pitched squeak of a trapped animal. The room beyond was in darkness.
He flipped on the light.
On the floor beside the cooker, a hunched cat was lapping something from a dish. Walt let out his breath with a curse. Steam was rising from a pot on the hob, misting the room with the unmistakeable smell of onions. He propelled himself across the room. The cat arched and hissed, retreating to a safer vantage point. The pot was full of onion halves. Whoever had been here had turned off the gas as if they’d left in a hurry. The water was still hot, though, and the smell so pungent that Walt had to clap a hand across his nose and mouth. There was a mug of black coffee beside the kettle. Still warm.
As all the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, revealing the full, horrible implication of what was unfolding, Walt stood for a moment in the centre of the kitchen. His hand dropped away from his face. This guy, Coby, was living here. While they slept, this monster had the run of the house, and Alys . . . Alys must know. Why else would she confiscate William’s photos and threaten him like that? It was in case he went snooping and found something, or someone, she didn’t want to explain.
Alys had invited the monster in.
How could he tell Mouse? Who wants to discover their sister is having thoughts about taxidermied humans and hiding a paedophile in the house?
Words crowded his head, none of them adequate. There was William’s Lego train on the table, half built, lying forlornly on its side as if it had been derailed. Fresh horror hit him square in the belly. Had William been up early? Had he been down here with . . . One last glance at the steaming onions and Walt was running back up the stairs.
The curtains were drawn in William’s room but Walt didn’t need light to know that the boy wasn’t there. There was the same absence he felt in Alys’s basement; the air undisturbed by breath. He slammed the light switch, his whole body shaking from the inside out. Yellow light fanned across the bed, showing an indent in the spaceman pillow, the duvet thrown back. Walt forced himself into the room, laid his hand on the sheet. It was cold. His foot kicked something soft. William’s pyjamas, one leg turned inside out, as if they’d been taken off in haste and dropped on the floor.
Shit. He searched under the bed, looking for clues that would tell him if the kid was dressed or not. No shoes were visible. Had he got dressed and gone out? Or . . . But his analytical brain had kicked in and it refused to dwell on the alternative. It was a school day. He swivelled round, eyes scanning the sparse furniture. It was a school day; there was his blue school bag, slumped against the wardrobe. What did he wear to school? He couldn’t remember, and a quick search through the wardrobe gave up no information either. He’d never noticed the boy’s kit, and had no idea what he might be wearing, supposing he was wearing anything.
Mouse would know. Mouse would come in here and know exactly what her son would have scrambled into first thing. She would know down to the colour of his socks. But to go in there and wake her up and tell her . . . What would he tell her? Bile rose in his throat. He remembered the first time he’d seen Tom’s parents after their son had died; their horrible ashen masks of faces. He didn’t want to make Mouse look like that – ever.
She rolled over when he opened the door. He could hear the rustle of the duvet in the dark and the change in her breathing that said she was awake. The room smelled hot and a bit musky, and he wanted to turn the clock back, to crawl into bed with her, skin to skin, and to wake up in a place where everything was normal. They would go out and have breakfast and read the papers and . . . His hand tightened on the doorknob.
‘What time is it?’ She raised herself up and switched on the lamp, squinting at him in the sudden light. Her hair was a bird’s nest, sticking to bare shoulders. His body quickened with the memory of it tickling his belly. He shook away the image, came into the room and found his jeans on the floor beside the bed.
<
br /> ‘It’s after eight. I got up to go to the bog. Mouse, William is . . .’ His breath caught. It was in this moment that he could shatter her with just one word. Her eyes widened a fraction. ‘William isn’t in his bed.’
She sat up straighter. ‘He’ll be in the kitchen, then?’
Walt was pulling on his jeans. It took her a second or two to register his urgency and then she was out of bed, scrabbling for her own clothes, her knickers, a T-shirt. Oh Christ. I shouldn’t have left him. She was saying it under her breath, like a chant she’d been rehearsing for eight years, waiting for this very moment. Fuck. I shouldn’t have left him. Her teeth were chattering.
‘Coby’s been in the house. William was right. I’ve just found his pills in the bathroom, and his coat, and downstairs . . . He’s been boiling onions and making coffee, like he fucking lives here.’ He touched her arm but she brushed him off. Her whole body was brittle with tension as she jammed her feet into the first pair of shoes she could find: flimsy sandals decorated with a jolly purple daisy.
‘We have to wake Alys,’ he said, catching her by the elbows. She tried to bat him away, but he tightened his grip. ‘She knows about this, trust me.’
She sagged against him. ‘No. Oh my God, why didn’t I listen to William? How could Coby have got into the house?’
He pulled her after him, out onto the landing. ‘I think you’d better ask your sister.’
45
The ghostly whiteness of Alys’s bedroom glimmered in the dark. Long, sheer curtains played in the breeze from the open window. Mouse went for the softly, softly approach: a gentle shaking of the mound in the duvet until it stirred and messy blonde hair poked out from beneath it. Walt had to brace his forearms in the doorway to stop himself bursting in there and hauling Alys’s arse out of bed.
‘Alys, wake up!’ Mouse shook her more urgently, ‘Alys! William is missing!’
No mention of Coby. Walt’s hands balled into fists. Mouse gave up on the mound with a frustrated gesture and stormed past him.
‘You try. We’re wasting time. I need to check his room again, and the kitchen.’
‘I’ve already checked . . .’
‘The bathroom!’
‘No! Don’t go in the bathroom!’
Don’t go in there, and be faced with that coat, that smell. He knew how easy it was to be transported back to your deepest fears. But she was already gone, leaving him standing half in, half out of the room. A rustle from the bed, and Alys rose up, like a disturbed princess, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Softly, softly wasn’t working. Walt slammed into the room and whipped off the duvet.
‘Get dressed. You’ve got some explaining to do, but first give me the keys to the basement. All of them.’
She stared at him for a long minute. ‘They aren’t here, and I’m not sure what all the fuss is about.’
‘Oh, you know. You invited him in, that fucking paedo, and now he’s got William. I want that key now. The one that opens the room you can only see from the outside.’
That got her attention. She swung her bare legs out from under the duvet and Walt averted his eyes.
‘I’ll get them, but I have to get dressed first.’
His gaze settled on a puddle of clothes on the floor: jeans, a white bra. Alys made a shooing motion with one hand.
‘Some privacy, please, unless you want to watch?’
‘Piss off, Alys. This is serious. I’ll wait outside.’ She made him wait for what seemed like an eternity. He was forced to listen to the sounds of Mouse ransacking the house, opening every door and cupboard like this was a crazy game of hide-and-seek, and she’d soon find the kid curled up in a corner somewhere.
Eventually Alys, fully dressed, joined him on the landing. ‘The keys are in the studio,’ she said. Some of the blankness had left her face. He looked at her sideways as they headed down the stairs; he could see agitation in her body language. She caught his eye and something flickered uncomfortably between them. He began to regret his harshness.
‘You need to help us here, Alys. Whatever history there is between you and him . . .’
They’d reached the hall and his words tailed off as Mouse came out of the kitchen. She was clutching the Lego train to her breast.
‘William took this to bed with him last night,’ she whispered. ‘That means he’s been down here this morning. He left it on the table.’ Walt reached for her, and she sagged against him. ‘He wouldn’t have just left it and wandered off. He’s been taken. Oh, Alys, what have you done?’
Dawn was beginning to seep into the edges of the sky as the three of them stepped outside. The buildings across the street loomed black; the road was still deserted. Generally Walt liked this time of day on Civvie Street. It gave him space to sit and have a fag, let the night terrors dissolve. But this particular terror wasn’t going anywhere.
They hurried along the pavement and down the basement stairs. There was a light on high up in Mrs Petrauska’s. Her bedroom, perhaps. Would William have gone there? He dismissed the notion – the boy had no call to run away. They reached the door of the shop. Alys kept a spare key in one of those hollow plastic stones in a plant pot. It took her a few minutes to find the right stone, sifting through pebbles and compost, and he could feel Mouse shaking beside him. Alys’s fingers came away black with soil; she slipped the key into the lock and let them in.
His belly flipped over every time he entered this place. He never got used to it, seeing the dead yellow eyes all trained on him. Frankenstein eyes, animated by the flip of a light switch. He caught his breath for a second, assessing the room for anomalies. The stag’s muzzle appeared moist. He’d never noticed the whites of its eyes before. It looked scared.
Walt took the lead, dodging around the counter to duck behind the curtain, fumbling for the switch on the cold stone wall. When light flooded the place, he found his gaze riveted on Alys’s workbench. The huge glass case had been moved aside. He wondered if she’d finished it, but couldn’t bear to look at all the little birds in their pantomime clothes. He thought of the wren, centre stage, neck distended, strung up from its own little gallows, and shuddered. Alys’s tools were scattered across the bench, along with wire and tubs of preservative.
Mouse was behind him, teeth chattering as if she’d been trapped in a cold store.
‘I’m going to call the police.’ Her words were coming out all jerky and strained. ‘We never checked round the back. I’ll go and . . .’
‘Wait. Let’s just see.’ Walt held her arm. Alys was opening the till. He’d heard the typewriter-clatter as the drawer shot out. So that’s where she kept the keys, he thought. Under the change drawer.
‘Don’t call the police,’ Alys whispered. ‘Please don’t.’ Walt could see it now, the distress in her eyes. That dead look – he’d seen it before on the battlefield, when things go pear-shaped. The stage after panic.
‘All you have to do is open the door, Alys. We’ll talk about this later.’
She fumbled with the first lock. Walt took the key ring, bulging with slim brass keys, from her cold fingers. The broad padlock glinted, unbreached, and he began inserting the keys methodically. He went through each one in turn, gripping the rejects so tightly it stopped his hands trembling. He was aware that Mouse was beside his elbow. He could hear her breathing in short, panicky gasps.
‘If you call the cops they’ll ask questions and I’ll have to tell them what happened, what’s been happening.’ Alys began to sob quietly, and Mouse put an arm about her, pulled her close.
‘You have to tell them anyway, Alys,’ Mouse whispered. ‘It’s time. He has to be stopped before . . .’
Walt finally found the right key and the padlock clicked open. With a grunt he tossed it to the ground and hauled open the door. The light revealed shelves of taxidermy specimens – the wedding of the punk kittens, the rats and the frogs – not alive, but not dead either. Their energy filled the room, a sort of unwilling suspension.
‘They’re not her
e! I’m going to call the police.’ Mouse’s voice was scratchy. She took out her phone.
‘Wait.’ Alys grasped her wrist. ‘There’s another room.’ She nodded to the back corner.
‘I’ve seen a light through the window,’ Walt said. ‘When I was outside I saw a faint glimmer, like a lamp or something.’ He hadn’t noticed the door the last time he’d been in here, but it would have been easy to hide; a few shelves pulled across that dim corner would do it; the door itself was dingy, a flesh-coloured wartime tint, with the paint hanging off like flayed skin. There was a little arch above it, a row of stones, crooked teeth set in a rictus. In another life it would have been a quaint storybook doorway, perhaps leading to a turret staircase or a secret garden. In this place, in Alys’s basement, this place of death, there was only the prospect of something worse.
Something worse, with a window and a table lamp.
They stood for a moment, Mouse gripping his arm, their breath mingling in the cold. Walt fingered the keys; they were damp with sweat. There was no padlock on this door, just an old-fashioned latch, the type you push down with your thumb, and a black slit of a keyhole below it. Mouse squeezed his arm.
‘Try it,’ she whispered.
He moved forward. The door opened.
The room was empty.
It was little bigger than a store cupboard, but someone had been using it as a bedroom. It smelled fusty and there was a sleeping bag in one corner. There was no furniture other than a chair, but there were clothes bundled up on the floor – someone’s laundry. A shirt on a coat hanger hung from a nail in the wall.
‘Coby has been living here?’ Mouse’s face was stiff. She stared at her sister, and Alys nodded again, as if she was afraid to admit it.
Walt scraped a hand over his face, letting it all sink in. ‘The question is: where is he now? Where has he taken William?’
46
They ran back through the deserted basement, up the staircase, out onto the street.
‘What do we do now?’ Mouse had to squeeze the words out between her teeth. ‘Where is he? We never checked around the back.’
Beneath the Skin Page 18