by Emmy Ellis
The bristles had been soft on his gums earlier.
The crash of his high was gripping him now, though. Fatigue crept into his body, its stealth taking him by surprise. He allowed his muscles to relax, his mind to drift as he closed his eyes on the city scene. Maybe he’d wake up to bright sunshine—the sunshine after the storm. That was what Anita Jane Curtis had been. His life just prior to meeting her had been tumultuous, thunder and lightning emotions ravaging his mind, rain soaking his face with salty droplets, the electrical buzz of a tornado whipping around him. For the sixteen years prior to that, it had been serene. Normal. But all his life before that… Well, best he didn’t think about it.
The sun was definitely out now—maybe not beyond the window, but in his flat, in him. Warming. Comforting. A glow that couldn’t be surpassed.
Sleep. There it was, drifting along on gentle slippered feet, tucking him in and kissing his forehead. Singing a lullaby that soothed him. Stroking his cheek until nothing else mattered except surrendering to it.
Beautiful. So bloody beautiful.
“Fuck my life,” she said. “And fuck you.”
He blinked, tears prickling.
“I think you’re such an ugly little fucker.”
Curling her top lip, she loomed over him, breasts spilling out of a red low-cut top, great mounds of flesh he’d never had as comforting pillows during the times he’d been afraid. Her brown hair was styled in a blunt bob, the ends reaching her jawline, the fringe dead straight. Why couldn’t she have lovely blonde wavy hair like that fairy godmother in the story he’d read at Gran’s the other day?
“You need to go to bed. Get out of my face.”
He trembled, not knowing whether she meant now or if he should wait for her usual signal. Going too soon would mean a slap around the face or a painful kick up the arse, the toe of her trademark stilettos connecting with his tailbone. He was always bruised there. Always sore.
“Do you know,” she said, “how much I wish you weren’t here?”
He knew. She told him often enough.
“Do you know how much I wish I’d never listened to your gran and had you?”
He knew that, too.
“Oh, piss off. Go on. Just. Piss. Off.”
She held an arm out, pointing towards the door.
The signal.
He turned and left the living room, walking without any rush, and quietly, as he’d been taught. It wouldn’t be good to run—running created too much noise and had the neighbours thumping on the dividing wall.
Drawing attention wasn’t allowed.
The stairs seemed too long a journey, each step taking him away from her too slow. He needed his bedroom as much as he needed a hug, and the only one he’d get in this house waited for him there, in the form of his thin quilt, the cover decorated with images of spiders. He’d hated it at first—she’d bought it to scare him—but he’d had no choice and had just needed to get used to it. Accept the critters as friends.
The Spider Incident still chilled him. She’d shouted for him to ‘come and kill the little bastard’, knowing he was afraid of them. She wasn’t—he’d seen her pick one up with no trouble and deposit it outside in the garden. He’d gone into the kitchen and stared at the creature, which had sat on the wall beside the fridge as though it belonged there. Large, it had been so large, the size of his palm, its leg span far too long for his liking. The body had been the worst of it.
Fat. Meaty. Hairy.
“Take that out into the garden,” she’d whispered.
Don’t think about that anymore.
He shivered, pushing it from his mind.
The urge to rush up the stairs took over now, and he went faster, but not fast enough that she’d follow him, whispering in that sinister way that if he didn’t tread carefully she’d smack the shit out of him. And he’d have to endure any punishment in silence—no crying out for him, no screaming for help. If he did that, The Man would come and see him, and no one wanted him in their life. Except for her. She loved The Man. Kissed him. Touched his willy and chest and bum and snogged him the same way people did on those films she watched where they were on the bed, naked, groaning, boobies on show. When The Man visited, she usually walked around with no clothes on, and he told her to do rude things to him.
Those kinds of thoughts needed to go away.
He finally made it into his room.
To the spider bed that gave him such a good hug he cried.
Silently.
He woke with the uncomfortable hot wetness of tears on his cheeks, his pillow cold from where they’d spilt. The dreams were a blight on his existence—out of his control. They belonged to a past he’d rather forget, one his conscious mind had been able to banish from his waking memory until recently, but his subconscious wrenched them out of hiding and into the forefront while he slept.
It wasn’t fair.
Despite the dream, he’d had a good sleep. Or it felt as though he had anyway. And there it was. The sun had managed to banish the mist and shoulder her way through the heavy, oppressive clouds until the heat of her had turned them from purple to grey. The murky blue sky, a backdrop to the majestic circle of yellow that she was, meant the rest of the day promised to be pleasant.
This was a good omen.
He stretched then left the bed to press his hands to the windowsill and look out. His breath changed to condensation on the glass—still pretty cold out there then. It would be a terrible winter, so it had said on the news. But that was okay. Terrible was sometimes good. Terrible sometimes turned out to be all right and just the thing he needed.
Chapter Three
Burgess waited for an answer from the kid at the zoo.
Robin Gedman appeared scared out of his wits, his face pale, blue eyes wide. He had to be about twenty, give or take a couple of years. His floppy brown hair, wispy, almost reached his shoulders. He reminded Burgess of a student, maybe with a fount of knowledge in that brain of his that would hopefully spill over with much-needed information.
“Um, I’ll show you where he came in, if I’m allowed back in there.” Robin jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“You’ll be with me, so yes, you’re allowed. Just don’t touch anything. And you’ve got booties on already, so lead the way.”
Lead the fucking way into Hell.
Burgess followed him from outside the building into a room that was apparently usually semi-dark, to add a creepy vibe, so the other kid, Nathan, had said. It was creepy just knowing what the room contained, dark or not. But the main lights were on, and several forensic officers in white suits dusted for prints, despite being told the intruder had worn gloves. He wondered if Robin had given a second thought as to how much attention was being invested in the theft of a zoo creature—Burgess had given express instructions that no officer reveal that it might be linked to their murder case.
Might, my arse.
Robin stopped in front of a wall that housed things, socks, and Burgess averted his gaze so he didn’t catch sight of them. The glimpse of the one from earlier this morning had been enough for today, thank you.
“Up there.” Robin pointed to a latticed metal grate in the ceiling.
Burgess estimated it to be half a metre square. So an average-sized man then, to be able to fit through. “And this…spider—”
“Arachnid.” Robin frowned.
“This arachnid. Tell me about it.” Burgess concentrated on the floor, ill at ease.
“Harry is a gentle soul. Would never hurt unless forced to, and even then I’d say he’d leave it to the last knockings before he attacked. He’s venomous, can make you feel a bit poorly with one bite.”
Burgess eyed Robin’s shuffling feet, his black boots beneath the booties the standard zoo issue from what he’d seen of other workers so far. Apart from the manager, Mr Clarke, who’d sported shiny brown brogues that had peered from beneath the hems of a pair of super-ironed beige suit trousers, the crease down the legs as crisp as the man had
been.
Tosser.
“So,” Burgess said, “if a person wanted to use—Harry, you say?—to…harm someone… That isn’t a likely scenario if the venom only makes you a bit ill?” He raised his head to look at the kid, waiting for horror to break out on his face at what Burgess had implied.
Seemed Robin hadn’t picked up on it. He shrugged, his expression neutral. “I wouldn’t think so. And who would want to do that?” He wrung his hands. “I just want Harry back here, safe, where he belongs. He might be frightened. That man put him in a little bag—Harry would hate that. I just hope it was aerated, otherwise he’d suffocate.”
He possibly suffocated all right. In a mouth.
Burgess considered putting Robin out of his misery—or giving him more—by telling him Harry was dead. And it couldn’t be any other arachnid—the coincidence was too great. Thinking that task would be better left to an officer who could show the required amount of sympathy, he said, “So there have been no other thefts or missing spi—arachnids—before now?”
Robin shook his head. “Not in the time I’ve been here, no, and that’s going on four years. I came here straight out of uni.”
He’s probably older than twenty then.
“And you can’t think of any reason why someone would want to take Harry?” Burgess asked.
“No, unless they wanted an unusual pet. These ones”—Robin swept a hand out and indicated the two walls of glass houses—“can’t be bought in this country. They’re from hotter climates, which is why we have to keep a warming light on for them. God, I hope that man knows that Harry will need a light.”
The only light he’s seeing is the one at the end of the tunnel, just before the rainbow bridge.
“So what about the other one he tried to take?” Burgess asked.
“Juliette? She’s venomous, too. Similar in looks to Harry but a different species. She got antsy when he tried to take her, and the man let her be. Thinking of that, I reckon he must know about arachnids and how Juliette must have been feeling threatened, considering he backed off. That makes me feel better. Yeah, the bloke would know Harry needs a light.”
Poor kid. In for a shock.
“Okay. You’ve been very helpful.” Burgess gave him a sharp nod and led him out of the dreadful room full of nasty, fluffy socks—a room he never wanted to go into again. Outside, squinting in the sunshine, he said, “Here’s my card. If you think of anything that might be of help, don’t hesitate to call.”
Robin took it and slipped it into the pocket of his green uniform shirt, which bore the zoo logo—a penguin with a red baseball cap on. “Mr Clarke is really narked. The elephants were playing him up this morning, so to have this on top of it as well…”
“Yes, Mr Clarke was…agitated when I saw him.” An arsehole, more like. “I’d suggest keeping a wide berth today if you can.”
“Oh, I’m allowed home after I’ve spoken to you. I can’t work with all the police here, and I only specialise in arachnids and spiders. No use anywhere else. And besides, I’m upset.”
“Hmm. Best you get off now then. And again, thanks for your help.” Burgess offered a slight smile. “I’m sorry. About Harry.”
Robin’s eyes misted. “Thanks. People don’t get it. Why I work in there.”
No, they don’t bloody get it. I don’t either.
“Right. Well. On you go,” Burgess said.
Robin walked away, head bent, towards Nathan, his equally in-love-with-socks coworker, who hadn’t given Burgess any vibes that he’d been involved in this theft. It was clear Robin hadn’t either, but had some other member of staff broken in and taken Harry?
Burgess slid his hands into his jacket pockets, the action reminding him of this morning in the alley. The victim had been removed just before he’d driven away, prior to the skies opening and dumping its torrent. She’d been loaded into a coroner’s van inside a zip-up bag. What a way to be transported, like her body was a suit fresh from the dry cleaners. Missing person reports hadn’t yielded any results, but that didn’t mean anything if she’d been abducted last night or she’d lived as a loner with no friends or family to give a toss whether she lived or died.
Basically, he had sweet fuck all.
He left the zoo through the front gates and headed for the car park, which was filled with vehicles. The wanker that was Mr Clarke had been more bothered about how to explain things to customers than fussed about the fact that a venomous sock was out there. Marla hadn’t been in touch yet, so she obviously hadn’t found anything of significance with regards to whether that venom was in the victim’s body.
“Shit,” he muttered and got into his car.
He drove towards the station, ready for a coffee break. The Tassimo machine in his office beckoned, luring him with the delight of a caramel latte, a dark roast, or an espresso. Any of the buggers would do. A quick shot of caffeine would see him right for the rest of the afternoon, not to mention give him a buzz. The morning had slipped by in a blur, and he had to give Shaw a ring, see where the fuck he was.
That bloke’s got no sense of urgency when it comes to getting to work on time at the moment.
Burgess would have to write him up one of these days. He couldn’t keep covering for him, making excuses for why, more often than he liked, Burgess turned up to crime scenes by himself, Shaw apparently still in bed or ‘stuck in traffic’.
While parking up at the station, he looked around, searching for Shaw’s car. There it was, its sleek red Porsche arse sticking out from behind the gentle curve of a bright-pink Beetle.
Where the hell am I going wrong not to have a car like that?
He got out of his well-loved older model Ford, locked it up, then walked inside the building. He kept his head low, not wanting to invite any queries from anyone, and made it to his office, where Shaw sat in front of his desk in a somewhat crumpled navy-blue suit, socked feet on top—big toe poking through a hole—enjoying one of Burgess’ bloody lattes.
He can’t even put on his shoes. Do his tie up properly. Run a comb through his hair. Have a shave.
Shaw’s dark stubble meant he hadn’t bothered getting ready properly this morning. “I’ll buy you a new box of coffee,” he said, unperturbed by Burgess coming in and seeing what he was drinking.
Burgess knew it had been Shaw taking his coffees all this time, and catching the thief in action gave him a brief sense of satisfaction, then irritation set in. “Finally remembered you have a job, did you?” He thumped his backside into the chair behind his desk and slid a file closer. “Didn’t get the message from me then? The one early this morning about a murdered woman? Because I just love turning up to these things by myself and giving you all the details after the fact. A great use of my time when you could be there, at the scene—you know, getting the information first-hand like normal coppers do.”
Shaw had the cheek to laugh.
I’ll brain that fucker, so help me God.
To stop himself from doing that, Burgess jumped up and strode over to the grey metal filing cabinet where his Tassimo sat. He slapped in a dark roast pod, intending to drink it black and so hot it scalded his mouth, meaning it’d be too sore for him to blurt shit like he’d just blurted. Cup beneath the stream, he kept his back to Shaw, not wanting to turn around just yet and see the hurt on his face. And there’d be hurt there—always was—and Burgess didn’t need the added guilt.
But why should I feel guilty? It isn’t me who’s slack.
“I’m sorry, Burge,” Shaw said. “Really sorry.”
Burgess sighed, his cup filling painfully slowly. “Yeah, you’re always sorry. Problem is, it doesn’t change things, being sorry, unless you fucking well mean it.”
“I do mean—”
“No, you don’t.” Burgess swung round to face him, pointing in his direction. “If you did, you’d turn up on time. You’d give your job the proper attention. The victims your proper attention. This is the last time, all right? If you’re late again, I’m telling
the DCI.”
“Oh, come on.” Shaw rocked in his chair, his heels sliding back and forth on the desk. “Don’t be like that.”
Burgess took his cup back to his desk. Sat. Fumed. Stared at the front of the file and hated that he’d be opening it shortly to read it out to Shaw instead of them discussing the case at the scene. So much extra work, time, and all because Shaw loved playing games.
“Since we’re mates,” Burgess said, “you use it as a reason to get away with things you wouldn’t normally.” He glared at the file again. “And being your superior, I’ve not done what I should—instead, I’ve let you get away with it. But, and I’m going to be blunt here, being a pal isn’t an excuse to do what you’ve been doing. No more, all right? I can’t keep covering for you.”
“Do you need to get your end away? Because you seem on edge today.”
Burgess held back from launching himself across the room at him. “Don’t.” He looked up at Shaw, who still rocked and lounged. Still sipped the stolen coffee. “Just don’t. I’m being serious. It ends. Now.” He paused for effect. “Otherwise, I’m putting in for a new partner.”
Chapter Four
Shaw stared at Burgess. He didn’t let his mouth hang open, but he was shocked enough that his jaw might sag any minute. Shit, something had crawled up his partner’s arse and squirmed there.
He lowered his legs from the desk. Thought it best to, seeing as Burgess wasn’t in the mood for his new brand of not giving a fuck. And he hadn’t given one.
Still, it was time to pack it in now. Not because of the threat that the DCI would be told, but because Shaw was tired of playing games. And Burgess had never been any good at them—a sore loser—so Shaw’s efforts had been wasted. As for Burgess asking for a new partner…
No. No fucking way.
“I had things going on,” Shaw said. “But they’re over. I’m serious. Back to work on time from now onwards. Want to bring me up to speed or—?”
The file being slung across the desk gave him his answer.