She pressed the controls to lighten the shades and was shocked to find dying sunlight. What time was it? What time had they gone to bed? It had to have been practically morning, six o’clock, by the time they’d got back here. And now? How long had she slept?
Turning to find her clothes, Emily realised that all she had was her black dress from the party. The party. Rachel. The thought froze her. Rachel’s face. White. Those twin tracks of blood. Leading down to more blood. Blood everywhere. Rachel’s silver dress dyed dark with it. She clamped shut her eyes, but that simply made the image more vivid.
Forcing them open again, she sucked air into her lungs, made her mind focus on the room. She found her hands balled into fists at her sides, made her eyes watch as she uncurled each finger, instructed her brain to make her body dress.
In her bag she found a band to tie back her hair; she would sort it out later. Back at home. She knew she needed to get out of here. With any luck Simon would be out – she didn’t want to face him. If she could just leave him a note…
But no. There he was, at the computer. He instantly shut off what he’d been working on. Text of some sort, was all Emily could glean from where she stood in the bedroom door way.
‘Morning. Just seeing if I could find anything else out.’ He motioned towards the computer as he crossed the room to her. He hugged her to him, and then kissed her lips. She didn’t resist, but hardly kissed him back. She pulled away.
‘Finding out about what?’ Her question was genuine, as was his surprise.
‘About Rachel. What happened.’
She didn’t reply. He continued, ‘At least the human Security Force officers will have been dealing with it all day. Didn’t trust those vampires last night.’
‘Even now? Even after all this, that’s still all you can think about?’ Emily said the words, but the comparison of his petty prejudice with what had happened to Rachel stole any vehemence she might normally have added.
‘Even now?’ he echoed. ‘Especially now. You do realise that your friend was killed, murdered, by a vampire.’
Still she said nothing, but crossed to the end of the sofa where her coat lay. She scrunched her fingers into it. Fought the sick, cold wave rising inside her. Simon seemed to take her silence as confusion. He moved towards her, touched her shoulder to turn her face to his. He spoke slowly, calm, measured as if imparting facts in class.
‘Emily,’ She closed her eyes. ‘The killer had splashed vodka over the wound to clear away all traces.’
She wanted to ask how he knew all this, but realised she didn’t care. She felt isolated and wanted, needed, to make herself distant, not just from Simon, but from every one. She moved away from him once more.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked as she struggled into her coat.
‘Home.’
‘What? You can’t. It’s not safe. It’s been on the news. The Security Forces have got officers on all the trams. Patrols in the Entertainment District. They’ve only just confirmed that there won’t be a curfew.’
‘Security Forces on the trams? Then I’ll be perfectly safe. I just need to be on my own for a bit.’
‘But …’
Emily buttoned up her coat, sat on the sofa to do up her boots.
‘Let me at least see you home,’ Simon offered.
‘No.’ She stood, faced him, but was careful to keep the sofa between them. ‘I’m fine. Thank you, for being there last night, but now, I just want to be on my own, please.’
He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again.
‘I understand, I guess. But I’m here. If you need me. Need anything.’
She nodded.
Outside, the darkness had gathered further. The air sliced at her. She was glad.
Twenty Nine
How strange and inconsiderate the world was in the way it just kept going, no matter what. Life had to go on. Hers did at any rate. She rolled over in her bed and turned off the inevitable Monday morning alarm. Not that she’d needed it. An image of Rachel’s slumped body had been all the wake-up call she’d needed at four o’clock. She’d stared up into the darkness ever since, not even sure what her mind was thinking, if indeed, it was thinking at all.
Now, she was glad. Glad to get up, mechanically dress, eat breakfast, but no morning news today. She knew what it would be. She was part of it. Her mobile had rung so insistently over the rest of the weekend she’d switched it to answer phone, only returning the calls she’d wanted to. She’d spoken to Sadie, disjointed, nearly incoherent. Sadie had gone to her boyfriend’s, stayed there. Emily’s calm in the face of Sadie’s emotion had seemed almost eerie.
Simon had called regularly to check up on her, and then to warn her that Bernstein was insisting that he investigated it for the paper. It had taken her a while to form an opinion on that one. But, like Saturday turning into Sunday and then into Monday, she concluded it was inevitable.
The calls she hadn’t returned were from NetNews. She had no reason to speak to them, and knew that the others had refused as well.
She caught the tram, taking a seat next to the window and eyeing the Security Forces officer standing by the door. She mused on the rest of her weekend. What had she done? Wandered around the flat, stared out the window, slept intermittently and tried to work out how she felt.
She was still unsure on that one. She’d tested out shocked, numb, angry, but none seemed to fit. Or they all did. The truth was that she hadn’t known Rachel that well. Had only met her maybe three or four times, including Friday night, only knew her through Sadie. She’d said as much in her interview and on the phone to the Security Forces officer who’d called over the weekend. He’d accepted what she told him but also informed her that they’d still need to speak to her again, at Security Forces House later in the week. She’d agreed; what choice did she have?
Would everyone know? They’d know what had happened of course, but would they know about her – that she’d been there, that she’d found her, that she knew… her mind framed it in quotes ‘the murdered girl’. Shutting her eyes briefly, she took a deep breath and joined those entering the building.
And, of course, everyone was talking about it. Words littered the air, well meant, their owners keen to show their sympathy, their shock, their disbelief. Dreadful, unthinkable, awful for the family. They lined the room even when Emily walked in – those words lay around as if they were paying residents. She checked her watch – lots of people already in. Was she late? No. They were just early, eager to talk, discuss, legitimise and above all she supposed, make it even more newsworthy.
Emily turned on her computer, did not make any attempt to join any of the employee groups gathered around various computers, pretending to check copy on someone’s screen.
She tried to make herself small. She needed to be insignificant. She wished she could turn off her hearing and retreat fully into the vacuum that appeared to surround her. But, at the same time, she wanted to turn, to face them, to scream out at them to shut up, to let them know that they couldn’t possibly know anything about it. How could they? They hadn’t been there.
Instead, she allowed herself a brief moment of relief; no one here seemed to know of her involvement. She clicked to open her messages, looked but didn’t really read them. An image flashed onto her screen, the slumped body, darkness, the thump of music. Not on her screen. In her head. She shuddered it away. She had to find work to focus on, to keep her brain too busy to prevent it reminding her of something she was so unlikely to forget.
Her morning was peppered with messages from Simon, checking she was okay. She replied politely – if only half truthfully – thanking him as well for not informing the entire office that she’d been there. She did refuse his request to meet for lunch, saying that she needed to work through in order to meet the deadline that Bernstein had set for the special edition, to be ready that evening. She was surprised Simon was in the office at all.
That Simon was no doubt writing, researching Rachel,
stalled her own progress. No doubt also, that he’d spent time at the weekend finding out what he could too. She knew he was only doing his job, what Bernstein told him to, but the thought that this was paying his wages left her frozen at her work station. Even telling herself that he hadn’t said anything about her, did nothing to thaw her. The fact that they’d slept together meant so little, she wondered if Rachel’s death had killed her too.
Emily forced her eyes to take in what was on her screen, only to have her brain slip out of focus once more and send her another fragment of Friday. A man’s face, brown eyes, dark hair. She’d seen his face a lot since Friday, was even glad to see that image. This man, whoever he was, had been there, just a random stranger close at hand. Her hand clutched at the air, the way it had clutched at his chest.
She’d told the Security Forces about him, but had said nothing to Simon. She’d no good reason not to, but somehow she simply hadn’t.
Talk had begun once more. She listened for a couple of seconds and then slow realisation dawned on her that there was only one voice talking. And it was talking about the fact that a vampire was responsible. It wasn’t really a conversation, merely Simon voicing his opinion.
‘I mean, you could meet anyone in a club, who knows. They tell you their name – but do they tell you the truth? Did this girl even know he was a vampire? I doubt it. They don’t share that little bit of knowledge all the time do they? That’s the one advantage of being a vamp – they can tell who’s a sucker and who’s not, but all we get to play detective with is their habits – and let’s face it – in a club – it’s dark all the time.’
His words were falling on silence.
The shrill ring of a phone near her demanded her attention. Answering, she listened, nodded, agreed and then hung up. It had been Bernstein’s PA. He wanted to see her. Fifteen minutes. It could only mean one thing.
He knew.
*
Emily was surprised to find Simon already seated in Bernstein’s office; she hadn’t noticed him leave. He dropped his eyes. Bernstein was enthroned in a leather swivel chair behind a desk so large that it made the computer and phone that sat upon it seem like children’s toys. He motioned for her to sit. Hard plastic chair for her, next to Simon. He looked up at her as she took her seat, gave her a half smile. Emily found her face wouldn’t move. She stared down at her hands and then up at Bernstein, who was now standing by the window behind the desk.
‘Miss Gregory, my sources at Security Forces House have informed me that you were in the Moonshine Club on Friday night.’ He paused, but didn’t look at her. At least, not until she made no response. ‘Is that true?’ He spoke slowly. Emily replied, knowing that her words would splinter her voice.
‘Yes. I was there.’
‘And I also understand that you knew the girl – this Rachel Buckingham, that you had, in fact, gone out to celebrate her birthday.’
‘Yes. I… we’d been for a meal on Night Boat, and then we went on to Moonshine.’
‘I was also told that you were there when the body,’ Emily’s brain screamed at him – it’s not a body, it’s Rachel, Rachel, but he continued, unaware, ‘when the body was found.’
Here she could only nod.
‘What I don’t understand,’ Bernstein crossed to her side of the desk, leaned back upon it, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded, casual, friendly, ‘What I don’t understand is why you felt you couldn’t say anything to us. The Security Forces have asked us not to publish anything until today and who are we to question their reasons, but I would have expected you to be in here as soon as you were informed of the special edition.’
Emily did not speak. What was he getting at?
‘We’re a newspaper Miss Gregory, we need the news, it’s our business. It’s what we do. It’s what pays your wages, my wages, the wages of our journalists, like Simon here.’ She glanced at Simon. No smile that time. ‘And you were there, part of breaking news, and yet, you said nothing. I understand that it’s hard for you, the death of a friend, but you must understand something too. It’s our duty to the public to share all the information we can. The Security Force and their medical consultants can only tell us so much, the alcohol used to disguise any trace of the perpetrator, the fact that so little of her blood appeared to be… missing shall we say?’
Missing? What did he mean? Emily frowned.
‘What we need now,’ Bernstein continued, ‘is your information. Your eyewitness account.’
He took some time to let those words sink in, and returned to sit behind the desk before he continued.
‘Over the weekend, Simon was able to talk to Charlotte Richards and Joe Partington.’ Her brain fumbled over the surnames. Bernstein caught her frown and in a magnanimous tone added, ‘The people who were with you when the body was discovered.’ He spun his computer screen round – the pieces clicked back together – it had only been the surnames that had thrown her – somehow they’d not stopped to exchange formal pleasantries in the club. She nodded. Bernstein carried on, ‘However, Simon tells me that the rest of your group are refusing to speak to us and that you were unavailable for the whole weekend.’
Emily flashed a look at Simon. Bernstein continued to speak, but she hardly heard him. Simon had lied to Bernstein. He hadn’t sold her out. It took her a second to realise that Bernstein had stopped speaking. It was so quiet in the office that she could hear phones ringing, voices, steps, all dulled by the office walls, but still proof that the world continued. Emily rubbed a hand over her face. What had Bernstein said? What answer was he waiting for?
‘Miss Gregory, I can see that you are obviously traumatised by this event – who wouldn’t be? However, you must realise, as you work here, the pressure of deadlines. We’re lucky here that there’s no competition – the Entertainment District and all that happens in it is ours, but the public need this information, your information, and they need it now. So, you’ll take up the paper’s offer of lunch with Simon here to share the news that you possess.’
Bernstein picked up his phone, but did not dial. He looked at them, nodded and turned once again to the phone. It was only Simon scraping back his chair and standing that made her realise that the meeting was over. Emily rose too. Simon opened the door for her, his hand in the small of her back, guiding her out.
Once safely out of earshot on the stairwell, Emily turned to face Simon.
‘I’m not going to lunch.’
‘I didn’t know Bernstein was going to do that,’ Simon protested.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does to me,’ Simon said.
Emily was quiet for a moment, measuring his sincerity.
‘Thank you. Thank you for lying to Bernstein too, about not being able to interview me over the weekend. Did you really try the others?’
‘Emily – I had no choice.’
She cut him off.
‘I know. I know. Just doing your job.’
‘Bernstein was onto me the second he found out about it. He must have some contacts pretty high up in the Security Forces. He knew everything that you’d told me – and more – before you even woke up on Saturday.’
‘It was him that told you about the vodka,’ Emily said slowly.
‘Yes. But that’s not being printed, nor gone on NetNews. Some deliberate trap to help them catch the vamp did it.’
Emily’s head had begun to swim. She reached a hand out to the wall for support.
‘Are you all right?’ Simon’s hand strayed to her face, lifted it so her eyes had to meet his.
‘I can’t, I won’t talk about it.’ Her whisper was steel emphatic. She dropped her eyes. ‘I won’t.’ Words spoken more for her own benefit. If she talked about it, she would legitimise it further. There was a chance, still a chance, that she might wake from this nightmare train of events, wake to find that the disbelief that haunted her now was in the dream and not at all real.
‘You don’t have to.’
‘But Bernstein sai
d, you heard him. He practically implied that it was my duty.’
‘I can make it up,’ Simon said.
‘What?’
He turned her away from a couple of colleagues as they passed down the stairs, and hissed in her ear.
‘You don’t have to go through it again. I don’t want you to.’
‘But you can’t make it up.’
‘I can. I will. Look we’ll leave now, I’ll tell Bernstein you were too upset after lunch to come back, and then I’ll write the copy.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Emily twisted her hands.
‘Get your stuff, make an excuse and then come with me now.’
The firm note in his voice somehow spurred her feet to action. She did as he said, her forced explanation of a client meeting over lunch hardly needed. Everyone was busy.
Simon was waiting for her outside the building. He’d had his coat in Bernstein’s office.
‘If you can’t face lunch, let’s go and get coffee somewhere at least.’
Emily thought it over. Hot coffee might help dispel the grey of the day that even the noon time sun could not lift. She nodded and they left.
He had with him a palm top gadget that he tapped away on. Emily cradled her coffee, allowing the warmth to penetrate her skin just a moment too long to be comfortable, just to reassure herself that she could still feel. Heat, pain, something.
They did not speak. He asked her no questions, sought no confirmation of any details. They sat in a far corner of Press. Colleagues inhabited the space a few rows away from them. Emily guessed those that had been freed from their office had perhaps already done their deeds for the deadline and were now further discussing events. She was glad she was out of it, out of any danger of allowing herself to be drawn into their theories and counter arguments. What could they know? Yet, here she was, sitting with someone who might know things. Things she didn’t.
‘Simon,’ she waited until his tapping paused and he looked up at her. ‘The Security Forces – do they know who did it? Who the killer is?’
Symbiosis: A Vampire Psycho-Thriller Page 14