DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

  She hurried on, past the sullen frontages, with their blank windows and ruined walls, and the stench of decay. Overshadowing the doomed tenements, the warehouses loomed, massive haunted relicts of a more prosperous age. Their gleaming red brickwork had long been tarnished by soot and exhaust fumes and they took on the colour of dried blood, but after several days of frosting, the walls glittered as with a billion flecks of mica or steel, and the water gushing from pipes and gutters had frozen, sculpted into weird and breathtaking statuary.

  She stopped, alert. It was dark in the shadow of the warehouses, the cold intense. The sky was no more than a thin murky strip overhead. She waited a full five minutes until she was sure no one was watching her, and then she dodged down a passage at the side of one of the buildings. The entrance was barred with a wire-mesh gate, but the padlock had perished long ago. Halfway down the passage, past a sodden piece of old carpet, now frozen solid and strangely ornate in its new incarnation, she found her way in. An iron door stood part-way open, enough to admit someone relatively slight, the darkness beyond a deterrent to all but the boldest or the most desperate.

  It had been a grain store until the 1970s, but had lain idle, gently decomposing for nearly thirty years. The upper floors were drenched with rainwater which leaked down from gaping holes in the roof. The basement and ground floor were sodden with rising damp, but the first floor wasn’t too bad if you took care on the stairs and she had found a dark dry corner, away from the windows.

  She’d been in the warehouse for nearly two weeks now, and it was getting to feel familiar, less scary, but Adèle had only survived on the street because she was careful. And she knew that you couldn’t lower your guard, even for a minute, because when you did . . .

  She tried to shut out the memory of what had happened to Andy. He had been careful too, until New Year’s Eve, when optimism and exuberance had taken him onto the street to celebrate the new millennium. Maybe he had drunk too much, maybe he had failed to sense when things were turning ugly. His biggest mistake was going alone.

  They had found him in the doorway of C&A. Kicked to death. As a final mark of contempt, the killers — revellers with a sense of humour — had stuffed a party squeaker into the bloody pulp that had been his mouth. Adèle swallowed hard and wiped her nose with the heel of her hand. If you got to dwelling on things like that, you lost your nerve, and when you’re stuck on the street, there’s nowhere else to go but out of your mind.

  She slithered across a large milky patch of ice, ready to bolt at any sign of human occupation, and tiptoed up the sagging wooden staircase, still listening, watching her step on the calcified slime that had built up from thirty years’ run-off, finishing up at the furthest corner of the vast floor space of the first floor.

  She’d been careful, bringing all the bits together for her bivvy, moving stuff in piece by piece when it was dark, so she didn’t attract attention. Some of it was already there, like the panels that looked like they’d been pinboards in a previous life. She had stood them opposite each other — they had little feet, like upside-down saucers, and only one was broken — and used a piece of plywood for the back, then covered the lot with two layers of corrugated card for insulation. The roof was card as well, a nice long piece — packing off a sofa which was now on display in Gorton’s on Dean Street. Lifted it straight off the skip five minutes after they threw it in, so it was clean and fresh.

  A night like this, you appreciated corrugated card. No matter how many layers you had on, the cold got through. If you weren’t careful, it sank in, till it felt like it was coming from your insides out — a solid core of it high up under your rib cage sending shivery waves to your skin, seeping into your bones, till you couldn’t move, and didn’t care if you died.

  Although her shelter was lopsided, she viewed it with satisfaction. She had found a big sheet of plastic on a skip only the week before and was using it as a ground sheet. A blanket on top served as a carpet, and extra pieces closed off the front of the three-sided cubicle.

  In ten minutes, she had her primus lit and her bedroll out, and she was snuggled into her sleeping bag. She tried not to notice the skitterings and high squeals of the rats, but she dragged one of her boots closer, just in case one of them got greedy — some were as long as your arm and scared of nothing.

  She felt a small throb of excitement, the kind she remembered dimly from a school trip, a week in Colomendy. Somewhere in Wales — she knew that now — but then it seemed foreign, exotic. She didn’t allow herself to question her excitement. It had the high, hysterical quality of a child screaming with laughter as the swing goes higher! higher! She gave herself this degree of leeway because the alternative, too awful to entertain, was despair.

  4

  The bus stopped at Derby Street, its air brakes hissing and throwing Siân forward so that she almost lost her balance.

  ‘Nearly missed it there, love,’ the driver said.

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t sure this was it.’ She was ready to step off, but he kept the doors closed.

  ‘And you are now?’ He peered into the darkness. ‘You meeting someone?’

  ‘No, I—’ She looked nervously back down the bus. There were two other passengers, both men, and they eyed her curiously. ‘Look, can you open the door?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure, but you want to be careful around here. It’s not the sort of place for a nice girl like you to be wandering about alone.’

  ‘I can take care of myself.’

  The driver smiled as if to say he doubted it. ‘You’re sure you don’t want to change your mind? I turn around and come back the same way at the end of the route. I could have you back in town in forty minutes.’

  Siân felt her resolve begin to crumble and, impatient with herself as much as with the driver, shouted, ‘Open the bloody door, will you?’

  ‘Okay, okay . . .’ He reached for the lever and the doors folded back with a slight squeak. As she stepped out into the darkness, he called after her, ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  She walked away fast, to prevent herself from turning around and beating on the doors to be allowed back in. She didn’t know where she was going, but she that knew this was the last place Ryan had been seen. She felt she would be able to sense his presence if he was close by, and she had an image in her mind of Ryan lying injured, somewhere inside one of the houses — perhaps he had gone to sleep off whatever it was Baz had given him — maybe he had fallen, hurt himself, and needed help.

  The cold was pitiless; it glazed the gutters and pierced her woollen jacket and dress, chilling her to the bone within minutes. She hurried along the side of the gaunt empty building that overshadowed the bus stop, looking for a way in, but it was secure: steel plates on the doors and windows. She walked down one of the narrow side streets, letting her instincts take her to where she felt sure she would find Ryan.

  Ten minutes of wandering brought her to a wretched three-high dwelling. Just looking at the gaping darkness of the entrance to the tenement block set her heart racing. She waited for her pulse to steady. In her imagination rats, cockroaches, spiders lurked in the dark corners of the rotting flats. She shook her head. I can’t think like this or I’ll never go in! She took a deep breath and heard her pulse throbbing in her throat. Reaching into her bag, she took out a torch.

  ‘For Ryan,’ she whispered, clicking on the light and walking slowly forward.

  Even with the damp frozen solid by the icy weather, the place stank of decay and stale urine. She trod carefully up the steps, trying the doors on each landing. Some had been smashed open and looking inside she saw that the fittings: cupboards; bathroom and kitchenware had been ripped out — even the copper piping had been stolen. Florid growths of fungus bloomed on the walls like ink on blotting paper, some encased in sheets of ice. Glass crunched underfoot, and in some of the flats, the floorboards had been torn up and used as firewood. At first she thought it must be kids — arsonists — but the charred areas were contained, small, and wi
th a quickening of breath she realized the fires could easily have been set by squatters.

  Her lips trembling, she moved on, trying each door; sometimes — to give herself courage — softly calling out Ryan’s name.

  On the third floor she thought she heard a sound. A rat, maybe. She was about to retreat, when the stupidity of her cowardice came home to her: it could be Ryan. If he’s hurt, he may be too weak to call out. The idea made her hurry, and she went to the source of the sound, a flat with its door still on its hinges. She turned the handle and pushed hard; something was blocking it, and she saw with dazzling clarity, Ryan, lying behind the door, dazed, injured. But as she shone her torch downwards, she saw only a rolled-up piece of carpet, which had been acting as a draught excluder. Gingerly, she moved it out of her way with the tip of her toe and stepped inside.

  Something moved in a far corner of the room and she turned the beam in that direction. ‘Ryan?’ she called.

  A shadow, a blur, it leapt at her, seized hold of her. It was a man in a dirty black coat. She saw his teeth, bared as if to bite, his beard, yellow and matted. She screamed — then his hand was on her neck, the overpowering reek of urine and unwashed hair assailed her. He breathed into her face and she gagged at the foul stench of him, at his filthy yellowing nails digging into her flesh. She screamed again and lashed out with the torch.

  ‘Whadda you want!’ the man shrieked. ‘Whadda you want?’

  She was so overwhelmed by her own terror that she didn’t hear the fear in his voice. Screaming again and again she hit out, flailing with the torch, kicking backwards, using the heel of her boots, her nails, her head, anything to make him let go of her.

  He threw her away from him and she fell, grazing her knees and hands on the floor, dropping the torch. It was pitch-dark, but she could smell him, coming at her again. She scrambled towards the draught of cold from the open doorway, hauled herself through it, getting to a crouch before he lunged and grabbed her ankle. She pulled herself up, using the balcony for support, kicking back again, making contact with his face, screaming madly as she ran for the stairs. She stumbled and fell, scratching her face on the brickwork, getting to her feet again, feeling nothing, running, running headlong, hardly knowing where she ran, back through the silent, ruined streets. She found the main road and ran, flinging a backward glance over her shoulder, into the path of a bus.

  As the driver pulled up she turned a horrified face to him and placed her hands on the windscreen, leaving two bloody palm-prints on the glass.

  * * *

  A sharp jab of pain shot from Geri’s shoulder to the base of her skull. She reached awkwardly with her left hand and fumbled the receiver from the cradle, trying to straighten up. Her arm was heavy and numb, and the spasm tensed her muscles agonisingly.

  ‘Yes?’ she mumbled, forcing herself awake.

  ‘Miss Simpson, please! You’ve got to help me!’ The voice was raised, hysterical.

  Geri sat bolt upright, grunting as pain ripped again through her back and neck.

  ‘I thought it was Ryan . . . He tried to grab me.’

  ‘Siân? Where are you? Who tried to grab you?’

  ‘I just wanted to find him.’ She broke down, sobbing.

  ‘Siân!’ Geri said sharply, in an effort to break through the girl’s panic. ‘Tell me where you are.’

  There was another choked cry, then silence.

  ‘Siân!’ Geri called again, becoming frantic.

  An exchange of words, then: ‘She’s with me.’ A man’s voice.

  Geri felt suddenly cold. ‘What do you mean she’s with you? Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a bus driver,’ the man said, pronouncing it ‘buzz’. ‘The lass ran out in front of me.’

  ‘My God!’ Geri exclaimed. ‘Is she hurt? Have you called an ambulance?’

  ‘I didn’t hit her,’ he said, evidently offended by the implied slur on his driving ability. ‘But she’s shook up. She won’t let me call the police and she won’t go to hospital.’

  ‘Tell me where you are,’ Geri said, hugely relieved. ‘I’ll come and fetch her.’

  * * *

  Siân sipped hot tea with shaking hands. She shuddered as Geri put one hand on her shoulder. Her cheek was raw: parallel welts beaded with blood marred her pale, tear-streaked face.

  ‘I tried to clean her up a bit,’ the man said, ‘but she’s in shock, like. Not herself.’

  Geri crouched next to Siân and touched her knee. She winced and drew back but carried on sipping the tea compulsively. They were in a small, nicotine-yellowed canteen at the far end of the oily garage that housed forty or fifty buses, parked for the night, nose-to-tail and eerily quiet, like soulless corpses without their passengers. The high, corrugated-steel roof was rusted and light from the sodium lamps in the street pierced the darkness with fuzzy coronas of orange radiance.

  The man shuffled a little. ‘It’s knocking-off time for me, now.’ Embarrassed to be rushing them, but anxious to get home.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Geri said, standing to shake his hand. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

  He coloured slightly. ‘Best get her home to her mam, eh?’ he suggested, lowering his voice.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Geri answered.

  Siân shivered slightly but appeared not to hear. She stared into her cup until the click of the man’s shoes was no more than a faint tick in the distance, then she looked up at Geri. ‘I’m not going home,’ she said. ‘Mam’ll kill me. I’m not supposed to be out — school nights, I’m not allowed.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Geri soothed, remembering Mrs Walsh’s unforgiving face from parents’ evenings, during which Geri had found herself defending Siân’s barely average performance in her studies. ‘Your mum’ll just be glad to see you’re all right.’

  Siân gave her a tiny shake. ‘He’s there — I know he’s there. But that man . . .’ She hunched her shoulders, cringing at the memory. ‘I’ve got to go back. If he’s hurt—’

  Geri considered: if Ryan was lying injured somewhere, she would never forgive herself if she didn’t go out and check. But Siân was in shock — nearly hysterical — she should be at home.

  ‘We’ll talk about it in the car,’ she said, easing Siân to her feet. ‘You can tell me where to look and I’ll go and see if I can find anything.’

  Siân was about to protest, then she wrenched free of Geri and stumbled past her. Geri turned.

  ‘Frank!’ She was looking into Frank Traynor’s anxious face.

  ‘I phoned him,’ Siân explained. ‘After I called you.’ She turned to her friend. ‘You’ll come with me, won’t you, Frank?’

  Frank looked from Siân to Geri, then sighed and looked at his shoes.

  ‘All right,’ Siân said, limping to the door. ‘I’ll go on my own.’

  It was Geri’s turn to sigh. ‘We’ll use my car,’ she said. ‘I know I’ll regret this.’ She was regretting it already, but she wasn’t going to leave Siân wandering around that part of town on her own at nearly midnight.

  Siân led them straight to the tenement.

  ‘He’s here!’ she insisted. ‘I know he is. But what if that man—’ She shrank back against Geri, trembling.

  ‘All right,’ Geri murmured, gently passing her over to Frank. ‘We’ll soon see.’ She left them below and climbed to the second floor.

  Her nostrils flared at the pungent smell of urine. There was a faint glow from the landing, and Geri’s breath caught as she heard a faint scuffing sound.

  She paused at the turn in the concrete staircase, gathering strength, willing her quivering limbs to take her the last few steps. Bracing herself against the crumbling balustrade, she ran onto the landing at a crouch, immediately falling back with a cry of dismay.

  ‘Miss Simpson?’ Frank’s voice sounded thin and frightened.

  Geri’s breath made white puffs of condensation on the freezing air. She felt winded by the shock.

  ‘Miss?’

  She knelt by the bod
y. ‘Fetch an ambulance.’ The first time she said it, no sound came out, and she had to take a breath and try again, instructing Frank to use Siân’s mobile.

  Steeling herself, she lifted his wrist to search for a pulse. The flickering light from Siân’s damaged torch animated his face grotesquely. It was covered with blood; it matted his beard and stained the front of his coat. He reeked of urine and worse. His pulse was rapid but strong.

  ‘It’s an elderly man,’ she called to Frank, trying to keep her tone even and controlled. ‘Tell them he’s in shock. Hypothermic. I think he’s taken a beating.’

  She tried to ease him onto his side, listening to be sure that Frank had done as she instructed. The man was bulky and difficult to move in the narrow confines of the landing. Breathing through her mouth to avoid the smell, she leaned across him, intending to pull his left hand across the front of his body and lever him into the recovery position.

  Suddenly his free hand snapped out and gripped her with surprising force. ‘Get away from me!’ he croaked. ‘Leave me be!’

  His teeth were stained with blood, almost black in the failing torchlight.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Geri’s voice was a breathless squeak. ‘Try to stay calm.’ She felt near to panic herself. Abruptly his grip slackened, and his eyes glazed, and Geri escaped, standing clear of him and hugging herself, her teeth chattering. She stayed near him until the ambulance came, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch him again.

  Siân could not be persuaded to come and see the old man’s pitiful bolthole for herself until he had been safely removed from the landing. Piles of newspaper and card occupied one corner of the room, layer upon layer, twisted and shaped and stamped down, so that it looked like a giant nest. A couple of filthy blankets lay on the floor, as if discarded in haste.

  ‘He’s just a harmless drunk,’ Geri said.