Face of Evil

by George Morris De'Ath

  “You remembered,” says Alex.

  “I’m not a goldfish.”

  “What kind of fish are you?” he asks.

  “The curious kind,” Lydia replies, leaning forward a little. “Tell me why Jason thinks you would be so annoyed about him turning himself in.”

  Alex’s face darkens. “I thought we’d come here to get away from all that.”

  “I need to figure this out,” Lydia says firmly. “I’m sorry, but I won’t have any peace until I do.”

  Alex sighs, leans back in his chair and looks over at the people dancing. This isn’t the start to the evening he was hoping for. “Alright,” he says finally. “Well, it wasn’t long after we’d started putting the pieces together and connecting all of his murders. The ones with bodies were easy, but the disappearances… we couldn’t be sure if those people were dead or alive, so…”

  “Oh, they’re dead,” says Lydia flatly.

  “Probably,” says Alex, peering at her uncomfortably.

  “Of course they are.” She waves a hand dismissively. “The Krimson Killer obviously likes to play with his food, but when he gets hungry enough, he’ll eat it.”

  “That’s a charming metaphor to deploy in a restaurant.”

  “Sorry.” Lydia smiles, glancing at her menu. “I might get the shrimp…”

  “Seriously,” says Alex, himself leaning across the table now, “what if they are still alive? I mean most of the missing victims are younger women, what if—”

  “There’s absolutely no reason to believe those girls are anything other than dead and gone.”

  “The thing is…”

  Before long, their waiter appears from seemingly nowhere with their drinks; Lydia smiles as he lowers them before hastily scampering off back to the bar.

  “The thing is,” says Alex, lowering his voice slightly, looking and sounding a little frustrated, “the last few disappeared right before he walked into the station.”

  “So?”

  “So what if he was, I don’t know,” Alex fishes for the right words, “banking some leverage or something.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” says Lydia. “Jason didn’t even confess to those murders, did he? The ones you never found?”

  “No, but…”

  “And he’s been in that hellhole for years now. If he had leverage, if he had – I can’t believe we’re even talking about this – if he had hostages, he would have mentioned them. Hell, they’d be long dead anyway, right? Unless…”

  “What?” Alex seizes on her uncertainty.

  “I mean unless he had an accomplice,” Lydia finishes the thought.

  “That’s crazy.”

  “We’re dealing with crazy people,” says Lydia, matter-of-factly. “What if Dorothy Eagle wasn’t a copycat? What if there were two of them the whole time? What if that’s who’s been stalking me?”

  “I suppose you have some notion as to who this secret psychopath – who, by the way, none of us saw even a trace of at the time – might be?” asks Alex, sarcastically.

  “Not yet,” she replies, holding up her menu a little higher, “but I’ll figure it out. Maybe I’ll ask his mother.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to visit her tomorrow,” says Lydia, perusing the lavish dishes, “at the hospital.”

  “How do you know she’s in the hospital?”

  “Because I’m good at my job,” Lydia replies without looking up. Alex opens his mouth to reply, but then correctly interprets Lydia’s demeanour as a warning not to, and picks up his own menu instead. After a moment, Lydia sits back in her chair and watches the figures on the dance floor swaying gently to the music.

  “So I was wondering,” Alex says with a note of forced brightness. “How do you go about writing your books? I mean, what’s your process?”

  “Well,” Lydia replies, setting down her menu and accepting the implicit request to move the conversation along, “first I decide on a concept. Something that interests me. So, for The Masks We Wear, for example, it was the social constructs as well as the different personas we use and we instinctively pick up on, form and put in place in order to thrive in our modern-day society. With this book, I want to examine what evil is, how it happens and what it’s for.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then I discuss it with my agent and we decide if there’s a market for it. If the answer is yes, I start looking for promising subjects to base the narrative around.”

  “And this time you picked Devere?” Alex asks.

  “I mean,” Lydia shrugs, “he wasn’t the first, but he’s the most promising so far.”

  Alex makes a face that makes it clear he wishes she had picked literally anyone else. “So,” he says, trying to keep the conversation rolling, “when do you actually start writing?”

  Lydia smiles an indulgent smile that makes him feel a little silly. “It’s all writing, Alex,” she says. “But if you mean actually chained to my desk and bashing out pages, I started this morning, but it won’t be finished for months yet.”

  “Seems like a long time.”

  “You can’t rush a good thing. Besides,” she strokes her ruby ring absently as it glints in the flickering candlelight, “I get lost in the stories. It’s kind of therapeutic, you know?”

  “I get my catharsis when we lock them up,” Alex replies.

  “Are you ready to order?” Their cherubic waiter has reappeared, pad in hand.

  “I’ll have the shrimp,” says Lydia confidently, handing him her menu, “and then the filet, rare.”

  “I knew there was a reason I liked you,” says Alex, his grin returning. “I’ll have the filet too, same way, and the pate.”

  “Very good, sir.” The waiter stabs the pad with his pencil and disappears again.

  “Damn,” says Alex, picking up his near-empty drink. “I forgot to ask him for another.” He makes a half-hearted attempt to attract the attention of a waitress loitering nearby, but fails.

  “You’re too polite,” Lydia teases.

  “That’s a problem?” he flares, indignantly.

  “It can be,” she says with a shrug. “Watch and learn.” Lydia stretches out her hand and catches a fast-moving waiter by the arm. “Excuse me,” she purrs, smiling broadly at him, “could we get another round of drinks please?”

  “Of course, madam,” he replies, turning on a well-polished heel and heading back towards the bar.

  “That’s how you do that.” She grins like a Cheshire cat, sitting back in her chair. Alex takes in the spectacle hungrily. Her confidence, arrogance even, is intoxicating. Lydia’s eyes linger on his as she picks up her glass and tips back what’s left.

  “I’ve never liked gin,” says Alex, making a face. “Always thought it tasted like nail polish.”

  “Why were you drinking nail polish?”

  “You know what I mean,” he says. “It tastes like nail polish smells.”

  “I see,” says Lydia. “Well I’ve never liked Jack Daniel’s. It smells and tastes sickly.” She makes a face.

  “Anything can be sickly if you have too much,” says Alex, then tips back his own drink to muffle the words, “like you did the other night.”

  “What was that?” Lydia puts a hand to her ear. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “Oh, nothing,” says Alex, sweetly.

  “Something about the other night?”

  “No, no…”

  “God, that was embarrassing.” She slumps onto the table. “Please don’t let me get like that again. I don’t even remember half of that night.”

  “Evidently,” says Alex, “since you accused me of taking advantage of you.”

  “I did not!” Lydia protests confidently, “I didn’t accuse you of anything, I just didn’t know if—”

  “Lydia,” says Alex calmly, “I’m kidding.”

  “Seriously,” she says, leaning towards him and speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, “did I say or do anything stupid?”

  �
�No,” replies Alex reassuringly. “No, of course not. Stupid? No, no, no. I mean…” he pauses for effect, enjoying the look of dawning horror on her face.

  “What?”

  “You did do the crab in front of a packed bar.”

  “I did not!” Lydia claps a hand over her mouth.

  “Nah,” Alex laughs, “you didn’t.”

  “Asshole…” Lydia shoots him a dirty look and tosses her napkin at him just as the waiter returns with their drinks.

  “I apologise for my companion’s behaviour,” Alex says to him. “She’s from little Philly, you know.” The waiter looks mortified, but not as much as Lydia.

  “Would you bring me another one of these, please?” she asks, picking up her fresh martini. “My… companion here is going to be wearing this one any second now.”

  “Very good, madam,” says the young man, relieved to be given an opportunity to flee.

  “I think you scared him,” says Alex, sipping his drink.

  “Yes, well,” says Lydia, “that just goes to show, doesn’t it?”

  “Show what?”

  “That there’s a monster in all of us.” She grins wickedly, eyes sparkling.

  “I’ll drink to that,” says Alex, reaching out with his glass. Sealed with a clink, an unspoken pact to swallow their respective pasts, at least for now.

  *

  “Well that was something else.” Alex lets his delicate silver spoon drop onto a plate streaked with the remnants of a chocolate torte and sits back in his chair.

  “Mmmm…” agrees Lydia, her own spoon still in her mouth, savouring the last bite of a decadent caramel soufflé. Bursts of sugar-fuelled energy pop and fizz inside her like tiny explosions.

  “Wow,” says Alex, watching her with a smile playing about his lips.

  “Mmm?” Lydia asks, the question muffled by her spoon.

  “Are you actually speechless?” He feigns amazement, puffed cheeks and wide eyes.

  “Dessert doesn’t say dumb things,” says Lydia, finally releasing the spoon and placing it carefully down next to her dish, “so I never need to set it straight.”

  “I see,” says Alex, nodding, “so most of the time you’re talking, it’s because you’re…”

  “Correcting stupid people,” Lydia nods, “that’s right.”

  Alex rolls his eyes.

  “Honestly though,” says Lydia, “I think that was the best meal I’ve ever had.” She smiles and plays with her necklace demurely. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” Alex replies. “I’m just happy to cross something off my bucket list.”

  “Excuse me?” Lydia asks, eyes wide.

  “Impress a successful, beautiful novelist in a fine restaurant,” he replies.

  “That’s on your bucket list?” Lydia laughs. “Is it right above give a sceptical woman a contrived, cack-handed compliment?”

  “Two birds…” Alex shrugs.

  “Who has a bucket list anyway?” Lydia scoffs at the idea.

  “You don’t?”

  “Like, what,” Lydia waves a hand, “see the seven wonders of the world? Run a marathon? Jump out of a plane? Please…”

  “You don’t want to do those things?” Alex asks, sounding a little disappointed.

  “I don’t think about them,” Lydia replies dismissively. “I’m too busy with my job to daydream.”

  “Pity,” says Alex, taking a sip of his fifth drink of the evening. “I think it’s good to daydream now and again.”

  “Don’t tell me you actually have a list?” asks Lydia, incredulous.

  “Yeah,” he replies, unashamed.

  “What’s on it?”

  “It’s a secret.” He grins at the reaction he knows this will get.

  “Oh don’t be ridiculous!” Lydia explodes. “Are we children again? You don’t have secrets like that.”

  “I don’t?”

  “Tell me.”

  Alex shakes his head. Lydia exhales forcefully and tosses her napkin in the air to vent her frustration. “You’re really frustrating sometimes, you know that?”

  “I’ve been told,” Alex nods solemnly. His eyes wander to the dance floor, which has gradually thinned out over the course of the evening, though the music is still in full swing. “Wanna dance?”

  “Oh,” says Lydia, looking horrified, “no, I’m a writer, not a dancer.”

  “Come on,” says Alex, sliding out of his seat and holding out his hand to her. “It’ll be funny.”

  “I don’t want to,” Lydia snaps, hiding behind her fourth martini.

  “Please?” asks Alex, with his most practised puppy dog eyes. “Just one dance. If you hate it, I’ll never ask you to do it again.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” Lydia mutters.

  “I don’t even want to—”

  “Fine,” she says suddenly, pushing her drink away and taking his hand. “One dance. But I’m warning you, I’m really bad.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on,” Alex purrs softly in her ear as he pulls her up. He leads her along a snaking path between tables to the smooth, wooden dance floor and they find a space. Amongst the twirling of feathers and fur to a lively jazz beat, Lydia looks completely out of place. She wobbles awkwardly from side to side, heels clicking out of time with the beat.

  “Did no one ever teach you how to do this?” Alex shouts over the music.

  “Obviously not!” she roars back. “This is stupid.” She makes a motion as if to step off the floor, but Alex grabs her arm gently.

  “I’ll teach you,” he purrs in her ear. “Here, just… loosen up a bit.” He sways with her in time to the music.

  “Like this?”

  “Better,” says Alex, “but your hips are still stiff. You have to let go, let the music take you.”

  “You sound like you’re on drugs,” Lydia grumbles, but she tries to do as he says, letting her muscles relax and un-focusing her eyes so that the tables and chairs, even the other dancers around them become nothing but a blur. She concentrates on the music, feeling its urgency, its energy, its life as the orchestra steps up the pace.

  “There you go,” he says, as the two of them sway in sync. “Now, let’s dance.”

  Lydia gasps as he whisks her practically off her feet, and hardly catches her breath for the next few minutes as they whoosh and swirl around the dance floor. She’s on a wild ride, like a rollercoaster, and loving every moment. Finally, with a crashing crescendo of drums and cymbals, the song comes to an end and the sweaty musicians in their white suits take a break. Lydia collapses against Alex in fits of giddy laughter.

  “Told you you’d enjoy it.” He beams happily.

  “Oh my god. I need to sit down…”

  “Well it’s that time of the night folks,” announces a white-suited singer on the stage, “when I must ask every gentleman to accompany the lady he accompanied here tonight onto the floor for one last, precious waltz.”

  Alex and Lydia suddenly find their path back to their table blocked by other couples flooding towards them. “Well,” says Alex with a shrug, “I guess we have no choice.”

  “I guess not,” Lydia agrees, taking his hand as he slides his arm around her waist. Her other hand at his shoulder, her ruby ring sparkling like fire as it consumes the light of the fabulous chandelier overhead, as well as the dozens of candles dotted around the room. Once again, Lydia allows herself to be led, and Alex sweeps her around the room with a strong yet gentle confidence, their eyes locked together, breaths synchronised, heartbeats in perfect harmony. He is the lion; strong, confident, safe. She the raven, soaring effortlessly through the air, a blur of ebony and crimson, but for those soft, golden curls flowing like honey.

  Here, in the arms of another, for the first time ever, Lydia feels free.

  Twenty-Eight

  Mother

  The colours are too bright here. From the blue plastic chairs to orange and green swirls on the walls and shiny, garish magazines on the tables, all lit by an overwhelming
fluorescence. It makes Lydia’s brain throb behind her bleary eyes. A threadbare length of red tinsel is draped along the wall, and Lydia tries her best to ignore it lest she rip it down and strangle somebody with it.

  A loud, metallic rattling makes her wince as a male nurse rolls a trolley full of instruments past the waiting area. The glimmer of a needle poking from a syringe catches her eye, which then wanders up to the nurse’s face; tanned skin and tousled, dark brown hair, and pale blue eyes that hint at a bright yet melancholy soul. He has an alluring quality, Lydia thinks, power and beauty. Patients must be drawn to him all the time. As she allows herself to slip into a lazy fantasy about this oblivious stranger, a woman approaches. Mid-thirties maybe, dressed in a blue smock with a tight bun of faded blonde hair, the nurse tilts her head to catch Lydia’s attention.

  “Lydia Tune?”

  “Yes?” Lydia replies absently, slipping out of her daydream. She instantly remembers Alex’s words from the previous evening and feels a pang of some emotion she cannot place.

  “You can see her now,” says the nurse, whose nametag reads ‘Maggie’. She turns away before waiting for acknowledgement. You must need an autopilot setting to work somewhere like this, Lydia thinks, rising from the uncomfortable chair and hurrying as best she can on her high heels to catch up.

  “How well do you know Mrs Devere, Maggie?” Lydia asks, catching up with the nurse half-way down the sterile corridor.

  “Not very well,” replies Maggie. “She doesn’t say much. Seems like a lovely lady though. Been here a few weeks.”

  “What happened to her?” asks Lydia.

  “Fell down the stairs in her house, poor thing,” says Maggie. “Lucky she managed to crawl to a telephone or she’d have been done for. Don’t think she has any family. Least, none I’ve seen visiting.”

  “Will she be able to go home?”

  “Not now,” says Maggie, shaking her head sadly. “Once they lose their mobility, they need round the clock care. We’re trying to find her a place at an assisted living facility, but she didn’t have insurance so it’s a waiting game, as usual.” She makes a sharp right turn onto a large ward with maybe twelve beds and walks to the last one on the right, pulling back the emerald green curtain around it just enough to see its occupant. “Evelyn?” Lydia hears a soft, croaking sound. “You have a visitor.” She steps aside, and Lydia gets her first glimpse of the small, white-haired old woman dwarfed by this big hospital bed. “I’ll leave you alone,” Maggie says to Lydia. “Call if you need anything.”