Finley’s eyes burn into her for a second, then his sharp face cracks, and he starts to laugh. Lydia sees Jason in his features; the strong jaw, the blue eyes like lagoons that could drown a person in their clear water. The same long, dark hair, only in Finley’s case it is slicked back, oily and shining, baring his sharp features to the world and making him look more snake than person. His clothes are tight, too tight, black trousers and an intricately-woven waistcoat over a crisp, white shirt. “We are all of us monsters,” he smirks. “You included.”
“I’m nothing like you,” Lydia spits back.
“We both know that’s not true,” Finley hisses, circling around the other side of her. “I’ve been watching you, Lydia Tune.” He leans in again and whispers. “I’ve seen your darkness.”
“I’m not a murderer,” Lydia replies. “I’m not insane like you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Finley’s voice rises sharply. “I’m not crazy. I’m just ahead of my time.”
“You’re crazy,” Lydia snaps, “and deluded.”
“History will remember otherwise,” says Finley, crossing the room to his desk and lifting a glass jar from one of the drawers. It is filled with insects. “My work, my life, my mind.” He shakes the jar, and the tiny creatures inside skitter about desperately. They are prisoners just like Lydia. Victims with no voice. “My philosophy,” Finley continues, “my torment,” he sets the jar down and gestures around the room. “My art.”
“Your art?” Lydia spits. “You killed innocent people.”
“Nobody whose life was worth living.” Finley shrugs. “They were insignificant, like insects.” He wanders over to an ornate mirror on the wall, adjusts his collar and smooths his hair, before springing back around to point toward her. “Do you like the dress by the way?”
“Where’s Alex?” Lydia demands in the glittery blood-soaked number.
“I was worried it wouldn’t fit you, it being mother’s old dress and all, but what would you know, it’s a perfect fit!” he merrily remarked.
“What have you done with Alex?” Lydia grits her teeth.
“Ah yes.” Finley’s grinning face reflected in the mirror makes Lydia’s stomach lurch. “Poor Detective Gilbey. You should have seen his face when he realised he’d been wrong about everything.” He turns to look at Lydia directly. “A memory I shall cherish forever.”
“Where is he?!”
“Perhaps you should reflect,” says Finley coldly, his smile fading in an instant, “on the fact that your pathetic emotional connection to that fool is the reason you’re in this dire situation.” The reptilian smile creeps back over his face. “And it is, I’m afraid, a very dire situation.”
“You let your own brother take the blame for your crimes,” says Lydia. If she was going to die, she may as well try to get some answers first. “You let the world think of him as a murderer. How could you do that?”
“Oh, poor Jason,” says Finley, donning a mocking mask of sadness. “What a shame. He was such a clever boy.” He takes the jewelled locket from his pocket and holds it up to the light. “Using this to send you a message. Inspired, really.” He sighs. “Such a waste. I was genuinely upset to have to engineer his death.”
“How could you possibly…?” Lydia stops, staring up into Finley’s pale blue eyes. “You… you were on the news. You were the one who ‘found’ the bodies.”
“Clever girl!” Finley beams, gleefully. “I knew those lazy police would chalk them up to Jason without a second’s hesitation, and then they’d have to execute him.” His face falls in mock sadness. “It’s a shame, but I do so dislike loose ends.”
“He was protecting your mother,” Lydia growls, contemptuously.
“Then he wasn’t doing a very good job, was he?” Finley raises an eyebrow. “I mean, he was nowhere to be seen when I pressed that pillow down over her weeping face.”
“How could you…?” Lydia grits her teeth.
“It was a mercy.” Finley glares at her. “They can be together now, wherever they are.” He glances upwards. “I do hope they’re watching.”
“If they’re in heaven,” says Lydia, “they don’t care about you anymore. They’ll never have to see you again.”
Finley grins maniacally. “I’d rather go to hell. That’s where all the fun people are.”
“Well go on then.” Lydia sits up straight. “Get on with it. Or are you all talk?”
“Oh no, no, no,” says Finley, wagging a finger. “No need to rush. Besides,” he stands before her, one hand behind his back, like a servant ready to please, “I know you want to know all of my dirty little secrets.”
“Like what?” Lydia spits. “Your stupid card?”
“My what?” Finley looks genuinely confused. “Oh, those!” He laughs. “They didn’t mean anything. Just a little bit of mystery, a bit of theatre to keep the baying hordes interested.”
“I couldn’t care less.” Lydia looks away haughtily.
“You’re a poor liar,” says Finley, that cold bite back in his voice. “I’m the reason you came to this god-awful city. I’m the one you wanted to write a book about. You pursued me.” He jabs his finger at her, and then himself. “So don’t tell me you don’t care, Lydia Tune.”
All I care about is Alex, Lydia thinks, realising as she processes the words that they are genuinely true. She mustn’t let Finley know. If he’s still alive…
“Patience, my dear,” Finley says, as if in reply, admiring one of his own paintings on the wall, a hunter spearing a great, black bird with a jagged arrow. “All in good time. By the way,” he turns back to face her, “what do you think of my Christmas tree?”
Lydia blinks at him. “Your… what?” She looks around. There’s no tree. Then Finley, grinning gleefully, lifts his eyes just above her and jerks his head. Almost paralysed with fear of what she is about to see, Lydia forces herself, shaking uncontrollably, to turn around.
A huge, bushy pine tree towers over her barely a few feet away. Like the rest of the room, it’s strung with blinking lights, but no baubles or candy canes. In place of ornaments, human organs and severed limbs hang from the branches. A finger here, a rib there, feet, flesh, heart… and at the top, where a star or fairy might sit, the severed head of Cecil Sprinkler staring down at her with accusing eyes.
Lydia looks away, her own eyes screwed tightly shut, whimpering softly.
“I knew you’d love it,” Finley says, gleefully. “Oh, you should have been there, Lydia. I made him sing Christmas carols to me while I sawed off his hands and feet. Promised him that I wouldn’t hurt you if he did as he was told.”
“Me?”
“Oh, yes.” Finley swoops down upon her, his horrible smile inches from her face. “Rather fond of you, he was. Funny how people get attached so soon, isn’t it?”
No. Alex. No. Where are you?
Finley pulls up a chair and sits, one leg draped lazily over the other, poised like a dandy in front of her. “Don’t you want to know how I did it?”
“Did what?” Lydia mutters.
“Got into here, of course.” Finley leans forward and taps the side of Lydia’s head with a bony finger. She recoils with disgust. “You see, I’ve been with you since the moment you arrived.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well,” says Finley, with the manner of someone beginning a story, “as you know, my mother was a talented costume designer. The house is full of wonderful clothes, and wigs, and makeup. I’ve found them extremely useful over the years.”
Lydia turns her head to look at him, squinting her eyes. She had thought him familiar because he looked like Jason. Was there something she’d missed?
“Oh yes,” says Finley happily. “Let’s see, on your first date with lovely Alex I was a bearded man enjoying a hamburger.” He starts counting off on his fingers. “When you got terribly drunk in that awful bar, I was an army vet covered in tattoos. The dog walker in the park, the guest in the hotel lobby. At the asylum
of course I had to be extra careful, so I went with a simple suit and moustache to blend in with the official types.” He leans in and touches her arm in an exaggerated, mocking manner. “That was the time I clubbed you around the back of the head with a pipe. Do you remember?”
“Why didn’t you kill me?” Lydia asks in a hollow voice.
“And give those stupid police reason to doubt that my dear brother was really the Krimson Killer?” Finley looks comically alarmed. “Oh no, that wouldn’t have done at all. They would have come looking for me. Such an inconvenience. No, to tell you the truth, my dear, I just wanted you to go home.” He smiles, sweetly. “I bet you wish you had now.”
“You’re lying.” Lydia glares at him. “You love the attention. You wanted me to stay and figure this out. To find you. You wanted to gloat to someone about what you’ve done.”
Finley peers at her, then his face cracks into a sly smile. “You’ve got me,” he says, generously. “Bravo, Lydia, you’ve figured me out.” He leaps to his feet and strikes a dramatic pose. “I’m a performer, you see. A natural. And a performer is nothing without an audience.” He leans down towards her. “Are you sitting comfortably?” Lydia looks away, disgusted. “I’ll take that as a yes,” says Finley, gleefully. “Then let’s begin the main portion of tonight’s show.”
He bounds past Lydia, who squirms in her chair to try to see what’s happening but to no avail. She hears a door opening, then a low rumble that shakes the floorboards, growing louder until out of the corner of her eye she sees a seated figure approaching in a wheelchair.
When she sees the figure slumped in it, bound to the chair with thick electrical tape, face slick with blood and sweat, eyes wide with terror, Lydia’s heart stops.
Forty-Two
Cruel Timing
“Alex!” she cries out, struggling against her bonds with all of her might.
“Well done!” says Finley, gleefully. “You really are the expert sleuth from your books. Found this big lug at the final scene of my masterpiece of a crime, disguised myself as a cop, chloroformed him when no one was looking, put him in his trunk and here we are!”
“Let him go!”
“How likely do you think that is to happen, really?” asks Finley, sarcastically. Alex’s eyes flicker. When he sees Lydia, they open wide and he starts to struggle madly, screaming into the tape sealing his mouth.
“Please,” Lydia begs, looking back at him with tears in her eyes. “Don’t hurt him.”
“I’ll do as I please,” says Finley. “He’s mine now. I’ve won. Haven’t you realised yet?” He rips the tape from Alex’s mouth and punches him hard, causing blood to gush from his broken nose.
“Don’t!” Lydia screams. “Alex!”
Alex looks up at her from the ground with desperate, pleading eyes. “Lydia…”
“I’m sorry…” Lydia whispers, gazing into the helpless, stricken face of the man she has only now realised she loves.
“Aww,” says Finley, mockingly. “Did you hear that, Al? Your girl’s sorry.” Lydia closes her eyes and turns her face away defiantly. “And it looks like she doesn’t want to watch me torture you,” he goes on, as Lydia’s whole body shakes with sobs. “But, oh dear, Lydia,” says Finley, stepping close to her, “I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong again. You see, he’s not the entertainment.” He leans in close and whispers. “You are.”
“No, please…”
“I’ve always been curious about love.” Finley pulls up his chair again, resting a foot on Alex’s head. “Other people are just so… revolting, don’t you think?” He looks down at Alex with pantomime disgust. “Why on earth would you want to spend more time with one than is absolutely necessary?”
“Please don’t.” Lydia shakes her head helplessly, her fragile sanity hanging by the finest of threads.
“You can’t rely on other people, Lydia. No one really cares about anybody but themselves. Oh, they all pretend, some well, some badly, but all for their own selfish good.” He snatches a clock from the wall and holds it next to Alex’s head. “Time ticks away, tick-tock, tick-tock, and those we thought we loved become crutches for us to bear. Burdens we resent. Vacuous, animated lumps of flesh with no redeeming features at all.” He hurls the clock away and it smashes into pieces. “It’s all just a grim façade, Lydia. All of it. What matters is us,” he taps his own chest, “ourselves,” he taps Lydia’s the same way, “what we want. Don’t you see? When all the pretence is dropped and the mask slips, that’s who we really are. Selfish. Greedy. Lustful. Hurtful.” He breathes the words as though savouring each one on the tip of his tongue. “Wicked.”
Lydia tries to tell Alex with her eyes that everything will be okay, that she will get them out of this. How?! The voice in her head screams at her. How?! She whimpers involuntarily.
“Do pull yourself together, Lydia,” Finley chides her. “This isn’t the real you. I know the real you. You’re dark, and lonely, and fascinating, and untroubled by such mundane emotions. This is some temporary madness you’ve been afflicted with, and I am going to cure you.”
“I’ll do anything you want, please…”
“Excellent. So tell me then, what is it exactly that you love about this… pathetic creature?” He removes his foot from Alex’s head and gives it a swift kick. Lydia screams.
“Don’t hurt him!”
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t!”
“You will.” Finley rises in a passionate temper and hurls the chair away. It crashes against the wall and falls to the floor in pieces.
“I love…” Lydia stammers, gazing into Alex’s desperate face. “Everything.”
In that moment, time freezes for all in the dank room. Alex’s retinas widen upon being hit by the open declaration from his lady love. Lydia feels her chest open like a butterfly’s wings, leaving her heart bare. Suddenly, in this grim situation, she feels free in a strange way; even if this is the end, she knows now that she can finally breathe. The couple take each other in for all they can, as the world around them melts away into a haze, just as Finley rolls his eyes.
“What a cop out.”
Finley, without hesitation pulls a pistol from behind his back, and before Lydia knows what’s happening, he shoots Alex straight through the heart.
BANG!
“NO!” Lydia’s heart cracks. Her lungs freeze. Her brain swims. This is a bad dream. It has to be. She stares, mouth wide open, saliva dripping onto the dusty floorboards, as blood spills from her lover’s chest and spreads slowly over the floor towards her. Alex’s eyes are glassy and then lifeless. He’s gone.
“Grief is terrible, isn’t it?” Finley whispers, watching Lydia’s face greedily. “And beautiful.” He takes a slow, deep breath. “Intoxicating…”
Lydia is paralysed with grief. She wants to look away, to scream, to cry, but every inch of her is frozen by the pure horror of the moment. Finley reaches out and slaps her face hard.
“Oh come now,” he says, bracingly. “Don’t get all mopey over a wet bag like that. He isn’t worth it.”
“Why?!” Lydia manages a strangled cry.
“Why what?” asks Finley, confused.
“Why did you kill him?!”
“Oh.” Finley looks down at Alex’s body. “Why not?” He shrugs. “Like you said, I am a monster.”
Lydia slumps in the chair, head bowed. She is still breathing, but for all intents and purposes she may as well be dead.
“That’s it,” says Finley, sinking to his knees in front of Lydia, bony fingers clutching at her. “Feel the pain. Understand it. Embrace it. Die and be reborn with me, and together we will do such beautiful things.”
Lydia lifts her head slowly, eyes burning with cold hatred. “Go to hell,” she hisses.
“That’s the plan.” Finley gives her a gentle shake. “But I don’t want to go alone, Lydia. These past years have been so empty. There was something missing from my life.” He gazes up at her meaningfully. “I know you know how th
at feels.”
Lydia grimaces, blocking out the tiny voice in her head telling her that he is right.
“We must have a purpose, Lydia,” Finley says earnestly. “We must each find our own meaning in this sick, broken world. Ours will be to fix it. To cleanse it of the hypocrisy, and the waste, and replace it with a pure, chaotic beauty. It can be our art of darkness.”
Lydia swallows hard as the nausea swells deep inside her. She visualises the block of ice encasing her shattered heart, closes her eyes and plays the game through to the end in her mind. She only has one chance.
“Why me?” she croaks, hoarsely.
“You know why.” He’s circling her now, like a predator sensing an imminent kill. She hasn’t long left. “We are as one, you and I. You must have felt it when you saw my beautiful works. When you read about my great deeds. You may not have known my name, but you knew me, and you understood the truth of my nature.”
“What truth?” She forces herself to look him in the eye. She has to let him read her. Let him believe.
“That I, like you, am drawn to darkness. Pulled by its invisible gravity. I am both its servant, and its master. Creator and destroyer. I have the power to take life,” he kneels again next to Alex and touches his bleeding heart reverently, “and to give it back.” He takes his finger, covered with Alex’s blood, and anoints Lydia’s forehead like a priest at a baptism. She shudders as the warm liquid trickles down her face and into the corner of her mouth. “Yes,” Finley breathes, intoxicated by the scene, “taste the power.” He licks his own lips hungrily as though the blood were on them instead.
Fighting the impulse to wretch with all of her strength, Lydia closes her eyes, extends her tongue and tastes the blood. She can’t see the look of ecstasy on Finley’s face, but she knows it’s there. Keep going. It’s working.
“Oh, bravo my dear, bravo!” Finley claps his hands together and Lydia opens her eyes, startled by the sudden noise. “I knew you felt it. You poor thing. You’ve been in hiding your whole life, like I was in this wretched attic. But now you are free. I have set you free, and together we will make such beautiful things.” He slips a knife from his pocket and cuts her bonds.
Face of Evil Page 24