Soul Food

by Gareth Lewis

My gaze settles on its eyes and I can't look away. The area where its eyes should be, anyway. There's just blackness. More than an absence of colour, it feels like an absence of everything. A void that's trying to suck me into it.

  I somehow know it's not looking at me. It doesn't even see me. It's focussed on the dead guy. Or the lighter haze I start to make out above him. This one my mind won't even try to make a shape for.

  Is this some kind of special effect? A projected image?

  No. I'm grasping. I know this is real. It feels real. And really unreal.

  And then thought is hard to focus on as the smaller, ethereal form writhes in an agony I almost feel. A shudder runs through me, and I know the red form is feeding off the other. Draining the life from it as it grows dim. Slowly. Painfully slow.

  I feel a sympathetic agony, and a sense of growing horror at the thought of that feeding dragging on, never ending. Being eternally digested by that thing.

  It becomes too much. So much that I manage to rip my eyes from the scene, turning away.

  It's a long minute before my breathing is under control and I can glance back at them.

  They're gone. As though they were never there. I'd like to think they never were. But I can't.

  Jake's still staring at where it was, eyes fixed as though he can still see it. I move cautiously back and put a hand on his shoulder. He finally looks at me. I lay a steadying hand against the wall, not certain I can support myself.

  His eyes are wide, mirroring what I feel.

  Existential dread is the only way I can describe it. I now know something exists that shouldn't, and I can never unknow it.

  I don't know what it is, though one word comes to mind. I don't want to think it.

  But part of me knows that thing just fed on the guy's soul. Even if I wasn't sure I believed in a soul, I now believe deeply that I've just seen one devoured. Or start a digestion period that'll go on for a long time.

  It touches something primal within me.

  And if I need a word to describe the creature - as though labelling it will in any way let me understand it - then I know what it is: demon.

  14

  My eyes keep drifting back to the empty space where it'd been. I'm not sure whether I want it to be there again or not, but I can't help a breath of relief when it isn't.

  My practical side won't let shock control my actions for long. There was a second shooter.

  I advance down the corridor, gun ready. Hugging the wall opposite the body, just in case. Have to force myself not to look. I need to concentrate. In case he didn't get out the back.

  I ease around the corner, ready to duck back as soon as I spot movement. There's nothing. The light from the electric lantern they brought with them offers only shadows down the far end of the corridor, but I'm sure enough for comfort that there's no one in sight. He's had time to get away by now, while I was distracted.

  A glance back at the lamp shows it wasn't all they brought. A tub of industrial detergent and some cleaning utensils are nearby.

  I look at the body, and realise he's wearing overalls. Don't recognise the face, now it's got some light on it. But he's kind of got a criminal look. Of course, some people say that of me.

  Jake hasn't moved, still transfixed by memories. At least that means this isn't just me. Unless I'm also hallucinating his reaction. In which case, there's no way to tell if I've lost it.

  I get my phone out. A couple of bars, but then one flickers out. The static. Is that thing what caused it? Did it cause the odd damage to Mortimer's body? Have we been exposed? Not an immediate concern.

  Focus.

  I move back to Jake's side, and wave my hand in front of his eyes until he focusses on me. 'You okay?' I ask. I can't see any signs he's been hit.

  He thinks about it for a long time. I'm not sure if his attention is gone. I'm about to ask again when he replies. 'Sure.' There might be a hint of hysteria to his tone. Or just hoarseness. He frowns. 'Did you see that?' His eyes are almost pleading, though I'm not sure for which answer.

  All I can give him is the truth. 'Something that appeared to feed on his soul.' Saying it out loud is both a relief and slap in the brain. As though giving voice to it makes it more real.

  Jake's face seems equally conflicted. He nods, which is somehow also a relief. I'm not in this alone.

  'You stay here,' I say. 'I need to get reception.' I wave the phone.

  He grabs my arm in a firm grip, and glances at the body. Even in this state, he's got too much pride to say he doesn't want me to leave him alone. And I wouldn't if we could afford it.

  'I need to call in before someone else reports shots fired.' Unlikely in this area, but with the IA attention I can't take the chance. And I certainly can't afford to try sanitising the scene and pretending we weren't here. This is the smart play. Give them as much of the truth as they'll believe.

  Unhitching myself from his grip, I make my way to the stairwell. The signal seems steady enough on the far side of it, near the outer wall. I call in an officer involved shooting, the line just about clear enough to be sure I'm heard.

  It'll bring IA, I've no doubt, so I need to make sure Jake's in a fit state to talk to them. The last thing I need is my partner telling them the truth. Especially when it's a clean shooting.

  This was by the book. Have to remind myself of that. And stop wondering exactly which book that would be.

  Don't go there yet.

  Jake hasn't moved when I get back to him.

  'How are you so calm,' he asks through laboured breaths. His eyes are wide, as though on the verge of panic.

  'I'm keeping my mind occupied with the immediate problem. That of a body with my bullets in it.'

  'Another one?' says Jake. Was that a giggle?

  'Focus. We can deal with what we saw later.'

  'I can't think of anything else.'

  I grab his chin and turn him too meet my gaze. 'You need to.'

  'Why?' he asks. I think he genuinely wants a reason. 'That was a demon. Sucking a thug's soul out of him. Neither of us is really that good a person. Does this mean we're damned?'

  'We're damned to the nuthouse, or at least compassionate leave, if we talk about it to IA. You get that, don't you?'

  He frowns and pushes my hand away. Irritated at reality intruding on his existential crisis. But I can't afford to give him time to wallow right now. I couldn't afford to give him time to recover slowly before calling this in. The forensics should all be on my side, and I can't give IA any more ammunition than necessary.

  'We don't know what that was,' I say. 'We will look into it. But after we deal with the shooting. Okay?'

  He gives a reluctant shake of the head and looks away from the body, back down the corridor.

  I don't blame him. We're both probably traumatised. A part of me can't stop thinking about... it. I don't want to label it. That's too easy, and may provide a false idea when I try to determine what it actually was. No attributing meaning to it until I have reason to do so. All I know is what I saw. And I can't be certain of that.

  Every passing second seems to make me doubt it, though the image remains etched into my brain.

  I need answers. But first I have to provide the right ones.

  We did nothing wrong. We simply investigated suspicious activity at a murder scene. They were here to clean stuff. In the middle of the night. They don't seem to've started, so anything they were hoping to erase should still be here. If forensics can find that, it'll move the focus away from us.

  Will it also help with the case? At the moment, I have trouble caring about the case. But it'll provide some focus, and help with IA. Or at least it won't hurt.

  It's likely these are Stone's men. ID should confirm it.

  So maybe he hasn't been as hands off of the place as he wanted us to believe. Has it gotten bloody before? Is that why that thing was here?

  And suddenly it looks like I won't be using the case as a distraction from what we saw.

  Is th
at why Mortimer was brought here? Is all of this to do with that thing?

  And do I really want to know what this is all about?

  Maybe not. But I need to.

  15

  The medical examiner's domain is not where I want to be this time of morning. Or any time, come to that. Especially after having had so little sleep, and with memories swirling through my head that I'm still not sure I believe.

  IA of course needed an initial statement. A detailed initial statement, the better to catch me out later in any minor discrepancy. Wolfe didn't even seem upset at being dragged out of her den to handle it. And there'd of course been the promise of plenty more interviews to come.

  'Your weak-stomached partner not joining us?' asks Carver. He looks almost disappointed. 'You didn't shoot him too, did you?'

  'We do have work to do.' And trauma to recover from, which is probably why Jake hasn't turned up yet. 'What've you got?'

  His mouth purses in irritation, but Carver turns to the body. 'He was shot.'

  That's so useful. 'I remember. Was there anything I don't already know?'

  'Similar non-radiation damage as the last one.'

  'Fiona Mortimer.'

  'Whatever.' There's that bedside manner that endears him to all his patients. 'Again, it's primarily the brain that seems to be affected.'

  Why the brain? Is the soul directly connected? No, I have to stop thinking of it as the soul until I know what I'm talking about.

  'The body was killed in the same location as Mortimer?' asks Carver.

  'Near enough.'

  'Possibly something localised then.' And I'd be happy to introduce him. He gives me an odd look, almost curious. A twisted curiosity. 'Where you've spent some time. I wouldn't mind a look at your brain. It's not as though you use it for much.'

  'Aren't you banned from practising on the living in this state?'

  That gains a glower and flared nostrils. 'I doubt I have a powerful enough microscope to find a cop's brain anyway.'

  'What else have you got?' I ask.

  Carver shrugs. 'That's pretty much it.'

  I stare at him a moment. 'You dragged me down here just for that?'

  'Not just that.' He waves expansively at the body gaping unnaturally in more places than is strictly necessary for the examination. 'So you can see your handiwork. And what I have to put up with when you keep making work for me.'

  'You're welcome,' I say. Then I turn around and walk away.

  'You think I want to be rummaging about inside dead bodies?' He calls after me. 'Stop sending them down here so bloody frequently.'

  16

  I leave it as late in the day as I can to go to Jake's apartment, but I need to check up on him. This isn't something we can discuss with others without risking them having us committed. And there are some who'd be happy to do so.

  Unfortunately, I don't leave it late enough that Karla's already gone for her shift. Or maybe she's hung about to enjoy his suffering. Any joy she feels is hidden behind a glare as she opens the door to me.

  She stands there, arms crossed over her pale blue work uniform.

  I smile at her. 'Nice dress. Still saving up for the divorce, then?'

  Her glare deepens, and she greets me with a profanity. 'Tell me where he keeps his payoffs and I won't need to wait.'

  'If I knew, I'd have to arrest him.'

  'You would too, wouldn't you?' She doesn't hide her disgust. 'And what did you do to him this time?'

  'We do our jobs.'

  'Whatever.' She shakes her head and turns to grab her bag and coat. 'He's your problem. Some of us have proper jobs to go to, rather than running around playing both cops and robbers.'

  She tries to push past me, but I step aside and sweep my arm accommodatingly ahead of her. She keeps her glare fixed firmly ahead, and I go in the apartment.

  It's the Ikea budget version of a home. A bit colourful, mainly to detract from the fading of the paintwork and carpet. She's probably intending to leave them behind. When she has somewhere else to go.

  I find him in bed, the room in need of an airing. But since the air outside will be a recent vintage of eau du city, I don't bother opening the window. One aroma can be adjusted to. I don't want to risk them hybridising.

  Jake stares at the ceiling, not even seeming to register my presence.

  'Don't think IA won't come here if you keep avoiding them,' I say. Although it's more likely they'd send unis to bring him in.

  He turns to stare at me, but it takes a moment before there's any recognition. He blinks himself back to reality, shaking his head sleepily. 'Hey. Did we...?' He hesitates, choosing his words. 'Last night...?'

  'We saw it,' I assure him. 'The… apparition that seemed to feed on the dead guy.'

  He exhales deeply at the confirmation, somewhere between relieved and dismayed. At least he has confirmation he's not insane. Or not alone in insanity, anyway.

  'Everything since has felt so unreal,' he says. 'I thought I might be dreaming, and just couldn't wake up.'

  'I know. Feels even odder outside. The city's oblivious to what happened. Even an incursion like this barely registers. Don't know why I'm surprised. We've seen shootout sites go back to normal life in minutes.'

  'This wasn't a shootout.'

  Technically, there was a shootout. But it's easy to forget, given what came after.

  'What do you think it was?' asks Jake.

  'Don't know yet.'

  'Yet?'

  'Why is it derelict? Why do vagrants avoid it? Someone's noticed. Someone already knows more than we do about it. We find out who knows about it, and what they know. Then go from there.'

  Not sure if this'll give Jake a sense of focus to occupy his thoughts, but it's working for me. So far.

  'You haven't told Karla?' I ask.

  'Hell, no. She'd have already had me locked away if I mentioned any of this. She thinks it's just PTSD. Which I haven't dismissed.'

  Good. At least he's rational. And if he told Karla nothing, he should tell IA less than that. They're nowhere near as scary.

  Would I support the truth if he did tell them? I'm not sure what I'd do. Better to make sure he doesn't.

  Jake's focus begins to drift. 'Was it feeding on his soul?'

  'No idea.' And hypothesising without more information won't get us anywhere.

  'It must've been his soul. It felt like it. What else could...?'

  'We don't know what we saw.' I manage to keep my tone patient. This isn't easy to process. I've managed to distract myself, but I could end up in this state at some point. 'But I promise you we'll investigate. To do that, we're going to need to deal with IA first.'

  His eyes focus on me again with a sigh. Fear of IA cuts through lesser worries.

  'Can you stay focussed?' I ask.

  'Sure,' he says with a concerning lack of conviction.

  'They'll probably allow you the day, but you'd better be in tomorrow. We need to get out ahead of this.'

  'I'll be there,' he says with more confidence.

  I must still look dubious.

  'I'll be there,' he repeats with emphasis. 'I just need to get my head around the reality of this.'

  'You're not alone in that.'

  Maybe I do need time to think. But it doesn't seem likely I'll find any anytime soon. And maybe a part of me worries I won't be able to get my head around it. That it'll instead deform my head.

  My phone thankfully distracts me from such concerns. Until I look at it.

  A text message informs me that IA await the pleasure of my company.

  17

  With this much attention from IA, my union representative can only make himself unavailable for so long. Usually he can put it off a few days if necessary. I'd have rather he put this one off until they'd spoken to Jake, but it can't be helped.

  I'm sure they'll approach it in an even-handed and fair manner.

  'We're supposed to believe you just stumbled across them?' Wolfe asks with a degree of disbelief
that could actually hurt my feelings. If I had much in the way of feelings.

  'Your beliefs are a private concern,' says Portelli. Looking at his phone, of course. 'Detective Blake is giving a factual account of events.'

  We're in a precinct interview room this time, apparently some kind of concession to the brass for all of my time they're taking up. Personally, I couldn't care less. Well, that's not entirely true. Their place has better coffee. For one thing, it's identifiable as coffee. And liquid.

  Our interview rooms are notably more worn down. A mishmash of pale spots where stuff's been cleaned up with extreme prejudice.

  Wolfe glances at her notes. 'The dead man,' even she can't bring herself to call him a victim, 'Has been identified as Tommy Eden. He had an extensive, if unimpressive, record. And connections to Bartholomew Stone.' She glares at me with a hungry smirk, smelling blood. 'With whom you've recently had contact.'

  'Is there a question among your barely veiled allegations?' asks Portelli.

  'What's your business with Stone?' she asks.

  'He's a criminal who owns a crime scene,' I say. 'I'd be derelict in my duty if I didn't question him.'

  'It should've been an official interview,' says Wolfe.

  'Which would bring his lawyer into it from the start, getting us nothing. We had no reason to suspect his direct involvement.'

  'So you took an unofficial approach to a crook believed to have a number of cops in his pocket. Some are wondering whether you're part of his little blackmail database.'

  She's probably foremost among them, and spreading the allegation. If the database even exists, it probably only has stuff on a few. That's all it'd need. The rest is just building the myth.

  'I've never done anything worth blackmailing me over,' I say before Portelli can get all offended on my behalf. He may even look up from his game. I spare him that. 'Have you?'

  Wolfe's expression grows furious.

  'Why did you choose to stake out the hotel last night?' asks Sinclair.

  'We wanted to check out the local night life in the vicinity. See if there were potential witnesses we could corral.'