Go and see a doctor, obviously. Dean had been nagging her all week to go. He was like an unwanted mother hen. But if she phoned this morning it might be days before she could get an appointment. She would probably be better by then. Better to tough it out.
Liz had proudly maintained a one-hundred-percent attendance record during her whole time in the police force, and she had no intention of taking a day off work now.
Especially not now.
There was so much to do, with the Beast and the Ripper still at large, not to mention incidents like the riot at the refugee centre. Plus, she needed to be strong for Mihai.
The alarm clock beeped noisily again. This time she switched it off properly and sat up, swinging her feet onto the bedroom carpet. Immediately her head swam with dizziness and her vision went black for several seconds, but she gripped the bed tightly until the dizzy spell receded. She stood up carefully and stalked determinedly toward the bathroom.
Once she had showered and made herself presentable she felt a little stronger. A cup of sweet tea and some toast, and she would be as good as ever. Except that the thought of food made the bile rise in her throat again.
She decided to cut her losses and head straight into work.
She was just scrawling a note for Mihai and leaving him some more money when there was a thumping knock at the door.
‘All right, all right,’ she shouted. ‘Don’t break the door down.’
She opened the door to a ghost, or the closest thing. Her father stood on the doorstep, his wet hair stuck to his head, two days’ worth of grey stubble on his chin, and blood stains down his jacket. His lower lip was swollen and a nasty bruise closed one eye. ‘Hey, love, how you doing?’ he asked.
Liz stared at him coldly through narrowed slits. The last time they had parted she had told him never to return. ‘What the bloody hell happened to you?’ she demanded.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Bit of a scrap. Can I come in?’
‘I’m just going out to work.’
‘Yeah,’ said her father, looking shifty. ‘That’s why I’m here. It’s kind of work-related, you being a copper and all.’
She opened the door wider for him to come in. ‘What have you done now?’ she asked.
He slouched sheepishly into the hallway. ‘Any chance of a cuppa?’
Liz made tea for both of them. If she was going to have to listen to her father’s latest stunt, she would at least try to get some hot liquid inside her. She set the tea down on the coffee table in the front room.
Her father had already taken a seat on the sofa. He didn’t seem in any hurry to talk however.
‘So where have you been?’ she prompted.
‘Bit of long distance work,’ he said. ‘Container truck. Mostly France, Spain, Belgium. Sometimes as far as the Czech Republic or even Hungary. I like being on the road, you know? Helps me see things clearly.’
‘So what brings you here?’
‘I could use some advice. Professional advice, really.’
‘You mean you’re in trouble and need bailing out?’
He scowled briefly, then his face cleared. ‘Listen, love, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye on everything. Last time I left, I was a bit hasty. I said some things.’
Liz waited silently. If this was an apology, it would be the first one ever.
‘I shouldn’t have said what I said,’ he continued after a while. ‘It was wrong. I was wrong.’
‘Yes?’
He looked around the room, at the pictures on the wall, at the TV in the corner. Anywhere except at her. ‘I didn’t mean those things,’ he said eventually.
Liz reckoned that was the closest her father was ever going to get to the words, I’m sorry. ‘So, what’s up?’ she asked.
He still seemed reluctant to talk, knitting his fingers together like a little boy. ‘I had a spot of bother with my vehicle last night. It ended up getting torched.’
‘Torched? How?’
He stared at the mug of tea in his hands. ‘I set it alight myself.’
‘Why on earth would you do that?’
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time. But with hindsight, not so much.’
Liz had no idea where this tale was headed. Her father’s explanations were often disjointed and rambling, and this one was typical. Then suddenly she remembered. She’d seen the story on the news just before going to bed. ‘Oh my God, that was your vehicle. The triple murder. You did that?’
‘No, no,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Only one of them.’
‘Only one what? Only one murder?’
‘I didn’t mean to. I was just defending myself.’
‘Jesus Christ, Dad, slow down. Start again from the beginning and tell me everything.’
He told her, in fits and starts. She just about believed his story. It was exactly the kind of stupidity she had learned to expect from him. By the end of it, she didn’t know what to do, other than shake her head in bewilderment. A couple of details bothered her, however. ‘You said the man tried to bite you, the Syrian?’
‘Yeah, but I’ve no time for that kind of monkey business. Dirty fighting, that is. Below the belt.’
‘And he’d bitten the other men too?’
‘Bite marks all over them.’
‘Did the Syrian have yellow eyes?’ she asked. ‘Think carefully, it might be important.’
‘Can’t say I noticed,’ he said. ‘But he was in a bit of a state. All sweaty, like. Known to you is he, this geezer?’
‘No, not exactly. Where did you pick the men up?’
‘Just outside Calais. The three of them together, hiding by the roadside. A grand each.’ He drained the last of his tea and set the mug back on the table. ‘So, what I need to know is, what should I do?’
‘You’ve come to ask me that? You have to hand yourself over to the police, obviously. What the hell did you think I was going to say? I’m a goddamn police officer, Dad. And it might be important – part of something bigger.’
‘Okay then,’ he said. He held his arms out toward her, his wrists together. ‘Cuff me.’
‘Goddamn it! Not here. I’m not going to arrest you myself,’ said Liz in exasperation. ‘You don’t get to pin the blame for this on me. This is all your fault, and you can take responsibility yourself, for once. Come with me to the station and hand yourself in at the desk.’
He stood up. ‘All right. Now?’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Liz. ‘I was just about to go when you arrived.’ She still hadn’t touched her mug of tea.
She stood up, and felt the blood drain from her face. She reached out to grab a support, but her fingers clutched at empty space. An uncharacteristic look of concern flickered across her father’s face. ‘I’m okay,’ she heard herself tell him, but her voice seemed to bubble up from the bottom of a deep ocean. Then the room began to spin in a kaleidoscopic swirl, and the floor rushed up to meet her.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Upper Terrace, Richmond upon Thames, West London, Christmas Day
Christmas could be a lonely time for some, and Sarah Margolis had never felt quite so isolated. Melanie had been missing for days now. Sarah had finally plucked up her courage and called the police to report her sister’s disappearance. The police had tried to reassure her, saying that many people went missing at this time of year. In the UK, someone was reported missing every two minutes, they told her, and the majority were found again safely, sooner or later.
It wasn’t the first time Mel had disappeared. Once she’d flown to Rio de Janeiro with some man she’d just met. She hadn’t bothered to tell Sarah where she was. It wasn’t that Melanie didn’t care, just that such practical considerations never even occurred to her. She was impulsive. She lived her entire life on a whim.
She was probably somewhere exotic right now, sipping a Pina Colada on the beach, while some wealthy older man attended to her every need. Either that, or she was lying dead at the bottom of a ditch, her mutilated body waiting to surprise an ea
rly-morning dog-walker.
Whichever it was, Sarah could do nothing about it. Instead, she had Grandpa for company. She always had Grandpa.
He was sitting up in his chair today with a blanket folded across his knees, wearing a party hat out of a Christmas cracker. Sarah wore one too. She had spent some considerable time getting everything nice for the festive season, with a Christmas tree, lights, and even a small turkey, delivered to the house on Christmas Eve. Sarah was a stickler for tradition, and she liked to do Christmas right. In a world that seemed to be falling apart, tradition and ritual was often the only glue that bound things together.
They were watching the Queen’s Christmas Day Speech to the nation on TV.
‘Is that the Queen?’ asked Grandpa. ‘She looks so old. Why is she so old, Barbara?’
‘We’re all getting older, Grandpa. That’s just what happens.’
‘But the Queen, she shouldn’t be as old as that. She never used to be.’
Sarah looked at the familiar, lined face on the television screen. One day, all being well, she would be as old as that herself. Grandpa would be long gone by then. And as for Melanie, who knew? Her sister had a reckless, self-destructive streak that made her court danger. She might be dead already. And even if she turned up again in the New Year, Sarah knew for sure that Melanie would never allow herself to become old and grey. Her sister’s life burned hot and bright, and was never destined to endure.
One day sooner or later, Sarah would have to face the world alone, and she had no idea how she might go about it.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Brookfield Road, Brixton Hill, South London, waxing moon
When Liz woke up the world was yellow. She rubbed the surface of her eyes and a thick mucus clung to her fingers like lemon curd. She wiped the sticky covering away with her thumbs and looked about. She was in her own bed, dressed in some old pyjamas that she didn’t normally wear. The curtains were drawn closed, but daylight leaked in around the edges, stinging her eyes. A thermometer lay on her bedside locker, along with a glass of water and a pile of assorted pills and medicine bottles. She had no recollection of taking any medicine. She hardly remembered anything.
She’d had a strange dream, vivid and haunting. She’d been a giant, or a monster, or some kind of beast, roaming through an enchanted forest. The forest folk were elves, and they had run from her in fear of their lives. She had wanted to eat them, she remembered that. She had been so hungry, and they’d looked so tasty. But they had been too fast, scampering away into the undergrowth. She’d tried to follow them but had become tangled in briar roses, the thorns anchoring themselves in her flesh like a hundred tiny knives, twisting into her skin. The thorns had twisted outward, erupting from her skin as a coat of fur that covered her from head to tail. She had stumbled into a clearing where three little pigs huddled inside a house made of straw. The pigs were afraid of the big bad wolf. They were afraid of her.
She had no idea how long she’d been asleep. She felt no hunger now, but her mouth was parched. She reached out to grasp the glass of water by the bedside, but her arm was swollen and puffy. The two red scratches on her skin throbbed angrily. Her clumsy fingers spilled the water, and the glass shattered when it struck the floor. ‘Damn it,’ she croaked. Her dry tongue scraped against the roof of her mouth like sandpaper.
What had happened to her? Her sickness had started that night on the Common when long fingernails had gouged her flesh. The eyes of the man who had scratched her arm had been filled with yellow, just like hers were now. But he had been a monster, not a man.
‘I am not a monster,’ she said aloud.
The door to the bedroom opened, and her father peered around. When he saw her awake, he pushed the door wide open and came inside. The bright light from the hallway felt like a knife stabbing Liz’s eyes and she raised an arm to block it. ‘Oh, hey, sorry,’ said her father, closing the door behind him. He came over to the bedside, stepping around the broken glass. ‘You’re awake,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Thirsty.’
‘I’ll get you another glass.’ He returned a minute later with some fresh water. ‘Here, drink this.’
Liz pushed herself up just enough to take a sip of the drink. It felt harsh against her dry throat, but she swallowed it down.
‘I’m not surprised you’re thirsty,’ said her father. ‘You’ve been out of it for days.’
‘Days? What do you mean, days?’
‘You were unconscious right through Christmas, love. Do you remember what happened?’
Liz remembered her father arriving on Christmas Eve. She remembered the room swirling around her, the furniture and the floor seeming to turn themselves upside down. Since then, nothing except the dreams. There was something important that she needed to remember though. She couldn’t think what it was. ‘Have I been unconscious all that time?’
‘Pretty much,’ said her father. ‘You woke up a couple of times, but you were delirious. You seemed to think I was a little pig, or an elf.’
‘How long?’ asked Liz. She had no idea what day it was.
‘About five days. You had me worried. Your temperature was like a rocket.’
‘Five days? I’ve been unconscious for five days? Why didn’t you call the doctor?’
‘They don’t work so much over Christmas. Anyway, I was looking after you. He reached for the thermometer by the bedside. ‘Here, stick this under your tongue.’
Liz did as she was told. It was peculiar. She didn’t remember her father ever being this attentive when she’d been a child. Was there a chance he was finally growing up? Then she remembered the important thing. ‘Dad, you shouldn’t be here,’ she accused. ‘You were supposed to hand yourself over to the police.’ The thermometer in her mouth made the words slow and slurred. Dehydration wasn’t helping either.
He left the thermometer where it was. ‘Yeah, but who would have taken care of you then? And who would have looked after the kid?’
‘Mihai! Where is he?’ How could she have forgotten him too? Her brain was like a sieve. Hardly surprising since she’d had nothing to drink for five days. By rights she ought to be dead.
He took the thermometer from under her tongue and examined it. ‘Temperature’s almost normal. And the youngster’s doing fine too. In fact, me and him had a mad Christmas together. Pity you weren’t around to enjoy it.’
Liz narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘What did you do?’
‘Cooked a turkey and all the trimmings. Stuffing, pudding, mince pies, the lot. When I say cooked, I mean I bought it from the all-day deli round the corner. The kid said he’d never eaten nothing like it. They don’t have that kind of thing back in Romania, he says. Poor little blighter, I don’t reckon he’s had much of anything good in his life.’
‘What about work? I should have phoned to tell them I was ill.’
‘Don’t worry about that. It’s sorted.’
‘Sorted? How?’
‘Some geezer phoned to ask why you hadn’t turned up to work on Christmas Eve. Rude bastard, he was. I had to tell him where to get off.’
Liz’s heart sank. ‘What did you say to him?’
‘I told him you was half-dead, and you wouldn’t be back at work for at least a week. Oh, and some bloke called Dean Arnold called too. I told him the same thing.’
‘I need to phone work as soon as possible and explain.’ Liz swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Immediately her head started swimming.
‘Whoa. Hold on. There’s broken glass down there. And you ain’t in no condition to start walking about.’ Her father lowered her carefully back onto the bed and swung her legs under the duvet. Don’t reckon you’ll be going nowhere for a while yet.’
Liz allowed him to manoeuvre her back under the covers. ‘I’ll just take another day off,’ she conceded. ‘Then I’ll have to get back to work. They’re desperate for manpower at the moment.’
After losing PC Dave Morgan, they could hardly afford f
or Liz to be off sick too. But should she really be going back to work in her state? She’d seen for herself the effects of the yellow eye sickness. Perhaps she’d be safer locked in a police cell than out on the beat. And yet she felt fine, apart from the dehydration. She was nothing like that headmaster or the madman on the Common. She was not a monster. And if she started getting weird thoughts, she would simply ask a colleague to cuff her and put her in a cell. That reminded her. ‘And you’ll be coming to the station with me,’ she told her father. ‘Don’t think all this good-guy act has got you off the hook.’
He shrugged. ‘If that’s what you want, love. I said I would. But you really ought to think about the kid.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s a nice kid. Only a scrawny little thing, but tough. Don’t speak much English, but we’ve been getting on all right, me and him. While you was, you know, out of the picture. Getting on like a house on fire, in fact.’
Liz shuddered. A vision of the centre for asylum seekers engulfed in flames burst into her mind, but she ignored it.
‘Yes? And?’
‘I been out to Romania a couple of times, with my driving, to the place he’s from. Had to drop off a load of pallets and pick up some crates of ball bearings.’
‘Ball bearings?’
‘Yeah, they got a factory out there. Turns out ball bearings by the million, it does. Anyway, I seen where he comes from, the kid. Ain’t nothing for a youngster out there. Ain’t nothing for anyone. Except for ball bearings. Plenty of them, I can tell you.’
‘What’s your point, Dad?’ Liz could feel the conversation wearing her down. Her patience would run out soon, and she’d say or do something she’d regret.
Lycanthropic (Book 1): Wolf Blood Page 23
