The Love of the Dead

by Craig Saunders

  She didn’t often get bad feelings. What was there to be scared of, when you came right down to it? She knew there was life after death. Knew without any doubt whatsoever. Once she might have called it a matter of faith, but now it was just a fact, indisputable. You couldn’t dispute it, not when you saw dead people most days you were awake.

  She threw the package and envelope on the small table in the hallway where she kept the phone and the keys. There was a letter in the envelope that she held onto.

  Dear Mrs. Willis,

  I’ve sent you something found at the scene. You know more about these than me, I guess. Let me know if you get something. I’ll be by to pick them up in person.

  D.I. Coleridge.

  Below his signature he’d written down his cell phone number. So she figured he wasn’t supposed to be sending out evidence to strange women.

  She figured a couple more things from that. He was desperate. That was the first. The second was that he didn’t care. He didn’t care if he got the can. The third was that he’d checked her out, because if he was involved in the investigation into a serial killer, he wasn’t an idiot. Whether he cared or not, he wouldn’t just send evidence out on a whim.

  She didn’t know how she felt about that. Just how much he’d found out about her. She was in the phone book. She was on Yell.com, for Christ’s sake. He could find out she was a medium, easy enough, not some crackpot. But just how deep had he dug? She didn’t like it. She’d suddenly gone from being a nobody in a tiny seaside town to being in the middle of a murder case.

  That wasn’t her scene at all.

  OK, so he probably knew something about her.

  What did she know about him?

  Plenty, she figured, and the rest she knew about him had nothing to with messages from the dead, not even his partner who was standing right there in the hallway pointing at his fucking wrist.

  He was a fat man. He was probably depressed. Fat men aren’t usually fat because they’re happy. His partner had killed himself. Coleridge probably wasn’t that bad that’d you’d want to blow your head off to get away from him. So he’d feel bad about his partner.

  Could she trust him? Would he fuck her over?

  The long and short of it was, she didn’t know.

  She put the letter down with the rest of the things. Made herself some lunch and didn’t look at the pack. She ate her lunch, right there at the table, without so much as a glance at the Tarot deck in the clear plastic bag. She tidied up her dishes, washed them, stacked them upside down on the draining board, and the pack didn’t bother her in the slightest.

  “What are you doing, Beth?”

  She knew full well what she was doing. She was in way over her head already and she hadn’t even done anything wrong. She was messing with something she didn’t understand, something that couldn’t be.

  She needed to get out. Now. While she still could.

  But the deck was right there. In the bag.

  The killer had touched the deck. She could feel it.

  Something was pulling her into this. She could feel that lightning again. A kind of holy bolt, cracking down straight from the spirits and into her head. She could almost imagine her hair standing on end, fillings melted into her mouth, her body ten feet away from smoking shoes.

  “Don’t go off half-cocked, Beth.”

  The only trouble with giving herself sound advice was that she never listened to it.

  Dead people can’t kill people. Fact. Dead people could move things around. Maybe a dead person might throw a plate, or appear in the road and make a car swerve and crash. It could happen. It might have happened, somewhere in the world. Mostly the dead came back because they couldn’t let go. Not because they wanted to kill people.

  But then she thought about the one experience she’d had with the angry dead. The only time she’d been afraid of a spirit.

  It had been in church. She’d been a guest speaker. She gave an address, then moved on to readings.

  There was a man in the middle of the group with a dead man at his shoulder. She had gone to him, expecting to deliver him a message. But the man at his shoulder had taken her over. Like a trance, but not exactly. She knew what she was doing, what she was saying, but she was powerless to stop him. She tried to push the spirit out. To deny it. But she hadn’t been strong enough.

  In her own voice, but with the spirit’s words, she told the man in the chair two rows from her that she would kill his daughter, that she would cut her with everything he could find until she bled from a thousand holes and then fuck those holes.

  She had talked that way for over a minute, but the whole cutting and fucking thing had probably been the clincher. People had left as she spoke, powerless to stop. The man she addressed turned pallid and the only thing that stopped her and freed her was when he punched her in the face and broke her nose.

  She thanked him.

  She didn’t have anyone around to punch her in the nose if she got lost when she touched the Tarot deck in the bag. Her son, Miles?

  She laughed. He was good for Xboxing late into the night, but otherwise?

  No. No good. She couldn’t rely on him.

  Peter?

  Her ex wasn’t local, not anymore. Could she call him, get him over? He’d do it. He loved her despite everything she was, all the things she’d done. But she couldn’t ask him to do this.

  No. She’d have to do it herself. The hardest step was always the one you were taking alone.

  Seemed like she was always sitting at her kitchen table these days, and for all the good Miles was, she might as well have been alone. She took the bag in her hands, pulled the plastic open, and exhumed the deck.

  Chapter Ten

  She put the bag down, pushed herself up. There was something she had to do before she started.

  She reached into the cabinet and took out a tumbler. It wasn’t her favourite—that was in the garbage. This would do. Comfort, if nothing else. She placed her tumbler on the tablecloth. Took the bottle of cheap whiskey from under the sink and poured until it hit the top. She watched the liquid settle. Wanted it. Wanted it so bad. But it was nearly time for her appointment and she had work to do. She didn’t work drunk. Drunk was how you finished, not how you started.

  She pushed the tumbler carefully across the table, rucking the cloth. Then she took the deck in her hands, laid it on the table in front of her, took a deep breath and opened it.

  She pulled the pack of Tarot cards from the bag and laid the cards, tidy in their pack, on the table. She held the pack, turned it this way and that in her hands. She didn’t get anything from it. No sense of whose it was. Better that she didn’t know whose pack it was. It was easy to see what her mind already knew, make it into something she believed.

  She took the cards from the pack. The pack had been dusted, but it hadn’t been cleaned since. The owner’s fingers had touched this pack. She knew the owner. Henry Meakings. She’d met him a few times, when she used to speak at church. She’d liked him.

  Now he was dead.

  Killed by some psychopath. It wouldn’t have been an easy death. Being murdered was hard on the soul. He’d be adrift. Violent, sudden death could be confusing for a spirit.

  She understood that people cried for their dead. She knew he had a son. She felt bad for him. Left behind. Left to pick up the pieces.

  She didn’t feel bad herself. She was cold.

  She had to be.

  Pain was hot, hard and sharp. The cold protected her.

  She stopped thinking about Henry and started thinking about the pack. The last hands to touch these cards were the killer’s, not Henry’s. The police had yet to find any fingerprints. They probably thought he wore gloves. Beth suspected he didn’t need to, but she just couldn’t understand it.

  He’d killed three people so far. Three mediums. Like her. Maybe not like her. Just mediums. Speakers for the dead. Beth was somewhat different, but in line, maybe. In danger?

  Maybe.

/>   Scared?

  She didn’t scare easily, not anymore. But a little? Yeah. Probably.

  She fanned the cards out, face up. Looked at the artwork. Rider-Waite Tarot. The same as her deck.

  She dealt out eleven cards, in a neat figure of eight, face down. One for the top, middle, and bottom. Four for the top of the circle, four for the bottom. Eleven cards.

  She picked up her whiskey tumbler and set it down on the middle card. Turned the top. The Hierophant.

  Him. The murderer. Did he fancy himself the Hierophant? She wasn’t sure. It was him, for this reading, but it wasn’t his card. It felt like a joke, but she didn’t really understand why. It was a red herring. A lie.

  Yes, she thought. A lie, but like the best lies, there was a hint of truth in it, too.

  She turned the top half of the figure of eight in quick succession. The Eight, Nine, and Ten of Swords, and the Fool. Dark, oppressive cards, apart from the Fool. But she got a bad feeling about the Fool. The Hierophant was a joke. The Fool in the pack, too? It wasn’t him. It was someone else. She was sure it was a person, not an event.

  She read despair in those cards, a hint of things to come.

  If she’d turned these cards for a client, she would have lied. Softened it. Said the cards weren’t to be taken literally.

  But this reading wasn’t for a client. It was for her, and him.

  She lifted her whiskey. The middle card was the High Priestess.

  Her? She didn’t think it was her card, but maybe he did. Now she knew this was his reading and not hers.

  Then the Hierophant made sense. He saw himself as her counterpoint.

  The next four. Swords. Two and Three. But then, two discordant notes. The Hermit.

  The Hermit didn’t fit. It was someone else. Something else.

  The next card was the Hanged Man. Both the Hermit and the Hanged Man felt out of place. They weren’t for her. They weren’t the killer’s. They shouldn’t be there, but she couldn’t deny it.

  A question for later, maybe. She couldn’t put the last card off, even though she knew it before she turned it.

  The Tower.

  She held the card in front of her, staring. Despair. The end of things. She lowered the card to the table and saw his hand, reaching out for the card. Looked up and saw him. Really saw him. He smiled.

  He saw her, too. He saw her and knew her. Somehow, he saw her perfectly, and suddenly she was scared because she didn’t understand how such a thing could be, just as she knew it was true.

  She swept the cards into a pile. Only when they were safely away did she call the police. It took a while, but she got through to the fat policeman.

  “Coleridge.”

  “He’s got black eyes. Dark skin, pocked, like acne scars.”

  “Go on.”

  No doubt, just taking the facts. She liked that about him.

  “Wavy hair, also black, and thick eyebrows. No other scars, but he...”

  “Something else? Anything. Please. Anything else.”

  Desperate.

  She ran her finger around the rim of the tumbler and licked it clean.

  Had he seen her? Really? Was she in danger?

  “No. Nothing else. I didn’t get anything else.”

  “Well, Mrs. Willis. Ah, thank you. Thanks.”

  He sounded disappointed.

  “If we get another, can I call you?”

  She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was time to get out. She was already worried. Maybe it was time to take her money and run. What the hell was she doing messing with this? This was way too heavy for her. She wanted a drink. She wanted a cigarette. Most of all she wanted some easy money and to be left alone.

  What she said was, “Yes.”

  “Can I come to yours? Get the pack? I shouldn’t leave them with you...”

  “I know. I’m in for the rest of the day. Anytime you like.”

  Just a thoughtless invitation, and Beth let more than the policeman in. But then, as soon as she’d spoken to Coleridge, her warrant had been signed. As soon as she’d seen the killer’s face, he was in already. Like an unwanted rider in the body of a drunk. An unwanted spirit in a medium.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Coleridge,” he said, holding out his hand. It was a meaty hand. It swallowed hers whole, so she couldn’t even see it.

  He was huge. Maybe six foot and some, but fat. Not baby fat. This fat had taken dedication. His neck and face were overly large, but the fat wasn’t all in his face or gut. He had thick shoulders and chest. He looked strong, but like he was about two flights of stairs from a heart attack.

  She pulled her hand back. It was clammy, but she couldn’t wipe it. He was conscious of his fat, conscious he was with a small woman. She didn’t want to offend him. She just wanted to get the damn deck out of the house.

  She was spooked, and she didn’t get spooked. Not easily.

  “You want to come in?”

  “If that’s okay.”

  “Sure. Cup of tea?” she said as she led him down the hall to the kitchen.

  “No. I better not. I just wanted to say thank you. Anything we get is helpful at this stage.”

  “You weren’t supposed to give me that deck, were you?”

  He looked uncomfortable, but to his credit he didn’t waver. Truth, straight up.

  “No. If my boss found out...well, I don’t suppose I’d get fired, but reprimanded, probably. I could do without it, Mrs. Willis, to be honest. But I won’t lie. I’m desperate.”

  “I suppose so,” she said. She held the deck in the plastic bag out before her. She just wanted them out of the house. She could feel eyes on her. She was being paranoid, she knew, but she had to get rid of them. Maybe his spirit could smell them. Find her, through them. He’d marked her. She knew it. This man couldn’t protect her. No one could.

  But she couldn’t tell him that.

  The murderer’s a dead man...

  No. Not that.

  “I wanted to thank you. That’s all.”

  “And get your evidence.”

  He blushed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Beth.”

  “Beth. Anyway, I hope I won’t be in touch again.”

  “You will.”

  “You know something?”

  She laughed. “Not everything’s a message from a spirit, detective. Just common sense. Whatever it is that he’s after, I don’t think he’s going to stop until he gets it.”

  “I don’t suppose you have an idea? Not got anything else?”

  She thought about what she could tell him.

  “It’s not for me to tell you your job, detective.”

  “I wish someone would,” he said with a smile. She returned the smile. He actually had a pretty easy smile, but she got the impression he’d had to dust it off.

  “You never find anything, right?”

  “Well, he’s bound to make a mistake.”

  “On what evidence?”

  He blushed again. “You’re right. That’s the pat answer. Policeman basics. If you can’t break a case, hope and pray they make a mistake.”

  “He won’t. You’ve got to look elsewhere.”

  She could tell him. Right now. Tell him what she knew. It didn’t matter how brave she tried to be, she was scared.

  “Like where?”

  “Look at the mediums. The ones he’s killed. Find out who they knew. Who they’re connected to. Maybe you can protect them.”

  “And catch him that way.”

  He looked like he was going to add that they’d thought of that. Of course he had. He was a policeman. It was his job. Her job was speaking to the dead. Not being some kind of freebee consultant to the police. And whatever this gig was, she was out.

  “Anyway,” he said, and waved the bag. “I’ll leave you in peace.”

  The Xbox came on from the living room.

  “Peace?” she said with a dazzling smile. “Peace is what you pray for. Kids are what you get.”

  “Can I say he
llo?”

  “Better not. He’s testy. Hormones. I don’t know.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She saw him out. Let her breath out.

  The Xbox went off and a plate smashed in the kitchen.

  “Miles, I’m sorry, okay? He’s gone. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  She went into the kitchen and got the dustpan and brush to clear away the shards of broken pottery. Miles sure as hell wasn’t going to do it.

  Chapter Twelve

  That night Beth got so drunk she couldn’t see straight. Miles was a nightmare, a complete little bastard, stomping about, rotten as a teenager.

  So she sat on the back porch, at a worn wooden table. She watched a seagull watching her.

  “You’re a brave one,” she said.

  She toasted it and wished she could borrow a little courage.

  As it was she just had her drink.

  She left the lights on in the house behind her to give her some light to see her cigarette and whiskey. She smoked and drank, but mostly she drank.

  The bottle of whiskey started out halfway down and ended up the best part of empty.

  She made it through a pack of ten cigarettes, but they were crackers and the whiskey was the cheese.

  She giggled as she thought about whiskey being cheese. She could still giggle. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t mental. She just saw dead people. But there was no need to think about that right now. What she needed was to stop thinking about dead people, about murderers, about a tower of Tarot cards, falling down.

  Drink cures all ills.

  And she was ill, she knew. She was ill and drink was the only thing that could cure it. So she drank, and for a while she felt better. She drank some more until she could safely say she was hammered. When she went back into the house she could hardly see where she was going. She bounced off every wall and every piece of furniture on the way to bed. Laid down, the room spinning.

  Thought about throwing up, but if you’re a proper drunk and not just fucking about at it like some kid going to Wetherspoon’s on the weekend, you didn’t throw up. Throwing up was a waste.