I had eaten an apple for dinner and no more than that but I knew that it had been a mistake. I yanked myself off my bed and retched. I didn’t make it to the bathroom before my back arched and I heaved the contents of my stomach. I sobbed as yellow bile spilt over my chin. The one piece of food I had managed to keep down in twenty-four hours was now on the floor.
Every day I had to blink back memories of Melanie. The good ones, the happy ones of Mel’s smile. Her happy dance as received her English lit degree diploma. How she talked about work and books. All those bright rays of goodness had been dragged through the dirt. All I could think of was the image of my sister’s dead body curled in on itself.
“I can’t…” I looked at the ceiling again as tears beaded in my eyes. “Melanie, why the fuck did you have to go back to him?” I whispered.
I got up, my mouth tasted of vomit and my head pounded.
Robert Parr’s face mocked me behind my closed eyelids and my stomach emptied again. I made it to the bathroom sink this time. Like a woman possessed, I worked my way through the empty house.
No one lived with me in my three-bedroom house in Fulham. It had been courtesy of my father’s death from lung cancer ten years ago. My mother had jumped from husband to husband since and had left me and Melanie alone. Fulham was one of the nicer areas of London, but even without rent or a mortgage, I was barely paying the rates.
How can someone hate their mother? I wondered. I told my mother how much I hated her after Mel died. Her response to grief had been a Caribbean cruise.
All I could think about was the pain my sister went through. The memories and the blame that the trial dredged up like sediment at the bottom of a dirty lake.
I wanted her back—I wanted to be fine again.
I stormed into the kitchen and pulled open the freezer. My trembling fingers clasped a bottle of Russia’s finest Vodka. I downed the burning liquid until my eyes watered. I slumped against the cold door of the fridge freezer. I thought of the vodka as bleach and used it to purge my brain. I tipped the vodka back until my vision seemed to tilt.
I reached over to the cutlery draw and pulled the sleeve of my t-shirt to my elbow. I grabbed a pair of scissors and tumbled to the floor. I had slipped as I tried to grab the work surface to correct my balance.
I brought the scissors down to my skin, deliberately. The blood emerged in tiny bubbles as it dripped from in between my elbow and wrist. I gritted my teeth and turned my attention to my bare legs. I gouged the skin until the cuts became two masses, a bloody and fleshy mess on both of my thighs.
“I miss you, Mel.” I breathed. “I miss you so much.”
The two wounds on my legs, as they filled with dirty blood, reminded me of dead Melanie’s eyes.
I woke up with a pounding headache. I swore because the brand new white sheets were stiff with dried blood and attached to the wounds on my naked thighs. I ripped them off like an old plaster and winced. I pushed the sheets to the floor and stretched. The sunlight leaked through the crack of the thick red curtains.
My living room was empty, save for a futon surrounded by discarded vodka bottles.
I walked to the bathroom and proceeded to wash the dried blood off my wrist. I surveyed the damage as the cold gushing water turned red in the sink.
The cuts were profound, crisscrossed over scars and fierce red lines.
“You’re doing this for Melanie.” I pleaded to myself as I turned my arm over to survey my self-harm scars. “You’re going to make them pay. So, you don’t need to do this anymore.”
I peered into the mirror above the sink, my violet eyes were red, puffy and swollen from fatigue.
My square shaped face was framed by locks of wild mouse brown hair. It stuck up in tufts on the side I usually slept on. I ran my fingers through my hair and found a dreadlock forming at the nape of my neck. I tried to think when I had last washed my hair. I couldn’t remember.
“Look at you—you’re pathetic,” I told myself.
I pulled on a long sleeve black t-shirt and jeans and dragged a brush through my hair, I opened the front door with one hand and
I picked up my bag from the hook by the door.
I kept my head down as I walked out of the house and started on my way to work. My nearest tube station was Parsons Green, then Piccadilly to District until I reached Piccadilly Circus Station. My place of employment was Bar Noir just outside of Soho.
I looked at the grey sky. It was Autumn but still too early for any of the trees to turn. I surveyed the sky again and wondered if I should take my umbrella.
I turned and felt a shiver up my spine as if someone was watching me.
My head jerked as I looked in all directions. I clenched my fists, angry at myself for being so paranoid. There was no one around. I knew what I felt, I didn’t imagine it. I was being watched. I shivered and started to walk on the path, I expected someone to accost me from behind, grab me.
No one came, no one showed themselves.
A single drop of rain landed on my cheek. I held my head down and pulled up my hood as I walked. I decided to ignore the feeling.
“How did your appointment go yesterday?” Chris Archer asked.
I stood behind the faux wooden bar as I wiped it down with a yellow duster and polish. I stared at Chris, took in his wide-set brown eyes and trademark scruffy blonde hair.
I felt like a thousand ants were crawling beneath the surface of my skin. Nerves.
Did Chris, whom I had known over fifteen years, know what I was doing?
I shook my head and decided, no.
To meet Henry, I had to go through several different contacts before finally reaching my personal angel. I still couldn’t stop the feeling that my best friend knew that I was going to be a murderer.
Chris’s easy smile set me at ease.
“Um.” I pondered. “It went alright.”
“You took the day off work to go to the doctors?” Chris chuckled.
“Uh huh.” I nodded and avoided eye contact. “Thrush.”
Chris’s face screwed up in distaste. “Lovely.”
At least he had stopped asking questions.
Chris sat and watched me clean for a few seconds before turning his attention to the mirror behind the bar. He began to mess with the parting of his dirty blonde hair.
Chris Archer’s father owned Bar Noir along with a few other pubs and clubs. He was notorious in the area for buying run down establishments and turning a profit.
It was well known that many of Arnold Archer’s clubs dabbled in the distribution of certain narcotics. The fact that my sister had died from a vast amount of heroin in her system meant it was hard for me to hang out in places where the same drugs were being peddled. If anyone was caught with brown or blow in the bathrooms of Bar Noir, they were unceremoniously kicked out. Chris supported me and even helped me get the job at Bar Noir, the cleanest establishment on Mr Archer Sr’s business portfolio.
“You want to go outside and have a fag?” Chris asked cautiously.
I shrugged and opened the back door to let him through. I clutched my sleeved arms and shivered. I stuck my head out to the alleyway behind the bar to check if it was raining.
I stepped onto the ledge and kept the door open and a wary eye on the closed bar.
I noticed after a minute that Chris hadn’t lit up a cigarette. I took out one from my back pocket and held it in place with my dry lips.
“I’m not going to give you a fag,” I said.
Chris pouted and looked up with wide innocent eyes. “Please. I’ll give you one back.” He begged.
“No—no you won’t, you never do.”
“Sheesh, Fia, you used to be generous.”
“Actually, I didn’t,” I replied as I lit my cigarette.
Chris kissed his teeth and smirked. “Yeah, I forgot, Mel was sweetness and light and you were the rebel without a cause.” Chris allowed. “A rebel who won’t even spare a cigarette for someone who has been their friend for ten yea
rs,” he winked.
I took a ragged breath. “I’ll give you twos?” I said as I took a gulp of monoxide infused smoke, “half a fag?”
“Stingy.”
“You want it or not?” I huffed.
Chris nodded.
I couldn’t remember who I was meant to be anymore. Smoking too many fags—and putting my life on hold for no good reason.
“I went to the cinema at the weekend,” Chris informed me.
“See anything worthwhile?” I asked feebly.
“It was no Akira Kurosawa film,” Chris shrugged, “but it was okay.”
I used to like films—before all of this became tedious. My phone started ringing in my back pocket, high and shrill. Chris looked down in wonder with his mouth gaping.
“Fia Taylor has friends?” He breathed incredulously.
I scowled, “shut up Chris.”
I reached into my jeans and took out my phone as I checked the call display.
Blocked. Damn PPI callers.
“Hello?” I asked.
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“If you ask me if I have been in an accident I swear to God I will find you and ran my phone down your throat.” I snarled.
“Hello, Ms. Taylor?”
I sucked in a breath, the voice that replied was pure honey wrapped in perfect silk. It made me feel warm from my toes to my chest. It was him.
“Hello.” I didn’t say his name. Henry Blaire, mystery extraordinaire, “how can I help you?”
Chris stifled a laugh in the background and I turned away for the illusion of privacy.
“We need to further discuss your case. I would appreciate it if you could meet me this evening. You know where.”
“O-of course,” I stammered.
He hung up immediately. I looked out into the coming darkness of the night and shivered. I raised the cigarette to my mouth and inhaled.
“Sophia, are you okay?” Chris wondered.
I could tell when he looked at my face, he was wondering if I was paler than before or thinner. I just nodded and the corners of my mouth pulled up into a tiny smile.
“I’m fine,” I assured him but as always my voice sounded dead, missing the spark from within. I raised my head as if waking from a dream and looked back into the dimly light bar.
“Sorry Chris, I have to go, its opening time.” I tried to smile. “Have the stupid cigarette.”
“Arigato.” He grinned.
I shoved it into his warm clammy fingers and hopped up the small ledge and back into the bar area. I left the door on the latch behind me. I saw Chris hunched over as he blew cigarette smoke into the night air.
I often wondered if the only reason Chris spent so much time at Bar Noir was that he was worried about me. Although he was on the payroll.
I walked out behind the bar and descended the stairs to change the barrel in the cellar, it was one of the things that were on the opening list that Gina my manager made me fill out before the beginning of every shift.
I thought desperately of Henry: he could still say no, I reminded myself as if I was both counting on that and ready to kill them myself if he did. Suddenly I felt sick to my stomach.
Would it be macabre and sick to ask him how he would kill them?
No, I didn’t want to know. I looked up at the burnt-out bulb of the cellar and down the wooden stairs into darkness.
I scrunched my eyes shut. Darkness was peace, death was easy but I feared death. When I closed my eyes, and thought of tombstones or even the notion that I would die one day, air emptied from my lungs and I would not be able to pull it back in. My lungs would gasp and gasp, trying to rake back the oxygen but all I could do was close my eyes and shake: lose control until everything stopped. When a person gave themselves to that feeling it was when they truly were born again.
Melanie died. I wanted to be with her, I wanted to go to the light. But I wouldn’t, I would be going to hell. I would settle for making sure Robert Parr and Jon Maylett never saw that light, that they got the things I was so scared of. Hell, Death. Just and complete.
I felt something in the darkness and my eyes snapped open. There was the prickly feeling on the back of my neck again, like eyes staring at me through the darkness. The only light came from the tiny dusty window in the corner as it streaked artificial light into the dark room.
“Is anyone there?” I called into the dark cellar
There was no response. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I flicked on the light switch to the empty room and walked over to the barrel.
I put the thought of my mystery ‘stalker notion’ out of my head as I grabbed the heavy barrel. I thought about how to sound confident around a man that killed people.
No time was wasted after I finished work, somehow I managed to bribe my boss Gina with an extra hour in the future if she let me go home early—something that had never happened before. Even so, it was two in the morning.
I did not stop at home but headed straight to Shepherds Bush via the tube. I looked at various people heading home from a night out to foreigners chattering away in strange tongues.
I wished the time of my journey away so I could arrive at Henry’s place of business rather than my own home. I was going directly to the man and decision that he had hopefully come to. The tension turned the butterflies in my stomach into crows with sharp talons.
Though the three-day limit was only a third in, he could still say no. I thought.
I checked my phone and realised that I was ten minutes early.
I stood in front of the pale blue terrace house and willed myself to walk up the concrete steps. At the front door, I knocked once. There was silence on the other end as I stared at the rippled glass for a measurable amount of time. It popped open after a few seconds and my lungs expelled the breath I was holding in relief.
When Henry put his head around the door, I shuddered in the cold but tried to keep my unease to a minimum. If this was anything like the first meeting, then he would be watching me like a hawk. I didn’t want him to think that I was going to back out and leave him high and dry.
His mahogany hair fell over his eyes, his skin had a pallor but he looked younger and brighter than I had seen him last. Today he looked closer to my age than the early thirties that I had placed him at after our first meeting. His expression held no information. No expression on his features that would give away anything. He was perfect, unreal, like something you would see on a film poster or in a catalogue for designer menswear.
His mouth knotted into a straight line and his eyes held no emotion that I could decipher. He looked to be feeling something deeper than my emotional range.
Henry Blaire’s eyes were glassy with a perfect sheen. The deepest blue.
If I met him on the street what he did for a living would have surprised me. He was dressed in an expensive button-down crisp white shirt and straight cut stone-washed denim jeans. I shook my head to myself but my heart was racing.
Now all I could think of was, ‘this man kills people, he kills them, and he is good at it!’ No matter how he looked—I couldn’t get the image of blood running down a grimacing face as someone breathed their last breath.
I just kept telling myself that I wanted this.
His angelic face shifted from a scowl into a grimacing, forced smile. Henry gestured for me to come in with an awkward flourish. I conceded and strode down the hall.
I noticed that his hair was wet as if he had just had a shower.
I followed him into the living room. It looked like it hadn’t been dusted in years but I hadn’t noticed that the first time. I had been too nervous.
I promised myself that when he said no, I wouldn’t cry. I would hold my head up and be strong. I wouldn’t breakdown. I’d wait until I got home and take a blade to my skin. The physical pain would never be a complete comparison to what I felt inside but it tried. It sought to replace one for the other.
I was sick of always reminding myself to
think of other things. My thoughts took on a life of their own. Hungry with lust for the deaths of the monsters that killed my sister.
I stood in front of the armchair and looked at Henry Blaire, his expression was worn.
My eyes drifted down his collarbone and rested on the golden crucifix around his neck. He had perfect skin, it peeked through the undone top button of his crisp shirt.
Even murderers believe in God.
“I apologise, Ms. Taylor,” he sighed, “yesterday when you came to me and told me how your sister passed, I did indeed believe that your motives weren’t pure and that you couldn’t know your sister wouldn’t have taken drugs that killed her.”
My eyes narrowed into slits. Henry looked me straight in the eye and played along—giving me, the client; the power of this exchange.
“But,” he continued with ease. He looked away and ignored my expression. “I have done some research on my own part. I just wanted to apologise for the assumptions that I originally came to.” He sounded sincere.
“You called me to say sorry for an assumption you never said to my face?” I said incredulously, “you didn’t need to do that.”
“All the same,” His voice was gruff. “I wanted to.”
He looked like a sculpture in the middle of the room, still. His alabaster skin looked unnatural, alien. Henry cocked his head to one side and observed me for a moment.
“What information did you come across to state my sister's innocence?” I whispered.
“Medical records—Melanie was pregnant, wasn’t she?”
I buried my head in my hands and a strange noise emerged from my throat. The sound I made came out halfway between a strangled sob and a muted scream.
“I’m sorry.” Henry sighed.
I lifted my head and opened my mouth to speak. I willed myself to make a sound but was unsuccessful. I gritted my teeth for a second and stared blankly at the man in front of me.
“How did you get that information?” I rasped, it wasn’t in the files I had provided.
He tapped the side of his nose. Secret.
“I have decided to take your case.” Henry smiled sadly. “That is why you are here today.” He leant back in the armchair and stared at the ceiling as he spoke.
Daemons of London Boxset (Books 1-3) The Bleeders, The Human Herders, The Purebloods Page 3
