Lets Drink To The Dead

by Simon Bestwick

  MORE STORIES OF THE FACELESS

  LET’S DRINK

  TO THE DEAD

  SIMON BESTWICK

  SOLARIS

  First published 2012 by Solaris

  an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

  Riverside House, Osney Mead,

  Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  www.solarisbooks.com

  ISBN (EPUB): 978-1-84997-470-7

  ISBN (MOBI): 978-1-84997-471-4

  Copyright © 2012 Simon Bestwick

  Cover Art and Design by Sam Howle

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  ALSO BY SIMON BESTWICK

  Tomes of The Dead: Tide of Souls

  Pictures of the Dark

  Angels of the Silences

  A Hazy Shade of Winter

  The Faceless

  To Jon Oliver

  A good man is hard to find.

  THE SIGHT

  1985. MAGGIE’S IN Downing Street, God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.

  And Walsh is in the kitchen, in the back of 35 Shackleton Street, in the Lancashire town of Kempforth, filling the kettle and putting it on the hob. He strikes a match and lights the gas, blows the match out, douses it under the cold tap and flicks it in the kitchen bin. Walsh is not a man who takes chances.

  The house is silent. He almost feels alone. Vera’s upstairs, but she doesn’t count anymore. He’ll need to find a way of getting shut of her. Should’ve done that first, before her brother, but–

  That thought ends for him half-completed as the first bolt of pain tears through his chest and flies down his arm. He has a moment to try and convince himself it isn’t what he knows it is, and then the pain hits again and he fights for breath. He yanks a kitchen drawer out with a crash, pulls one of the chairs over with him as he falls to the lino, and puts his strength into a shout.

  Feet thunder on the staircase. Vera stands in the kitchen doorway: nineteen years old, in a Smiths T-shirt and a denim skirt. Little tart, he has time to think before the bolt hits again.

  “Phone!” he chokes out. Vera half-turns towards the living-room, then turns back to him. “Ambulance.”

  At first he thinks she hasn’t understood him. But then when she pulls up one of the surviving chairs and swivels it so it’s got its back to him, then sits astride it, Christine Keeler-style – little tart – and props her chin on her arms to watch him as intently as a child watching the progress of a caterpillar, Walsh realises she understands alright. She understands just fine.

  THE CELLAR IS damp and cold. There’s a stone or concrete floor, Alan thinks, but he can’t be sure as it’s filmed over with scattered earth. Something digs painfully into his knee; he can’t move.

  Over to his right, Mark, the littlest, is crying, or at least as best he can through the ball gag in his mouth. Behind them are Johnny and Sam. Alan is the eldest of the three at fourteen, head and shoulders over the other kids; they’re all between eight and ten.

  He knows them all; he’s known them for years. Years of being brought to houses like these for the pleasure of men who lust after children. There’ve been other children, of course; there’ve been other friendships, other alliances, mute compacts of solidarity in places like this when all you can do is alternately feel for the other’s suffering and give thanks it isn’t you. He knows them all and, god help him, he’s an elder among them.

  But they’ve never been to this place before. It’s never been quite like this.

  Alan’s hands are tied behind his back. His crossed ankles are tied together too, and he’s gagged – like Mark, like all the others. They were made to strip – Daddy Adrian was there, and so were Mr Fitton, and Yolly. Mr Fitton had a knife, but Daddy Adrian just had his smile and that cold tone of voice he used, the one that said do it or I’ll hurt you, whatever the actual words were. And so they’d stripped and let Mr Fitton tie them up. Mr Fitton had cooed and patted Alan’s shoulders, fondled them, kneaded them like dough. Which was a bit funny, because Alan sometimes thought Mr Fitton was like a bowl of dough. A big, big bowl of hot greasy dough that fell on top of you from behind and crushed your face into the mattress so that you couldn’t breathe even if you could have got any air into the lungs he’d flattened. A great mound of greasy dough, but with a big metal spike hidden in there that gouged and ripped and tore.

  And the cellar is cold and dark but above all the cellar is silent. The only noise is Mark crying – that and a scurrying, scuttling sound from one corner – a rat, most like. There’s no other noise. Sam will be keeping quiet, toughing it out as best he can, trying to find an angle, a way to play it, refusing to admit what they all, deep-down, know: that the angles are all played out and there’s no escape this time. And Johnny, Johnny will be rocking back and forth, trying as always to imagine himself in the world of one of his beloved books, to convince himself this isn’t happening. Until someone – Fitton or Daddy Adrian, Father Joe or the Policeman – comes along to convince him that it is. But that won’t happen again. Something worse than any of them is coming now.

  “Shut up,” says Mr Fitton. Alan flinches, the shoulders Mr Fitton kneaded only minutes ago twitching, but it’s not him Mr Fitton means. It’s Mark.

  Mark’s sobs choke and stumble, but don’t stop. Mr Fitton’s heavy clomping footsteps sound. His breath’s hoarse and wheezy. Alan flinches again at the hard meaty smack of flesh on flesh. A short, squealing cry from Mark. “I said shut up!”

  Mark’s sobs hitch and stutter. He wants to stop, he’s trying to, but he can’t, he’s so scared. Why can’t Mr Fitton see that? Or perhaps he can’t do the things he does if he lets himself see that. The thought surprises Alan. “I thought I told you to shut up,” says Mr Fitton in a high, rising voice that sounds like gears grinding, and raises his hand to strike again.

  “Mr Fitton, take it easy,” Yolly says. “You don’t want to mark him.”

  “Don’t tell me what I want to do,” says Mr Fitton. Alan can see his fat, sweaty face from the corner of his eyes. The quick dark eyes flick up and stare into Alan’s. “What are you looking at?” Mr Fitton spits out, and Alan looks away. Mr Fitton always used to like him, even when he hurt Alan. Said nice things. That he loved Alan, would take him away one of these days. But none of that matters now, does it?

  “Shrike dun’t like ’em marked, Mr Fitton,” Yolly says, then claps a hand to his mouth and falls silent, shaking.

  Mr Fitton goes still, sweating, swallows hard, and finally his hand drops. “No,” he says. “No, he doesn’t.” He looks back down at Mark. “But you, you little shit, you stop your snivelling.”

  Mark whimpers. Mr Fitton breathes through his nose.

  “Easy, Mr Fitton.” Yolly comes forward. He’s not that much older than Alan, about Alan’s sister’s age. As far as the likes of Mr Fitton and Daddy Adrian are concerned, he might as well be ancient, though. They used to do the same things to him they do to Alan and the other boys here. Now he’s too old for that, but Mr Fitton lets him help in the butcher’s shop. And now he does to others the things that used to be done to him. Yolly kneels beside Mark. Greasy mop of blonde hair, face spattered with acne. He strokes the boy’s hair and back, like he’s gentling an animal. “
Easy. Easy. Hush now.” His hand trails down to stroke Mark’s bum.

  Mr Fitton slaps him across the back of the head. “Stop trying to finger him, you dirty little shit. Leave him. Leave ’em all.” His eyes linger on Alan for a regretful moment, then dart away. “They’re the Shrike’s now.”

  VERA SITS THERE, watching him.

  Several minutes have passed. A slow yellow river of piss flows away from the sodden crotch of Walsh’s fouled corduroys, and she can smell the reek of shit. His head is turned sideways towards her, face pressed against the kitchen floor. His mouth has sagged open – the skin slack and dragged, like his face is a thick liquid that’s been smeared – and his eyes are shut. Aren’t dead people’s eyes supposed to be open?

  She’s been listening hard, but she can’t hear him breathe. She’s almost sure he’s dead, but what if he’s not? What if she goes to check for a pulse and he grabs her – only playing, you little bitch – or if she calls the ambulance and it turns out he’s alive? She’ll be there waiting for his revenge – helpless, no chance of escape.

  So bite the bullet, Vera. Piss or get off the pot.

  She clambers off the chair and she goes over to him and feels his throat for a pulse. There’s nothing.

  Dead. Dead. The bastard’s dead.

  She feels a tight grin chase its tail across her face, and the urge to jump and scream with joy. And then the fear. What now, now the bastard’s dead? She takes deep breaths. There’s still stuff to do.

  The kettle’s whistling, a high shrilling note like nails on glass. She gets up, steps over Walsh and the piss – a brief tremor of fright runs through her, like an electric shock rippling up through the soles of her feet, but he stays dead and doesn’t try to grab her – and makes for the stove. At the last second she remembers it’ll be hot and wraps a cloth round her hand before moving the kettle off the hob.

  She turns off the gas and looks at the kitchen window. The blinds are down. Always are. Not having the whole bastard street know our business, Walsh used to say. With good reason. Vera goes into the living room and draws the curtains.

  Now, think fast.

  Vera goes upstairs quickly. How long has she got? How long can she leave it before ringing the ambulance and getting away with it?

  Tell them you were listening to music. Curled up sleeping. Women’s troubles. They’ll believe that.

  She undresses in the bedroom, folds her clothes away. They’re her good ones, ones she’d wear out tonight. In the bottom drawer are old clothes: cast-offs, stuff that’s only one wash away from the bin. Would be there already if Walsh wasn’t such a cheapskate bastard.

  Vera takes a deep breath, pads across the landing, pushes open the door of Walsh’s room. God, the smell of the place; stale, musty. Walsh has – had – her cleaning and skivvying for him week-in-week-out, the whole house – her room, her brother’s, scrubbing the loo bowl with an old toothbrush – but not his room. Oh no, no-one gets to see in there. And he doesn’t bother to clean. Hence the rank smell. Even so, she knows. Knows where he keeps his stuff, all his filth. It’s in the loft, in the coal cellar out back, and it’s under his bed.

  On the dressing table gleams a photo of him and Mum. Even in the picture Mum looks lost and half-dead. Long before the overdose that finished her. What were you thinking, Mum? By that stage, of course, Mum wasn’t thinking much at all. The picture is filmed with dust. Walsh’s attempt to gild the lily, to show what a good, upstanding family man he is. Was. Yeah. Right.

  Vera stretches out on the floor, squints under the bed, brushes balls of fluff aside. Dust catches at the back of the throat. A plastic carrier bag, so full it catches on the bed’s underside and she struggles to draw it out. God, don’t let it rip. She carries it through to her room, though she feels fouled by having it there. She doesn’t look at the contents; she knows what they are. Pictures of men with children. Little boys and little girls. But mostly boys; they’re what Walsh liked best. She’s in some of them. But her brother’s in more.

  Hide it. She pushes the bag into the wardrobe, just for now.

  Now for the rest. She needs to get it; she needs to get it all.

  She needs to get her brother out of this, free and clear, with none of the shit sticking to him. Otherwise it’s the care homes, and she knows about those. Walsh used to boast about his mates in them. You think you’ve got it rough here, you little tart? Or that precious lickle baby brother of yours? Oh, they’d have fun with him in places like that. Ever seen those fish on the telly? Piranhas? He’d be like a piece of meat thrown in a tank of them. They’d tear him to bits. Specially if anyone found out, if you told anyone. They’d take him into care. And I’d make bloody sure some of my mates got to hear about him. Give him some special treatment. So keep... your mouth... shut.

  Walsh might be dead now, but she was still buggered if she was letting her brother go into a place like that. So no bastard was going to know. Not while she had breath.

  AND IT’S COLD in the basement now, so cold Alan can see his breath, and not just because the door’s opened and let the October wind come whistling through. It’s cold in the basement, colder than any October ought to be as the door clicks shut behind the Shrike. He’s brought this cold with him.

  He comes forward, keeps to the shadows. Only a dim twilit murk pervades the gloom; that and the circles of overlapping light from the lanterns Yolly and Mr Fitton have put down to show off the merchandise to its best advantage. His polished black leather shoes tap and click on the floor; they gleam in the dark. So do the Shrike’s jam-jar specs and the smooth dome of his head.

  That’s all Alan sees of the Shrike’s face, and all he wants to see. Nobody sees the Shrike’s face, not full-on, and lives to tell of it. They’ve all heard of the Shrike, the little boys and girls in Daddy Adrian’s special play-group. They’ve all heard of the Shrike. He’s like Daddy Adrian or Mr Fitton, or Father Joseph or the Policeman; he likes doing things to children, to little boys and girls. Except that the things he does are different. Worse. He can only do them to you once, and all that’s left are bones. Now and again, he’ll come along, and he’ll place an order with Daddy Adrian, like he was ordering from a take-away. Because that’s what this is to him; a place for feeding.

  Alan doesn’t look at the Shrike’s face, doesn’t want to see. All he can hear is the clicking and tapping as the Shrike walks around the four naked boys, pausing when he gets to Alan. The tips of two black polished leather shoes are just inches away from him, in the thin light before him on the floor.

  Alan shakes. He thinks he’s going to pee himself, right there in front of everybody. There’ll be no hiding it. It shouldn’t matter now, not now he’s going to die, but somehow it does.

  “What,” a voice demands, “is this?” The voice is thin and cold; it isn’t Yolly’s or Mr Fitton’s. Yolly’s voice is bendy wood and Mr Fitton’s broken stone. This voice is cold steel; a honed, sharp blade that’ll have your head off in a blinking.

  “I... I don’t... how do you mean, sir?” Mr Fitton asks. He sounds scared. Now he knows what it’s like.

  “This.” A shadow plays across the black shoes; a hand, pointing. “This thing.”

  “It’s... well, it’s a boy, sir.”

  “Are you making fun of me, Mr Fitton?”

  “No! No, sir.”

  “Then I ask again: what is this thing?” When Mr Fitton doesn’t answer, the Shrike speaks again. “This is not a boy. Puberty has set in. Too tough, too stringy; no good to me. You know this. Walsh knows it. Why does he offer me this?”

  “I think... I think he wanted rid of it, sir.”

  “Two birds, one stone. I see. And to conserve some of the fresher young meat for himself. Well, I think not. I think not. Tell Walsh I am not pleased with this.”

  Click, tap, click. The shoes move away from him. Alan fights to keep his bladder under control. “Hm,” he hears the Shrike say. Grudging approval. “These others, however. They are plump and tender.” Tap, click, tap.
There’s a brief, whimpering gasp from Mark, muffled by the gag. “And tight,” the Shrike murmurs.

  Mark whimpers again. Alan’s eyes catch the glint of a bald head, then the flash of spectacle lenses as the Shrike looks up. “Do not look at me,” the Shrike says. Alan has already looked away. A cuff stings the back of his head. “That’s right,” Mr Fitton says, “keep your eyes front, you little shit.” But Alan can hear the fright in his voice. He’s scared of the Shrike as well.

  “Hm,” says the Shrike. “Very well. I’ll take these three. You know where to bring them. The old farmhouse off Dunwich Lane. Eight o’clock tonight.” He moves away from the circle of light; Alan catches the flash of his spectacle lenses once again. “That one is yours. Tell Walsh to dispose of his own rubbish and not to palm it off on me.”

  “OK,” says Mr Fitton. Then, a moment later: “What about the money?”

  “Cash on delivery, Mr Fitton. Cash on delivery.” Click, tap, click, fading as the Shrike walks away. “Eight o’clock, Mr Fitton. Sharp.”

  The door clicks shut. Alan sees his white breath fade to nothing in the air. Still cold, but not as cold.

  “So what now?” Yolly asks. Meaning him, Alan knows.

  THE COAL CELLAR was the worst. Not because of having to root through the black, gritty coal, or even because of the dark. The dark was the least of Vera’s worries. The worry was being seen, because you couldn’t get out into the backyard without going through the kitchen, and if she was seen – well, why didn’t you see your stepdad’s body, girl, and why didn’t you call 999? But she had to get all the stuff together. And now she has.