The Dead City (Ophelia book 2)

by Amy Cross

  I'm standing at the back of a small crowd, with all the students in the studio having gathered around a laptop to view the leaked images from Laura's case. A few minutes ago someone came hurrying in, excitedly shouting to the others to let them know that an unidentified source has apparently put all the photos – including the image of the little boy trapped in the corpse's chest – on a photo-sharing website. The originals were quickly taken down, but they've already spread faster than a bunch of celebrity nudes.

  “Man, that looks unreal,” says someone nearby. “Maybe they're not real?”

  “They're real,” adds someone else. “You can tell from the flesh tones. Also, the cops have put out a message asking people not to look or share. They wouldn't have done that if the pictures were fakes.”

  “Go to the next one,” a voice urges.

  From the center of the scrum, I hear a click. Seconds later, there's another groan of group shock.

  “What kind of fucking sicko would do something like this?” a female voice asks. “You can, like, see the kid's eyes staring out through the ribs. That is the most horrible image I can even imagine.”

  “Someone should make a film of this,” says a guy nearby. “Like a proper horror movie.”

  “It makes me wanna vomit,” adds a girl, “but at the same time, I can't look away. Does that make me fucked-up?”

  “Hey!” Miles calls out, reaching over and nudging my arm. “You wanna see?”

  “I'm good, thanks,” I reply. I can't tell him that I've already seen the photos, but at the same time I really don't feel like taking another look at them. All in all, I still feel very much like I'm not myself; my mind feels muted, as if the mania of the past few days has faded away. I'm also worried about Laura, because I know full well that the leak of these photos is going to cause her a major headache. She's gonna be popping bottles of whiskey and bars of chocolate into her pockets later, that's for sure.

  “Imagine putting this stuff in the end of year show,” says another voice excitedly.

  “You might actually get a fucking distinction,” adds another student, prompting a lot of laughter.

  Hearing a noise nearby, I turn and watch as a girl hurries into the studio and makes her way past the crowd. We briefly make eye contact, and it looks as if she's been crying recently. She heads to the studio space next to Miles and starts gathering up a few items from her desk, fumbling slightly as if she's in such a hurry that she doesn't have a moment to lose. Finally she hurries back out, glancing at me again before heading out the door.

  “That was Victoria,” Miles says, nudging my shoulder. “Told you she was a bit weird.”

  Ignoring him, I stare at the door. I'm always wary of judging people too quickly, but there was something about that girl that really caught my attention. I think it was the look in her eyes, combined with the fact that she's the only person who didn't seem interested in the leaked photos. And that's when it hits me: a sensation deep in the pit of my stomach as if some hidden part of my mind has come to a realization that it's only now willing to share with the rest of me. It was something in the girl's eyes, something I recognized from my own experiences. Something horribly, sickeningly familiar.

  It's like looking into a mirror. She's me, or rather: she's me from five years ago.

  Part Four

  Laura

  “This is a disaster,” Halveston says as he stares at the screen. “Those pictures are everywhere!”

  “They've already been picked up by all the obvious websites,” Tricia replies, as she checks the latest bad news on her phone, “and they're all over the bulletin boards, forums and torrent sites. We've basically reached saturation level in terms of digital media, and I've heard informally that at least three of the national papers are going to run partially-pixellated versions on their front pages tomorrow -”

  “They can't do that,” I reply, turning to her.

  “Public interest,” she says with a shrug. “The pictures are online anyway, so good luck getting an injunction. It's not a fight that we can win.”

  “I want them down,” Halveston continues. “I want you to find every website that's hosting these leaked images, and get them taken down immediately. I don't care what you have to do, but I want them off the internet!”

  “It doesn't work like that,” Tricia tells him. “They're going viral, they're trending... It's literally impossible to put this genie back in its bottle. With every second that passes, more and more copies are being made. There's a reason this kind of thing is described as viral, sir. The pictures are literally spreading like a virus.”

  “And people want to look at stuff like this?” he asks, clearly horrified.

  “They're not only looking,” Tricia replies. “They're remixing, editing, turning them into memes... The whole internet bag of tricks. At least we've managed to identify the source of the leaks. It was a woman from the SOCO team who attended the crime scenes. She shared them with a few friends, and they went viral from there. She's already been suspended and she'll almost certainly end up getting fired, but in terms of this particular case, it's too late. We just have to accept that the pictures are out there.”

  Sighing, Halveston turns to me.

  “What kind of person does this?” he asks. “Who looks at those pictures and decides they want to share them with other people?”

  “Human nature,” I reply.

  “There are whole websites dedicated to hosting horrific true-life images,” Tricia points out, “but slowly those websites are becoming more mainstream, and in turn the old mainstream sites are having to compete by going down the same avenues. The limits of human tolerance are constantly being pushed back.”

  “This isn't your fault, Laura,” Halveston continues after a moment. “At the same time, the pressure just went up a thousandfold. Everyone in the country is talking about this case now, and we need to get results fast. How confident are you that this art school has got anything to do with the murders?”

  “Confident enough to be going back there in the morning,” I tell him.

  “And is that because you truly believe that the killer is there,” he asks, “or because it's your only lead right now?”

  “There's a link to the school,” I reply, even though I'm not entirely certain. “We just have to work out the nature of that link. Apart from that, forensic analysis of the bodies has shown up nothing so far. Whoever the killer is, he or she was able to work without leaving a trace.”

  “Tomorrow's front pages will be all about the photos,” Tricia adds. “In a way, this leak might have brought us a little breathing space as the news cycle adjusts. The day after, the papers'll be focusing on the latest developments. Two days after that, they'll be starting to ask questions if there's no progress, and that's when they're going to start bringing up the question of whether we're doing our job.” She turns to me, and I know what she's going to say before the words leave her lips. “They'll start bringing up the Daniel Gregory case again, Laura. They'll want to put a public face on the investigation, and it'll be you. No matter how bad the media storm was last time, it's going to be a thousand times worse when it all gets dredged up again.”

  “So that gives us, what, a maximum of three days?” Halveston continues. “If you don't have someone in a cell by then, Laura, I'll have to ease you aside. Not only to help the case, but also to make sure that you don't end up being dragged through the tabloids again. So that begs the question of whether it'd be better to just bite the bullet right now and maybe bring someone else in.” He pauses. “Unless you're certain that you can -”

  “I'm certain,” I tell him.

  “But if -”

  “I'm certain,” I say again, more firmly this time. “I'll have someone. The third year students have their final show on Friday, and I don't think that's a coincidence. I'm still working on the assumption that the murder is somehow designed to be seen as a work of art, and I think it's a taste of what's to come.” Checking my watch, I see that it's alm
ost five in the afternoon, which means that there's not much point going back to the school today. “If you'll both excuse me,” I continue, “I need to speak to Nick before he goes home. We really need to hit the ground running tomorrow.”

  ***

  Two minutes later, leaning over the toilet, I feel my stomach twisting in knots. I swear to God, I'm going to vomit. As I wait, however, the sensation starts to ease. I take a series of deep breaths in an attempt to calm the hell down.

  ***

  Two minutes after that, back in my office, I bring up Ophelia's phone number. It's an insane idea, but I'm actually starting to reconsider her suggestion about sending her into the school undercover to see what she can find out. It'd have to be completely unofficial, of course, but the case is moving too slowly and Ophelia might be just the right kind of grenade to throw into the situation. After all, the killer seems to have been directing us toward the school, probably assuming that we'd investigate methodically. He probably thinks he can predict everything we do, but there's no way anyone could anticipate the involvement of someone like Ophelia.

  Then again...

  Putting my phone away, I decide to wait until I get home to talk to her. There's no point rushing into anything. After all, Ophelia might be able to help, but there's also a chance that she'd make everything worse.

  Ophelia

  “Hey,” I say, standing in the doorway.

  As she slips another bag of wood into the furnace, Victoria Middleton glances at me and I can immediately see that she doesn't like being interrupted. There's a kind of cold, detached look in her eyes, as if the mere fact of being around other people is enough to set her on edge. I understand, because I used to be the same.

  “Ophelia,” I say, making my way across the storage room. “I'm new here, just starting the part-time evening course.”

  She smiles faintly and mumbles something, before turning back to the furnace and adjusting the front panel. It's pretty clear that she doesn't want to talk.

  “Sorry to bug you,” I continue, “but I just enrolled today and I'm taking a look around. I was talking to this Miles guy, but now everyone's just looking at those photos that leaked.” I wait for her to reply, but she seems more interested in getting the fire started. “So this is, like, a storage room?” I ask. “But it's also a place for burning waste, right?”

  “Yeah,” she mutters, not even bothering to look at me.

  “I'm still finding my way around,” I add.

  No reply.

  “So I noticed your place in the studio was empty,” I tell her. “Everyone else is going crazy trying to get their stuff done, but you don't seem to come in much. Are you working somewhere else?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. What kind of thing do you do?”

  She glances at me but doesn't say anything. Grabbing some empty cloth sacks, she starts scrunching them up and stuffing them into her backpack. Whatever she came here to burn, she's obviously finished.

  “I'm into painting,” I continue. “Do you like painting?”

  “Yeah.”

  Almost blushing with embarrassment, she hauls the backpack over her shoulder and heads to the door.

  “So do you want to get a drink in the cafeteria?” I ask. “I'd like to get an idea of how this place works.”

  She mumbles something that I can't make out, and with that she slips out of the room and I'm left listening to the sound of her footsteps hurrying along the corridor. After a few seconds, she starts running.

  “Huh,” I mutter.

  To say that Victoria's painfully shy would be an understatement. She seemed almost agonized by our brief chat, and unwilling or unable to manage anything more than a few one-word replies. The worst part is, she reminds me of someone I haven't seen for many years, someone who was damaged by the world but who finally managed to find a way of existing on the margins, someone who doesn't need help from other people and who can only function on her own terms, according to her own rules.

  It's like looking back in time at how I used to be five years ago.

  ***

  “So that Victoria girl,” I say as Miles and I wander across the lawn, “she seems... quiet.”

  “Victoria Middleton?” he replies. “Why? Have you met her?”

  “Briefly. It was kinda hard to even make out what she was saying. She talks so quietly.”

  “She's a hell of a mumbler,” he continues. “Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against people who are a bit on the quirky side. I mean, this place is full of them. But Victoria Middleton isn't quirky, she's... I don't know, it's almost as if she can't even function. A few of us were talking about her a while back, and we're pretty sure she's got some kind of illness, like a really serious social disorder or maybe even something mental. She's just... freaky. Kinda makes you feel awkward if she's in the room.”

  I force a smile, even though I hate the way he just described her. After all, it's pretty much the same way that people used to talk about me in the old days. I know what it's like to be viewed as a freak.

  “Has she got any friends?” I ask.

  “Never seen her with any,” he replies. “We've invited her to parties a few times, but she never shows. Sometimes she has to come to class 'cause we have these mandatory sessions, but it's totally obvious that she finds it painful to even be there. When she has to actually say something, she blushes, and one time she even started crying. No joke, she's pretty fucking weird. Like, I have no idea how she's ever gonna function in the real world. She's fucked.”

  “What about her work?” I ask. “What kind of stuff does she do?”

  “It's kinda all over the place,” he explains. “Most people have got a particular style by the third year, but Victoria never seems to settle. The other thing is...”

  I wait for him to finish the sentence, but something seems to be holding him back.

  “What's wrong?” I ask eventually.

  “I feel bad saying it,” he replies as we reach the bus-stop and he turns to me. “I mean, I know everyone's got a different opinion, but...” He pauses again. “Her stuff isn't really that good,” he adds finally. “There, I said it. Everything she ever shows in class just seems kinda... amateurish, like it should be a working model rather than a finished piece. You can tell the tutors think the same thing. She just jumps from one medium to the next, and one theme to another, and it's like she gives up as soon as something doesn't work, instead of persisting and refining her technique. And then she seems to get frustrated by the fact that her stuff doesn't look good. I've just never seen anything she's done that looks even halfway decent.”

  “So she's bottom of the class?” I ask.

  “It sounds mean to put it like that,” he continues, “but kind of.” He turns and looks along the road, just as a bus turns the corner in the distance. “This is me,” he says. “Which one are you getting?”

  “A different one,” I reply.

  “So where do you live?” he asks.

  “Oh, here and there.”

  “Here and there?”

  “I couch-surf,” I continue, figuring that I should keep things vague. “Right now I'm staying with a friend. She's cool.”

  “And your name's really Ophelia?”

  “Yup,” I reply with a smile as the bus stops next to us. “Blame my parents. I do.”

  “Sometimes I think you look slightly familiar,” he replies. “Are you sure we haven't -”

  “Impossible,” I tell him. “I'm new to the area.”

  “But -”

  “I swear.”

  He pauses, and although he doesn't seem entirely convinced, finally he smiles.

  “Come by the studio tomorrow,” he says as he gets onto the bus and turns back to me. “And bring some of your stuff. I'd really like to see it. You can never really connect with someone until you've seen their art.”

  As the doors swing shut and the bus pulls away, I can't help wondering if maybe I'm starting to make a new friend. I watch the bus
as it leaves, and as more students spill out of the nearby college and head this way, I suddenly realize that I'm one of them now. Sure, I signed up for the part-time course because I needed to get onto the campus, but that doesn't mean I couldn't actually stick around and actually be a student here. For the first time in years, I could actually do something normal. Then again, he thought he recognized me, which is strange since I know for a fact that I've never met him before.

  Unless...

  Before I can finish that thought, the other students reach the bus stop and crowd around me, still talking excitedly about the leaked photos they've all got on their phones, and I suddenly remember that I don't actually like other people very much. Feeling very uncomfortable and out of place, I decide to forget the bus and walk back to Laura's, even though a light rain has begun to fall.

  ***

  Standing alone in the bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

  I squint a little.

  I wait.

  Silence.

  “No,” I whisper eventually, still staring at myself. “Impossible.”

  ***

  “Ophelia,” Laura says as we sit at the dining table, “I need to ask you to do something for me, but I need you to hear me out before you reply. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I tell her, “but then I've got something to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “I...” Pausing, I realize that she's probably going to be annoyed. “You first.”

  She takes a deep breath.

  “Do you remember when you suggested that you could go undercover at the art college and maybe dig around a little?”

  I stare at her as I realize that she's changed her mind. Having been prepared to admit what I was doing today, and having expected her to be pissed off, I suddenly feel as if I'm in a position of power. This should be fun.