Squinting into the darkness, I strain to see what’s made the noise. There’s a flare of light. Lying on the floor is a man. It goes black again, but this time the darkness isn’t complete — I can just make out the shape of a body lying curled up on the floor. There’s a flare of light again and this time I pay attention to the face. There’s blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. His eyes are sparkling and blue but the flesh surrounding them is swollen and purple. The light dies again.
I turn to Detective Mitchell with a question on my lips but he points me back to the room.
“Watch more than his face.”
Waiting for another flare of the flames, I’m not sure I really want to look at the rest of the body. I’m scared it’s going to be a mirror of his beaten face. I’m not sure how much time has passed; it feels like I’ve been waiting forever for another flare. I start wondering if I’ve been looking around too much and missed it.
Then the room flares brighter than before and I finally realise what the detective was trying to tell me.
The flames are coming from the man’s palms.
Jumping back from the window, I gasp and watch as the room finally fades into darkness.
“What was that?” I turn and ask the detective.
“You’ll find out at a later date. Walk.”
I turn and stare back into the room but before I can get closer to the window, the gun is shoved back and I’m marched forward. I want to ask more questions, but the image of the bloodied face flashes through my mind and I bite my tongue.
We finally reach some stairs and I feel a stirring of excitement in my stomach at the thought of finally getting out of here and finding out where I am. I walk up the stairs behind the detective with a hand against the cool, stone wall to keep my balance. Without being able to see what’s coming up ahead, I know a door to the outside world has been opened, the breeze rushing down the stairs bringing with it a sense of freedom.
The door slams shut behind me as I walk out. Turning, to get a sense of where I am – there’s nothing there.
Nothing.
What the hell? I walk over to what is now just a blank bit of wall between two shop windows. I run my hand over the wall, searching for the door.
But I can’t find it.
Mouth open, I turn to look at the two men who escorted me up here. The man with the gun — now missing, by the way — is leaning against a lamp post with a smug grin on his face. The detective just looks bored. Turning back to the wall, mouth agape I just can’t understand what happened. Did I just imagine all this?
“No, you didn’t.”
Startled, I turn to look at where the voice came from and see Maria standing behind me. “You also won’t find it. And no, I won’t tell you how I’ve done it.”
“Right.”
Yes, I know I could argue again but honestly, I’m just too tired. I notice that none of them are in their police uniforms and I can’t help but wonder what it is they’re going to make me do. I know what the detective said, and although he seems like a complete and utter dickhead, I can’t believe that he’s really going to make me go around and touch random people.
No one could be that cruel, right?
* * *
Wrong.
I turn into the gutter and vomit as the images of the baby’s death stays imprinted behind my eyes. When there’s nothing left in my stomach, I lean against a lamp post and wipe my mouth with my sleeve. Sweat pours down me; I lower my arm and notice a fine tremor running through my body. Sounds from the cars driving past and people laughing in nearby buildings are causing my headache to build; my eyes feel ready to explode. Even though I’ve moved away from where I was sick, I can still smell the acrid scent and it’s making my stomach churn even more.
I’m exhausted. It feels like I’ve been walking the streets for days although, in reality, I know it’s only been a few hours. My legs are shaking and I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to carry on walking. Closing my eyes, I try to block out the images that flash through them.
There’s so much death.
An old man flashes into my mind: he’s at his daughter’s wedding, walking her down the aisle when he has a heart attack and dies beside her on the aisle.
The woman that’s going to jump off the building.
A couple that is going to be in a car crash in a few hours.
A teenager —no older than 15 — who’s going to find out in a few minutes that their cancer hasn’t gone, that in fact, they’ve only got days to live.
A bloke that’s going to overdose tonight from heroin.
The baby.
I swallow down bile and scrunch my eyes up even tighter. Hoping that instead of everything I’ve seen today, I’ll start seeing the flashing colours behind them instead. It doesn’t work though. It’s like a movie reel going through my brain.
Just as I’m starting to think about allowing myself to fall to the bottom of the lamp post and just leave myself lying there, a cold shock startles me out of my misery. Eyes flying open, they instantly land on a face I wasn’t sure I was going to see again.
Softening my smile, I reach out and take the offered drink, my fingers lingering on the hand of the man in front of me — a risk I wouldn’t normally take, but I wanted to feel a comforting touch and for some reason, he could give me that.
“Hey there, Ripper,” I try to ask him if he’s okay with my eyes. I wasn’t sure I would see him again and my heart does an unexpected flutter now that I have. He squeezes my hand as he lets go of the water and gives a slight nod of his head.
Unscrewing the lid from the bottle, I take a long drink, gulping down the cool water. Savouring the refreshing taste as it drips down my throat, bringing back a sense of life into my exhausted body
Someone clears their throat and I know that means I’m going to have to move and get on with what the team wants me to do, but the thought doesn’t really fill me with much joy, or energy. Another throat clearing and I turn to face him.
“Yes, Detective Mitchell?” I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice but I know I don’t quite manage it.
“If you’ve quite done socialising, we’ve still not found the building; you’ve not found anything leading us to the culprit of these murders. You’ve done nothing.” He walks up to me and practically spits that last part in my face.
“Nothing? I’ve done nothing?” My voice rises and goes shrill. “How dare you? You have no idea what I’ve done.”
I spin away from them and stalk in the opposite direction. A hand grabs me and turns me back to face Detective Mitchell, his face close enough to kiss.
“Don’t walk away from me.”
I shake my arm until he lets go of me.
“And don’t you ever fucking touch me again, Detective.” This time I don’t even try to mask the sarcasm.
He grabs my arm again, this time harder than before. His nails dig into my arm and I know there’s going to be bruises there tomorrow. I try to shake him off me again, but he digs his nails in even deeper until I hiss out in pain.
“I’ll do what I want. Now, be a good girl and do as you’re told.” He starts to slowly ease his grip.
I hold in my sigh of relief and then hear him mumble the word bitch under his breath.
I see red.
Clenching my hand into a first, I swing it forward with all of the strength I can. I gasp in pain when my fist connects with the Detective’s cheek.
But that’s nothing compared with the pain I feel as his fist connects with mine.
I must have blacked out for a moment because, the next thing I know, I’m waking up on the floor looking into the concerned eyes of Ripper. I struggle to sit up, so he put his arms around my shoulders and helps me. My head starts spinning so I wait a few minutes until I feel ready to stand up.
I only manage that because Ripper’s here.
That was some punch. Once Ripper has got me up, his concern turns to anger, I almost take a step back. Not being convi
nced I would be able to stand, I decide to stay attached to him instead.
Ripper takes a step towards the Detective and I notice the Detective taking a small step backwards. I want to throw a quick glance at Ripper but instead, I file away that piece of information for a later date.
“We’re going for something to eat. We’ll meet you back here in two hours. Do not follow us.” Keeping a firm but gentle grip on my arm, Ripper leads me away from the man who just knocked me out.
He wraps an arm around my shoulders and I hesitantly slide one of mine around his waist, helping to keep me upright. I don’t know where we’re going, but the silence feels companionable and I don’t want to ruin it. Although I’m not sure I could speak if I want to. My jaw is starting to swell and a pounding has started in my cheek. I’m aching for some ice to put on it to numb the pain. I taste of copper — I must have cut the inside of my mouth on my teeth.
We finally make it to a restaurant I’ve never even noticed before, and I start wondering if we’re even still in the town I thought we were. The smell of melted cheese greets us as we walk inside. My mouth begins to water. The undertones of frying onions drift through as the kitchen door is opened. My stomach begins to grumble at me and I realise it must have been about seven or eight hours since I’d had the bacon bun. I find a sudden burst of energy, almost bouncing my way through the restaurant doors.
A waitress in uniform turns with a smile when she sees us.
“A table for how many?”
“Two please.” I follow her as she begins to walk.
“Have you been here before?”
“No, but it smells divine. Is there anything you would recommend?”
I flinch and let out a gasp as a hand grips my shoulder. Slowly turning around, my body relaxes as I see it’s just Ripper. But then I notice the look of concern in his eyes.
“Who are you talking to, Jemma?”
Looking around, I see that everyone’s staring at me. Spinning back, I’m just in time to notice that my very real-looking waitress is stepping through a wall. My face starts burning. It’s been fifteen years since I mistook a ghost for a real person. The embarrassment hasn’t lessened. Keeping my head bowed so I can avoid looking at anyone else in the restaurant, I start making my way — as quickly as possible — out of the restaurant. When I’m finally standing on the pavement I raise my head and let the breeze cool my heated cheeks.
“Takeaway?” A now familiar voice asks me. I can feel Ripper’s presence by my side and it helps to calm me down. I nod my agreement and he slings his arm around my shoulder as we set off walking on in comfortable silence.
Chapter Nine
“He was tall, about six foot, maybe over. It’s hard to tell —I had nothing to really compare him too.”
“What was his build?”
“Big. Not fat though; muscly. Kind of like Ripper’s build.” I blush at what I’ve just said and hope it goes unnoticed. Then I let a small smile fleet across my face at the memory of last night.
The sketch artist nods and mutters something under his breath before bending his head to the page and beginning to draw. I look around the room. We’re back in an underground one. I don’t know how we got here: they blindfolded me. I didn’t protest though, it meant I didn’t have a gun to my back.
This room has windows; not to outside but to the hall and the blinds are up so I can actually see... not that there’s anything to see. The room smells musty too. It’s like an old library where no one has ever opened the windows and the books are slightly damp to touch.
But it’s a relief to be in here.
I’d been trapped in a room with Detective Mitchell earlier whilst he questioned me over and over again about what I’d seen in my original visions. He makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong, that I’m lying.
After what felt like years, we were finally done and he sent me to do this sketch. I’ve only been in here ten minutes but it’s already too long. I’m hoping I can just go home soon. Get a nice long bath, drink a bottle of wine, and do nothing – maybe forget any of this has happened.
“What colour eyes and hair did he have?” The question makes me jump and come out of my daydream.
“Golden hair. It wasn’t ginger or blonde. It literally looked like gold that had been spun into hair. And his eyes were a deep ocean blue. Pale, pale skin.”
The sketch artist looks like he’s about to ask me a question but turns back to his work.
I miss the call centre. I never in a million years thought I would say that but I do. I miss the boring monotony of it. “Hello this is Jemma at Chambers Programming, how may I help you?” The phrase would circulate around in my mind even on my days off. Sometimes I’d pick up on my mobile phone and say it by accident. Now it’s been days since I’ve said it and the phrase is going round like a mantra in my mind.
I’m even missing my walk to work. The ghosts I would see on a regular basis. They’ve become like friends really — well, not friends, maybe more like acquaintances. The type that you see most days and wave, smile, say hello to. You might even have a bit of conversation with them in passing. The type that, although you’re not going to invite them round for dinner, you’d miss them if they were gone.
I wonder if the ghosts miss me?
A coughing brings me to my senses. The sketch artist is looking at me with an impatient frown across his face.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Is this the person you saw?”
I stare at the image in amazement. I reach out to touch the paper, expecting to be able to feel the soft waves of the hair, to be able to trace the feeling of skin and get a scent of the man on the page.
My hands just touch indented paper where the colours have left their mark. The only smell is that of new paper. It has an almost vanilla scent to it.
“How do you do that?” My voice comes out breathy; I’m in awe of what he has created.
He just shrugs. “It’s a talent. Is this a likeness?”
I nod. My eyes are drawn to the details of the suit. I didn’t remember telling him the colour of the suit, the fact that there was a black handkerchief hanging out the shirt pocket. My eyes travel down to his left wrist. A black Rolex nestled with the face down so the time can’t be seen.
My amazement turns instantly to suspicion and I push my chair as far away as I can, standing up and crossing to the door, praying that no one has locked this one.
“I didn’t tell you about those details. You didn’t ask. How could you know?”
He shrugs again, an infuriating smile playing across his lips as he keeps secrets from me.
“I told you, it’s a talent.”
I open my mouth the reply when a shrill ringing cuts me off. The sketch artist picks up the phone and turns his body away from me. I don’t know why: I can still hear him.
“Yeah, she’s still here…. It does…. Okay…. No?” He turns to look at me.
My insides start to squirm, and my cheeks start to burn at the scrutiny.
“… I’ll send her to you.” Swivelling around in his chair, he puts the phone back down before turning to me.
“Mitchell wants you. Out the door, turn left, head towards the end of the corridor.”
With that, he turns away from me and begins to clear away the tools of his work. For a moment I let my imagination run away with me: I can see myself stalking over to the extremely sharp pencils, hiding one, and stabbing it through the detective’s hand next time he lays a finger on me. I’m not normally a violent person — I see enough of that — but a smile forms across my face as I open the door to leave.
“The pencils wouldn’t be sharp enough. You’d be best taking the compass.”
I flee from the room with a nervous backwards glance.
* * *
Have you ever seen a murder scene? I hope for your sake you haven’t. I have before, kind of. I’ve seen the murders happen in my visions, so I always thought that countws as seeing a murder scene. However, that was b
efore I ended up standing in front of the gruesome scene in front of me. There’s no body and, although it hadn’t been here for long, the smell of it still lingers. It’s like a fruit smoothie that’s been left in a warm car. The scent of rotten fruit permeates the air; the smell of copper assaults my nose.
I take shallow breaths through my mouth trying to avoid the smell; the visions normally block all that out.
The colours are duller than I expected – but it has been two days since the murder — the blood has had time to dull. It’s everywhere too. Little white markers are dotted across the floor where there’s something of interest to the police. Or where there are more flecks of blood. In the middle of the room is a circle, with a marker bang slap in the centre. Watching my footing, I make my way over to it, drawn to it though I don’t know why.
I put my hand to my mouth and try to swallow the acrid bile that’s risen up. It’s the shape of a body. Too small to be anything other than that of a child. They didn’t tell me it was a child.
Bastards.
I’m feeling even sorrier for myself than I was before I got here, and still freaked out about how the hell the sketch artist knew what I’d been thinking about. Even though I don’t think I was any help yesterday, Detective Mitchell has for some reason decided that I could help them today, and so I’ve ended up here.
Seeing things I never wanted to see in my life.
Stepping out of the room, I walk down the hallway and straight out of the front door, closing it gently behind me. There’s a uniformed officer standing not far from the door and he holds out a bin bag to me.
“Your suit, Miss.”
“I’d forgotten I was even wearing it.”
I start to unzip the suit when the front door opens and out walks Ripper. My heart does a stupid little flutter and I can’t help but smile at him, but he doesn’t return it. The flutter turns to a full blown heart palpitation. Sweat begins to trickle down my spine and my hand begins to shake. I don’t want to go back inside.
The Soul Catcher Page 4
