The Lost Girls

by Sarah Painter

  ‘Absolutely you will,’ Pringle said. He attempted a smile, and the thing that lived inside Mr Pringle became briefly visible. It wasn’t pretty. Then he nodded to the unseen figure behind Mal and turned to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ Mal began, but whatever he had been going to say was cut off by the sound of his neck snapping violently to the side with the first blow.

  * * *

  Mal was dropped outside his flat in Bruntsfield. Pringle was a class act like that. The full service beating. He staggered on the pavement, his legs not quite holding him up. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself and felt a sharp pain in his chest. He waited until the car had gone before going inside, even though they clearly knew where he lived.

  Inside, he was hit by the smell of old milk. He’d left some out on the counter in the kitchen after making a mug of tea, and the place was filled with the sour odour. The birds were furious with him, they flew around dive-bombing his head and shoulders. One landed on his head and began pecking through his hair, its tiny claws gripping his scalp painfully like a reproach.

  ‘Easy,’ Mal said, reaching out a finger to stroke the head of a chaffinch which had landed on his forearm and was attempting to eat his cuff. The bird twisted its tiny head and tweeted indignantly before flying to the top of the bookcase.

  A brightly coloured bird of paradise with iridescent green and yellow wings which tapered to a deep indigo at the tips regarded him balefully from the IKEA table which served as his desk, dining area and tool bench. ‘I’m sorry, Monty.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘I got held up.’

  Monty let out a screech that could’ve stripped the paint off a Ford Focus at twelve paces.

  Mal gave up and concentrated on cleaning the kitchen instead. He looked away as the chunks of sour milk slopped into the sink and tried not to think about how close he’d come to disaster.

  His new brief contained new information. It wasn’t fair that he hadn’t been given these details previously, but fairness wasn’t a big part of his world so he didn’t sweat it. You don’t miss what you never had.

  He shook out a handful of seed and went back into the living room to feed the birds. They didn’t need to eat and most of them didn’t bother, but a couple – like Monty – seemed to enjoy the nostalgia trip. Mal had brought the birds home after he disposed of their owner. They were charmed creatures, technically dead, and could probably have survived alone indefinitely, but Mal found he couldn’t just shut the door. Entombing them in the fetid basement he had found them in didn’t seem right. Monty hopped along the table and pecked at his hand, getting more skin than seed. ‘I said I’m sorry,’ Mal said, not even caring that he was talking to a bird. He’d read an article once that said people with pets were better adjusted than those without.

  There wasn’t anything left to eat apart from crackers and a softening apple, so he fixed a plate of those and opened a beer. Then he settled into the top-brand leather recliner he’d rescued from a target’s house and clicked on the television. He ate his dinner and drank his beer and tried his best to ignore the pain in his ribs. That bastard had cracked at least one. He tried not to think about how it was going to hurt like a mother every time he coughed for the next three months. He made a mental note – no coughing. Got it.

  He occupied himself in this manner, watching a crime drama and eating his meagre supper and drinking a second beer and swallowing a few painkillers before falling asleep in his chair. It wasn’t much of a homecoming, but – the thought drifted in as he lost consciousness – he was still alive. He felt the brush of feathers against his cheek, and he slept.

  Chapter Three

  The grey morning light hit the plastic-coated armchairs in the day room. It reflected off the speckled ceiling tiles, the crisp packets that sat in a sad pile on the low central table, and the pool of yellow vomit that was spreading slowly across the industrial carpeting. Aislinn closed her eyes and remained very still. She didn’t want to see the orderlies as they hauled Big Paul off to his room, or Big Paul’s twisted features, miserable and desperate. Most of all, though, she didn’t want to catch one of the nurses’ eyes and be asked to ‘be a poppet and help clean up’.

  Even with her eyes shut, however, Aislinn couldn’t stop the mind pictures. She could see the scene just as clearly as if she were watching. She put her hands over her ears but it didn’t shut out Big Paul’s wailing, the grunts of the male orderlies as they struggled to heft him out of the room, the squeak of the swing door and, underneath it all, Wee Al’s stream of profanity.

  After it was over, she put her hands back into her lap. Covering her ears might be considered a sign of distress and she didn’t want the nurses to calm her down. Aislinn felt a hand creep into her own and stifled the urge to pull it away. The hand was small and slightly damp and Aislinn gave it a gentle squeeze. The hand squeezed back and Aislinn gave up the darkness and opened her eyes. It was Mary, one of the old dears of the institution. There were a few who’d been put away when they were just girls and they didn’t know any other life. Whether they’d been nuts to start with or the institutions had sent them that way was debatable.

  ‘He’s not very well today,’ Mary said, nodding towards the swinging door through which Big Paul had so recently exited.

  ‘No,’ Aislinn agreed. She wanted to disentangle her hand, but she didn’t want to offend Mary. She was a nice enough nutter. Older than God, too.

  Mary’s legs dangled off the edge of her chair, her feet inches off the ground. With her green Alice band, messy white hair and pop socks, she looked like an incredibly wrinkled child. ‘I’m not very well.’ Her mouth turned down at the corners. ‘I’ve got a pain.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Aislinn said vaguely. She inched her hand away but Mary tightened her grip, leaning forward in an alarming way. Her face was suddenly inches from Aislinn, the sour-milk smell of her breath blasting into her face, the yellow gunk in the corners of her rheumy eyes unpleasantly close. ‘I’m possessed,’ Mary whispered. ‘By Beelzebub.’ A gob of spittle shot out of her mouth.

  Aislinn pulled her hand smartly away and got up.

  ‘Fuck. Shit. Bollocks.’ Wee Al’s litany was still going. He rocked back and forth, tapping his hands on his knees after every sixth back and forth. Business as usual, in other words. ‘Fuck. Shit. Satan,’ he said now.

  Aislinn didn’t look at him and she didn’t look back at Mary, who had started to cry. Big sobbing gasps like a toddler denied an ice cream.

  ‘It’s nearly Countdown,’ one of the orderlies said brightly as Aislinn walked past. ‘You like Countdown.’

  Aislinn didn’t bristle at the condescending tone. Truth was, she no longer even registered it. Besides, she appreciated the woman’s kindness – it was true, she did like Countdown – but she was done. Totally fucking done. She had counted the ceiling tiles in every room in the hospital, she had taught herself to play chess, learned to read and write in French – although she’d never tried speaking it, and spent more time than she cared to count in therapy. Personal therapy. Group therapy. Art therapy. Movement therapy. As Aislinn walked to her room, she counted her steps. One of her little habits. And when she got to her door she joined her hands and lightly tapped her fingertips together, one by one from the pinky to thumb. It was a trick she’d learned from a girl called Becky, who’d stayed in Mackinnon two years ago. It was true, there was nothing like a mental hospital to make you mad.

  Feeling calmer, she pushed open the door and let her room embrace her. This was the closest thing she had to a sanctuary. Not the actual room, which she shared with another girl, and not even the bed itself, but what it represented. After lights out, when the hospital quietened down and the routine of therapy and visitors disappeared and the residents were stashed in their rooms, sedated for the most part to ensure a good night’s sleep, Aislinn transformed her bed into a magic carpet. She closed her eyes and went travelling. She went to the jungles of Borneo and talked to the orangutans, she put on a sharp business suit and travelled
first class to London to meet with government officials on secret missions, she sang on the West End stage and made grown men weep with the beauty of her voice, and, sometimes, she shrank down to a child again. A blonde child this time, rosy cheeked and perfect in every way. And she had dinner with her imaginary family – a mum, a dad, an annoying little brother and a faithful family dog that sat under the table begging for scraps and farting vociferously.

  Now she lay on the hard mattress and stared at the ceiling. She calmed her breathing and concentrated on leaving her body, floating away. Her breathing slowed and her vision blurred and, when the buzzer that signalled tea time sounded, she felt a stab of self-congratulation. Another hour successfully passed. Another hour down.

  Tea was a three-course meal. It invariably began with soup. Thick, gelatinous, grey soup. Mushroom, cream of chicken, leek and potato… There wasn’t much to choose between them. Suffice to say, if you dropped a spoonful onto the tabletop, it formed an unbreakable bond with the Formica. They could market this stuff to NASA, she thought. Then she said it out loud. She had a horrible feeling that she’d said the same thing yesterday and the day before that. The worst thing was, she couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter how many tablets she tucked into her cheek and spat out after the nurse’s back was turned; her brain was softening. Soon it would drip out of her ears and bond with the tabletop alongside the soup.

  After the soup and the beef casserole with a single scoop of mashed potato and boiled cabbage came dessert. This being Aislinn’s last day on the planet, she would’ve liked something sumptuous and decadent. A pecan and caramel roulade or New York cheesecake like she’d seen advertised in the free supermarket magazines. She would even have been happy with an individual chocolate mousse – they were bought in, at least, and had the advantage of being contaminant-free. At least, until you peeled off the plastic lid. Everything else in this place was infected. Infected by the smell of disinfectant and despair.

  You’re being maudlin. Aislinn used her most stern voice in her head. Her other voice replied, I’m eighteen years old, I live in a loony bin and I’m killing myself tonight, if this isn’t the time for being maudlin I don’t know what is. She heard a weird snorting sound and a second later realised that it was her. A kind of laugh. What was that called? Gallows humour.

  Tonight, however, the dessert was a square of yellow sponge cake, topped with jam and shredded coconut with a single scoop of vanilla ice-cream. It wasn’t the worst dessert the hospital served, she counselled herself. And, really, did she really care that much? What was a crappy bit of sponge cake when weighed against the tower of shittiness life had put in her way?

  To her left, Bulimic Andrew toyed with his cabbage, and to her right, a new girl sat hunched in on herself, staring at her plate of food as if it had personally offended her. Last week, Aislinn would’ve welcomed the new girl. She would’ve tried to make conversation, shown that she was an ally, a possible friend. Today, she didn’t bother. She wouldn’t be here in the morning, so there was no point.

  Andrew’s chair scraped back and he heaved his bulk upwards. ‘Andrew, please sit down. Meal time isn’t over.’ It was one of the nurses. Correction: it was the new nurse. The guy.

  The new male nurse and the creepy way he looked at Aislinn. He was another reason for checking out tonight. Another reason at the bottom of a short, but compelling list. She stabbed the rock-hard ice cream with her spoon and began to lever out a chunk. First off, she was crazy, which was pretty rubbish luck. Secondly, her mother had shuffled off this mortal coil when Aislinn was ten. Shuffled off the mortal coil was one way of putting it: stepped off a kitchen stool with a rope around her neck was another. Not having a father – or not one she knew about – led to reason number three. Her adoptive parents, AKA her aunt and uncle. Aunt ‘just call me Heather’ and Uptight Uncle Ray. Heather and Ray might not have been bad people; Aislinn found it very difficult to tell. All she knew was that they had sectioned her, taken away her freedom, her rights as a person. It wasn’t the stuff of dreams.

  * * *

  A few streets and half a world away, Mal woke up in his chair, his neck on fire from sleeping awkwardly. He stretched his arms up without thinking, gasping as his ribs reminded him that they had taken a kicking. He had slept the sleep of the dead for over twelve hours. He switched on his phone and it immediately buzzed with a notification. Pringle had sent him a message.

  He tapped the file and an image filled the cracked screen of his phone. It had been taken covertly, at an awkward angle, but it showed two young women sitting at a table in a cafe, their heads bent together like they were sharing a secret. The blonde girl was facing the camera, with her head dipped down, a small smile visible on her lips, but the target was side-on and blurred. She had obviously been moving when the shot was taken and her face was an indistinct smear. Mal noted the long black braid down the middle of her back and the delicate bones of her wrists. He would be able to recognise her, he thought, blurred picture or not.

  Demons usually took human form. He had slain ones which looked like big weightlifting guys, and small, skinny dudes like his most recent kill. There hadn’t been many women, though. Euan’s theory was that demons had been humans at one time, but had been so evil they had turned somehow. That tied in with their father’s teachings on the soul: if a human was bad enough they would eventually lose their soul and become demonic.

  ‘That’s why they’re usually men,’ Euan had said. ‘Men are more violent. Most murderers are men, and all the despots and dictators.’

  Playing devil’s advocate, Mal had argued with him. ‘What if they didn’t become demonic through their actions – what if they were forced into it? Like their bodies were invaded and taken over by the demonic spirit.’

  ‘Hijacked, like?’

  ‘Exactly. What if we’re killing the human as well as the demon that is inhabiting their body?’

  Euan was cleaning his knife collection and he just shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s not like we have a choice.’

  Mal tried to remember his brother’s voice more clearly. He remembered him saying those words, but could no longer hear them. Still, he clung to the sentiment. And if this particular demon happened to look like a young woman, that wasn’t his fault. He had no choice.

  * * *

  Mal lurked by the exit to the lecture hall on George Square. He didn’t like it, but there was no other word which summed up his activity. As young, healthy, innocent students poured past him on the pavement, he felt the blackness of his own soul grow darker by comparison. At one time he had been so sure that he was on the side of goodness, of right. His father’s mission had been a clear path. Now, as Mal saw his target appear from the entrance, looking exactly like a girl and nothing else, he had never felt so uncertain. Not taking his eyes from the girl, he pulled his phone from his pocket and called his contact on Pringle’s crew.

  ‘She doesn’t look like a demon.’

  ‘We never said demon.’

  Mal’s stomach lurched. ‘Why does your boss want a mundane?’ That was less confrontational than saying ‘I’m not hurting a human.’ Less likely to get him a one-way ticket to the bottom of the river.

  ‘She’s not that, either. Think of her as an object. A nice shiny bit of jewellery that Pringle would like retrieved.’

  ‘It belongs to him?’

  ‘Of course. This is his city. He owns everything in it, including you.’

  ‘Right.’ Pringle’s rival, Mary King, would probably argue with that statement, but Mal wasn’t about to kick things off.

  ‘Your family knows the cost of thinking otherwise. Sorry. Knew the cost, past tense.’

  Mal knew it was a calculated blow and he didn’t respond, but he couldn’t help reacting inside. The pain was swift and low and it left him temporarily dizzy.

  ‘You’ll finish your job.’

  It wasn’t a question so Mal didn’t bother to answer. He just hung up and followed the target as she walked toward the
university library. She was wearing a denim jacket and had a fabric rucksack over one shoulder. Her single plait reached to her waist, and when she turned he saw a neat profile and smooth pale skin.

  Euan would have been horrified. That his target was an object disguised as a woman was neither here nor there. The fact that he was carrying out tasks for Pringle would have been more than enough. At one time he and Euan had fantasised about ending Pringle. The theory was that without the demonic head of the beast, the Sluagh would fall. They had no will of their own, after all. Problem was, even if they could have grown strong enough to take out Pringle, they would have needed to eradicate Mary King at the same time. Otherwise she would have simply stepped into his shoes. They couldn’t win.

  He wanted a drink. He wanted several drinks, in point of fact. Enough alcohol so that he could forget everything he knew about the life. Sometimes he thought he would give anything, maybe even his life, to not have the knowledge. Yes, there would be losses; he would no longer see trails of magic painted in the sky when the sun set on winter nights, and his undead pet birds would suddenly be as invisible to him as they were to most mundanes, but he would live in glorious ignorance. No more demons. No more killing.

  Instead, he increased his pace until he passed the target, then stopped suddenly, holding his phone as if he were making a call. The target bumped into him and he turned to apologise. She held her hands up and shook her head, saying, ‘No problem.’ He looked deep into her eyes for a moment, willing himself to see something evil or, at least, non-human.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again.

  She walked past him and into the library. He had planted his tracker but he had a bigger problem. Was he really about to capture a human girl and hand her over to one of the worst monsters in the city?

  Chapter Four