The Lost Girls

by Sarah Painter

  ‘You’ve been a great help,’ Mal said, putting away his notebook.

  Mrs Moffat got up with him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘Can’t you tell me anything?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘About the developments. Do you have a suspect or a lead or something? There’s been nothing, no news for ages. Forgive me, but I thought you’d given up.’

  You. The police. Mal shook his head. ‘Never. We won’t stop until your daughter’s killer is caught and brought to justice.’

  The light went out of Mrs Moffat’s eyes. It sounded like a platitude to Mal’s ears. Maybe it was something the police had already said to her. Maybe it was something she’d heard too many times on television crime dramas. Nothing was real, nothing was genuine.

  At the front door, he thanked her again.

  ‘Tell me the truth,’ she said, her voice stronger, the tears still unshed. ‘Is there truly something new in the investigation? I won’t tell anyone, I swear,’ she added quickly. ‘I just need to know that it isn’t over. That she hasn’t been forgotten.’

  Mal felt like hell. He reached for one of the woman’s hands and held it lightly while looking her straight in the eyes. ‘I’m the new lead in the investigation. It’s not something the police can ever admit to in public, but I am a specialist in cases like Laura’s. I have the knowledge to look in certain places and to study certain angles. And I will do everything I can to find the truth of what happened to your daughter.’ He dropped her hand and turned to leave.

  ‘You know about her abilities?’ Mrs Moffat said, sounding slightly bewildered. ‘You are a specialist in that?’

  He didn’t hesitate. ‘Laura’s abilities are just the tip of the iceberg. An iceberg I am intimately acquainted with. I will find who did this, I swear. I won’t forget Laura and I won’t stop until somebody has paid for her death.’

  Mrs Moffat’s expression was a mixture of hope and mistrust. ‘Do you really work for the police?’

  ‘All the time,’ he said, and got into his car, trying to look reassuring and dependable. Inside he felt something unfolding. Another life broken, shattered by loss. He started the engine and pulled away from the kerb, glancing in his rear-view mirror to see Mrs Moffat standing forlornly on the pavement outside her house, her hands clasped in front of her body as if she was praying.

  Chapter Nine

  Rose opened her eyes and the world rushed in. Sky. Pavement. Scottish Georgian architecture and a biting edge to the air. The dizziness and disorientation gave way to balance and comfort. She was outside the psychology building and just in time for Professor Lewis’s lecture. Rose had the unshakeable sense that this exact sequence had happened many times before and that, somehow, it meant that all was well.

  But then the fog in her mind rolled back. The world was spinning, faster and faster, and for a sickening moment she felt herself fall. There was the scent of baked bread and cigarette smoke, and the sound of someone speaking French. She tried to focus on the words, but they drifted away.

  She shook her head lightly, as if to clear it. A group of students walked past her and into the building. It was reassuringly familiar and she felt the click as her thoughts realigned. She was Rose MacLeod. She was a student. She had been asleep in bed, or maybe somewhere else, but then she had lost time. That didn’t sound good, but it was all right. She was waiting for Astrid, her best friend, and everything was absolutely and completely fine.

  Her arm itched, like a little reminder. She pushed up her sleeve and checked her inkless tattoo. It was barely there. A ghost of the image, picked out in silver lines, only really visible when she tilted her arm. From experience, she knew that was at least another week on from the last time she’d seen it. Probably more like a fortnight. What had she been doing in that time? She saw Astrid turn the corner and pulled her sleeve back over the tattoo. She noticed something at the same time – her fingernails looked dirty. Holding her hand up to her face for a closer look, she saw traces of something black around the edges of her nails and underneath, low down and untouchable by a nail brush. In that instant, she remembered: blood over her hands, trying to scrub it away, the water in the sink turning pink.

  ‘Remind me never to drink again,’ Astrid said, by way of greeting.

  The words seemed to be coming from far away. Rose lifted her hand and inhaled. The smell of iron was there and, at once, it was everywhere. She was seeing a girl outside a petrol station. Bright sunshine. A knife.

  ‘Something’s wrong with me,’ Rose said. She felt as if she wanted to sit down, right there on the pavement.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Astrid said, frowning at Rose. ‘Is it still happening? I was worried about this.’

  ‘Still happening?’

  ‘Are you remembering weird things? Things you’re not supposed to remember?’ Astrid grabbed one of Rose’s hands and squeezed, not very gently. ‘You’re Rose MacLeod. You are a student at Edinburgh University.’

  ‘We were in Paris,’ Rose said. ‘We just – sort of – zapped there. Like magic.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Astrid said quietly and dropped Rose’s hand. ‘I need a drink.’

  Fear flooded Rose and, for a moment, she thought she might fall down. A student with a bright red backpack glanced at her and frowned as he passed. He looked like a child. No, even younger than that; a baby. Unformed and barely alive. There was something very wrong and even Astrid looked like an alien – her features just a jumble of odd, fleshy parts with no coherence.

  ‘It’s going to be okay,’ Astrid said. The words sounded stilted, false. But then she patted Rose’s arm and things shifted again. At once, Astrid seemed like the girl Rose knew and loved. ‘I promise,’ Astrid said. ‘You’re safe.’

  Rose didn’t know how long they had been outside, but the stream of students entering the building had slowed and then stopped. The lecture must have started. They ought to be in the theatre, Rose thought, sitting in their usual places. Rose would have an open pad of lined paper and Astrid would be complaining about her hangover. Rose felt an itch, as if she was about to remember something important, but she was distracted by Astrid’s hand in hers, towing her along the pavement and away from the psychology building. ‘How did we get to Paris?’ This seemed important.

  Astrid kept on walking, dodging people on the pavement and half-dragging Rose until she moved faster. Astrid was taking an odd and twisty route through the city, seeming to just walk for the sake of walking. ‘Power,’ she said finally, not looking at Rose. ‘You can do things that other people cannot.’

  ‘But I’m a person?’ Rose hadn’t known she was going to say those words until they were out. Now that they were, she felt afraid.

  ‘Of course,’ Astrid said quickly. ‘You just have some extra powers. It’s not that odd.’

  Rose opened her mouth to say ‘it really is’, but Astrid had ducked down a narrow close and she was already too far away to hear.

  ‘We need help,’ Astrid said once Rose had caught up with her. She was bouncing down the steep steps of the close as if she was dancing, while Rose felt as if she would fall at any moment. The muscles in her legs quivered and she felt off-kilter. When a couple stopped abruptly in front of them and turned to go back up the steps, Astrid swerved around them without breaking pace, but Rose almost collapsed with the effort of halting and moving to the side. Her head began to pound.

  Astrid cut up through the Grassmarket and Rose concentrated on keeping up and not passing out. Astrid had said that she had ‘powers’ but she had never felt so weak.

  ‘Who was the man we ran away from?’ Rose said, once she had enough breath to do so.

  Astrid glanced at her, slowing as she thought. ‘I don’t know.’ She tapped her lip. ‘I wonder if he did something—’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘Mmm,’ Astrid said. ‘Your memories are protected. You’re not supposed to be able to access them. It’s to keep you safe.’

  That made no sense.

  ‘There aren’t many wit
h the juice to mess with the mojo I laid down.’ Astrid sounded petulant.

  ‘You laid down?’

  Astrid stopped. They had reached Candlemaker Row and Greyfriars Kirk and Astrid pulled Rose close, lowering her voice. ‘You have power that a lot of very bad people would want if they knew about it. I am your guardian, I keep you safe. I figured out a long time ago that the best way to protect you from other people was to hide your true nature from everyone. Even you.’

  ‘So you want to hide it again? You want to wipe my memory?’ Rose still felt oddly calm, as if all of this insanity was perfectly reasonable. She felt tired and spacey and very, very weak. A small part of her mind was insisting that this was huge, important, frightening, but her overriding feeling was of exhaustion. She wanted to have a lie down.

  ‘The tour folk might know,’ Astrid was saying. ‘They see a lot, and if that guy knows the life he might have been poking around. Somebody put him onto you.’ Astrid looked suddenly terrifying. ‘And I want a word with them.’

  ‘Tour people? Drama students know about this stuff?’ Astrid was usually pretty scathing about her ghost tour colleagues. They corpsed rather too often for her professional tastes.

  ‘Got to get my head torch,’ Astrid said, which didn’t make things any clearer. The booth was shut up for business, but Astrid produced a key. Rose kept watch at the door and Astrid passed out a slim torch that was a lot heavier than it looked, and a pewter flask with a cross on the side.

  Feeling ridiculous, Rose asked, ‘Is that holy water?’

  ‘Close enough. It’s Ardbeg. Matured for fifteen years in a sherry cask.’

  Rose turned the flask over and found a skull etched in the metal. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Astrid said. ‘We’ll need it for bribery. These folks don’t give out intel for free.’

  ‘Intel?’

  ‘Intelligence. My God, Rose, do you never watch CSI?’ Astrid sounded so much like herself, then, that Rose felt some of the weirdness shrink away. It was like they were messing around, playing a game to alleviate boredom in a dull tutorial.

  It was significantly colder by the time they reached Blair Street. The weak sun had been swallowed by dark clouds and there were spots of stinging rain. Rose wrapped her arms around herself and wished she’d had the foresight to buy a hot drink.

  The entrance to the vaults looked innocuous. Just another doorway in the city. ‘This is the way we bring the punters out, but it’s the quickest way to get to the deepest tunnels.’

  ‘Oh, goody.’ Rose injected as much bleak sarcasm into her voice as possible, but Astrid just flashed her a grin. A couple walked past, arm in arm, their heads close together. Astrid waited until they were a few feet away, then unlocked the door.

  The passageway inside was dimly lit with electric bulbs, but was much darker than the overcast day outside. Rose blinked, trying not to freak out.

  ‘Make sure the door is shut properly. We don’t want anybody following us.’

  ‘Like who?’ Rose said, but Astrid was already way ahead and disappearing through a wooden door at the end of the passage.

  Uneven steps led downwards and into another, narrower passage. It was clearly old. The stonework was weathered by the trickles of water that appeared to have been running over them for decades. The air was mouldy.

  ‘People lived down here?’ Rose felt like ducking even though there was easily a foot of soupy air between the top of her head and the curved stone ceiling.

  ‘Lived, traded, whored, died.’

  The passage opened out into one of the vaults, an area the size of a box room with the remains of some neon green paint on the walls. It was colder in here. Rose shivered, wishing she had a thicker coat.

  ‘What’s with the paint?’

  ‘After the vaults were reopened some of them were used as practice rooms by musicians. Mostly punk bands – they were the only ones who didn’t mind the incumbents.’

  ‘Incumbents?’

  ‘The residents. Like our friend Mr Boots.’

  Rose felt a hard pinch just above her right elbow, and cried out.

  ‘Manners, Mr Boots,’ Astrid said severely. She was looking at the empty space to Rose’s side, and it was creepy.

  Dust on the floor swirled, forming a spiral that rose upwards in slow motion. ‘What the fu—’ Rose began, but the dust coalesced into a small dense cloud and rushed at her face. She choked down a mouthful of ancient dirt and started coughing.

  ‘If you don’t behave, you won’t get any of this.’ Astrid held up the flask.

  Rose straightened up, her eyes streaming. Astrid was tucking the flask back into her bag. ‘After,’ she said, as if in response to something. ‘I want a chat first.’

  Rose wiped her eyes and blinked. They felt coated in grit. That was when she saw the man. He was the same colour as the brownish-grey stonework and not much taller than she was. He wore a dirty coat and a shapeless, squashed-looking hat.

  ‘No.’ Astrid was shaking her head. ‘I might stretch to some ciggies if you stop hiding and start acting like a gent.’

  ‘I’m no gent.’ The voice was raspy and deep. The voice of a man who most certainly did not require any more cigarettes.

  * * *

  ‘That’s a good trick,’ Rose said, trying to work out how his costume was semi transparent, and how his feet were floating a couple of centimetres above the floor. ‘I bet that wows them on the tours.’

  Astrid shot her an exasperated look.

  ‘Those bloody tours,’ the man’s expression twisted. ‘You’re always bringing them through here. Disturbin’ me. Cain’t a man sleep in peace?’

  ‘Oh, hush,’ Astrid said. ‘You love the sport.’

  The man called Mr Boots turned and gave Rose a slow, filthy smile. ‘I haven’t seen you before, darling.’ His voice wasn’t just raspy. It was hollowed-out.

  Rose’s mind stopped fighting the evidence of her senses. It was the voice of a dead man.

  Her hands curled into fists and her fight or flight response kicked into overdrive.

  He stepped forward, his rheumy gaze suddenly intent. ‘What are you, gurlie?’

  Astrid stepped in between them, blocking Mr Boots from coming any closer. ‘What do you see when you look at her?’

  ‘Hard to say.’ He glanced pointedly at Astrid’s bag. ‘I’m awful thirsty, ken?’

  ‘You’re just awful,’ Astrid said. ‘Forget about my friend, I want the news. Anything out of the ordinary you want to tell me about?’

  He turned his head and the motion made Rose feel a bit ill. ‘There was a ground-shaking. And blood ran down the walls.’

  Astrid didn’t seem to be thrown by this alarming statement. She sucked air through her teeth. ‘When was this? Last couple of days?’

  He stuck out his bottom lip, sulking. ‘I can’t keep track of time. It jumps. Gives me a powerful sore head.’ He turned big eyes to Rose. ‘Telt her to give ma drink, missus.’

  Perhaps one day, a long time ago, Mr Boots might have been a good-looking man. It was difficult to say, but Rose would’ve laid money that his bad personality had always darkened his features so that even in life they’d never appeared wholesome. Now, his pock-marked and craggy visage was nothing short of horrific.

  ‘Okay,’ Astrid said. ‘How about this. Remember the last tour group I brought through here? The one where you tripped that old man, broke his ankle. Remember that?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Was it before or after that tour?’

  ‘After, mebbe.’

  Astrid took the flask out and unscrewed the lid. Mr Boots licked his lips, his eyes wide and excited. She took a healthy swig and he made a grab for the flask, but she caught his hand and took another drink. He howled. Astrid seemed to have grown several inches. She towered over Mr Boots, who appeared to be in genuine pain. Her wrist flicked and his arm twisted. He sank to his knees in front of her.

  ‘Forgive me, missus.’ He was blubbering now, ghostly snot
bubbles popping from his nose.

  ‘I need someone higher up the food chain,’ Astrid said. ‘Where can I find something older than you?’

  ‘Dinnae ken.’ He shook his head violently then let out a howl.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Peter.’

  ‘I dinnae. I swear.’

  ‘Come, now, Peter,’ Astrid said. She smiled and Rose felt afraid. ‘I just want a name.’

  ‘Mary King.’ Mr Boots snapped his lips shut, but the words were out.

  ‘And where, pray, will we find fair Mary?’ Astrid said, and took another slug from the flask, smacking her lips after in a pantomime of pleasure.

  Despite the tears that were flowing down his face and the twist of agony on his lips, he looked suddenly obstinate. Astrid seemed to sense it, too. She gave a wide smile and upended the flask so that the last few drops of whisky fell onto the floor.

  Mr Boots howled again, an inhuman sound that made the hair on the back of Rose’s neck stand up.

  She didn’t pay any attention to her surroundings as she stumbled back through the vaults. She didn’t check to see if Astrid was following her, either. Outside, the cold rain and dark sky was welcome. It wasn’t underground with a howling spirit. When Astrid appeared, shutting the door carefully behind her, Rose looked at her friend with new eyes. ‘For Christ’s sake, Astrid.’

  ‘Cake,’ Astrid said. ‘And a hot chocolate. I need sustenance.’ She plucked a packet of Benson and Hedges out of her jacket, crumpled it up and put it in the bin. She set off, then paused and turned around. ‘The thing you have to remember about Mr Boots is that he’s a complete bastard.’

  ‘I see that, but I just…’

  ‘You don’t see anything, Rose. You’re just skipping along in your perfect little bubble while I do all the hard work. You have no idea—’ She broke off, looking away for a moment. When she spoke again her voice was controlled. ‘You have no idea of the dangers I’m protecting you from. A little shit-weasel like Boots is just a disgusting pustule that I had to squeeze for the common good.’