The Lost Girls

by Sarah Painter

  Rose lost her grip on her own temper. ‘Well, I wish you’d tell me. Stop with the cryptic need-to-know nonsense and Just. Tell. Me.’

  Astrid let out a sigh then began furiously re-doing her hair. ‘I wish I could.’ She stabbed a kirby grip so hard that Rose winced. ‘But if I do, your tiny mortal mind will most likely break into a thousand little pieces and I’ll be stuck doing the fucking Rose jigsaw for the next six hundred years.’

  Rose stared hard at the ground for a few moments. Her stomach felt as clenched and cold as ever, but her mind had gone strangely clear. She was used to living with uncertainty. She’d been hiding her weirdness and time lapses from her parents and her best friend for as long as she could remember, which wasn’t very long, but what was life except what we knew and remembered? So. She could do this a bit longer. At least she felt she was getting closer to revelation. At least it appeared that she wasn’t the strangest thing she knew – there were ghosts in the world, and goodness only knew what else.

  ‘So, ghosts, huh?’ She tried to make her voice upbeat, to cut the sudden tension between them.’

  ‘It’s all about attention for these apes,’ Astrid said, still twisting curls of hair with a fierce concentration. ‘Ever wondered why celebrities get a kind of sheen? Even minor ones, ones who have no talent for anything except being known, being on telly in some reality show?’

  ‘That’s the makeup,’ Rose said. ‘And the botox. They get all buffed and camera-ready. Makes them more attractive than the rest of us. And we prize beauty.’

  ‘No.’ Astrid shook her head. ‘It’s more than that. They’ve been watched. They’ve had the attention of hundreds of thousands of minds. That polishes them right up. And it’s a spiral. They get a bit of energy from the attention and that makes them shine a little bit. That little bit of shine makes people watch them more carefully and their shine grows.’

  ‘Shine?’

  ‘Energy, magic, holiness, shine. Same thing, different lexicon.’

  They began walking, heading back up to South Bridge. ‘It can’t just be attention,’ Rose said after a moment.

  Astrid shrugged. ‘You know that plants grow better when we talk to them?’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘There was a study,’ Astrid said. ‘And think about the rise of mass media. It’s a way of getting a load of attention from millions of people all at once. It’s got a power of its own, something above and beyond the content it provides.’

  ‘Are you saying television is sentient or something?’

  ‘Television? Are you living in the dark ages? The internet is the most powerful force on this rock at the moment.’ Astrid shuddered. ‘I hate the fucking internet.’

  ‘Is that where Mr Boots gets his energy from?’

  ‘The ghosts? Yeah, I suppose. They had a bit of juice left over when they kicked the bucket, a bit left in the battery, and then a couple of people saw them and had a strong emotional reaction…’

  ‘They were scared,’ Rose said. ‘They saw a ghost.’

  Astrid formed finger guns, which she proceeded to fire at Rose. ‘Exactly. That energy was enough to make them burn a little brighter so they were seen by a few more, and a few more, and so on until they were practically alive again.’

  ‘So the ghost tours—’

  ‘Feed the ghosts at the same time. Bingo. Symbiotic kind of thing.’

  Rose had often wondered why there seemed to be a handful of ‘well-known’ ghosts like the Grey Lady of Glamis Castle or the little girl down in the old streets beneath Edinburgh. Now she knew: they were maintained by their fans. There was a strange kind of comfort to that, a symmetry. She had seen a plaque once in a gift shop which read ‘you travel in the direction you are facing’. Whoever wrote it probably had no idea just how right they were. Question was, which way was she, Rose MacLeod, facing? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything. And with that, the panic was back.

  She stopped walking as the panic stopped her breath. Black spots danced in front of her eyes and she doubled over. Then Astrid’s hand was on her shoulder and she felt the tide of fear and confusion recede. She straightened up and took a full breath, and then another.

  She had the feeling that she had been about to ask Astrid a question, something important, but the words had drained away. She felt calm again, as if everything was going to be all right. Ghosts were real and that was fine. At least she had Astrid.

  She looked into her friend’s beautiful face. ‘You mentioned hot chocolate?’ Her voice came out weak, though, and she felt a spurt of loathing. Why was she so pathetic?

  Astrid took Rose’s arm. ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Whipped cream?’ Rose said, picturing those tiny marshmallows spilling from a tower of sweet white foam, the smell of sugar and cocoa and the comforting warmth as it slipped down her throat.

  ‘With extra sprinkles,’ Astrid said, still gripping her arm. Truth be told, she was squeezing a little too tightly and it hurt, but Rose wasn’t going to say anything. Astrid was her world.

  Chapter Ten

  When Mal arrived back in Edinburgh he was too wired to sleep. His body was tired, he knew, and his eyes felt gritty and sore, but his mind was racing. Laura had some kind of power, that was clear, and he thought it was a fair bet that was the reason she had lost her life. While lots of people had enough sight that it could be trained into becoming useful, like himself, very few had a natural gift. And those that did tended to struggle with their mental health. The image of Aislinn came to him, gazing up at him from her seat on his sofa, eyes wary but resigned, as if all the bad things had already happened. And another image – Aislinn’s face as the life drained away with the blood that ran down her arms and onto the pub floor.

  He swallowed a handful of painkillers and downed a pint of coffee while he contemplated his next move. He needed to find the target for Pringle and draw a line under that particular job, but – and he found that he could finally admit this to himself – he wasn’t sure he could do it. Yes, Rose MacLeod was certainly not entirely human, but the fact remained that she looked the part. And Aislinn had called her ‘pretty’, which was not an adjective Mal associated with the true face of a demon.

  The thought reminded him of something Freya had said. ‘Golden aura.’ He had snagged on it as a sign of her deeper feelings for Laura, but what if she had meant it literally? What if Laura and Rose were connected somehow? What were the chances that Pringle was after some girl that wasn’t quite a girl and who definitely had juice, and another girl with a power he had never encountered before in a human had been killed only fifty miles from the city, and they weren’t connected? Was Pringle working his way through a bunch of psychic kids? It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe killing them released their energy or whatever to Pringle, made him stronger. Mal felt his face twist. Now that wasn’t a good thought. What kind of legacy was he, Mal Fergusson, going to leave the world if he carried along this path? Killed a girl and made the biggest non-human bastard he had ever known even more of a threat. Good fucking job, man.

  Of course, Pringle had told him that Rose wasn’t human. That she was an object in disguise. It didn’t generally do to question the boss. And if Pringle was telling the truth (something which was far from likely) and had all of the available information (again, not a given by any stretch of the imagination), Mal would probably be kicking a hornet’s nest for no good reason. On the other hand, he’d always liked to do his own research and couldn’t shake the habit no matter how much of a pain in the bollocks it inevitably turned out to be.

  ‘Can’t help yourself, you poor stupid bastard,’ he told his yellow-skinned reflection, then went to pay his respects to one of the best business minds in Edinburgh.

  * * *

  Mary King looked amazing for her age. Lush, ripe, devastatingly sexy. She held out a hand for Mal to kiss, but he grasped it in his gloved hand and shook it bracingly. He wasn’t a fool.

  Mary King shrugged and laughed, the sound spreading down
through his body and straight to his cock, which rose in response. She did this every fucking time. One of her games. It was embarrassing, but the knowledge that she was playing a power game made no difference. Even the sickening knowledge of what she was made no difference. His body responded in the same, predictable way, sending him straight back to the horrific days of puberty when he could get an erection looking at a suggestively-shaped piece of fruit.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Mary sat down on the low sofa and patted the upholstery in invitation. Her gaze lingered on his crotch, a small smile playing around her lips as she enjoyed the effect she had on him.

  He took the desk chair and turned it to face her. He was higher than her now, so she couldn’t do any Basic Instinct leg-crossing routine. Not unless she was acrobatic. Part of him wanted to see if she’d try, anyway. Part of him that he wished didn’t exist and was probably responsible for nine-tenths of his worst decisions.

  ‘Missing person,’ he said. ‘A girl.’ He had already decided to concentrate on Rose, and not mention Laura unless Mary King did first. Despite his hunch, he had no real reason to connect the two and didn’t want to put ideas in Mary King’s head. Didn’t want to send any visitors to Freya’s doorstep.

  ‘A girl?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Bit pedestrian for you, isn’t it?’

  Mal tilted his head and waited. He knew it would piss her off but he was too tired and sore to play the usual verbal games. Most of all, he wanted to get out of this office and back into the relatively fresh air of the street. Mary’s flunky knocked quietly and opened the door. ‘Coffee? Tea? Water?’

  Mary King waved him away. ‘Mal isn’t staying.’

  Perhaps it had been a mistake not to kiss her hand.

  She leaned back in her chair, regarding him for a moment before speaking. ‘Can you tell me anything about this lost girl?’

  ‘Long dark hair, wears it like a rope.’

  Her mouth quirked. ‘A plait?’

  He waved his hand. ‘Yeah. She looks about nineteen or twenty. She was using the name Rose MacLeod. Pale but not artificially so.’

  ‘No makeup?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Can’t always tell.’

  ‘Glamour?’

  ‘Didn’t feel one.’

  ‘You might not,’ she said, not altogether kindly. ‘Why do you want her? Search and destroy?’

  ‘No. Strictly recovery only.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mary King said, clearly not sorry in the slightest. ‘I meant, why does your employer want her? What’s the end game?’

  ‘Strictly recovery only,’ he repeated.

  Mary King leaned back. ‘I hate talking to the monkey but, in this case, the organ grinder is worse. How is dear old Pringle these days? Bet he’s feeling those aches and pains. Bet he’s hungry.’

  Mal told his face not to react, but Mary just laughed. ‘I’m teasing you, darling boy. I know Pringle would turn you inside out if you so much as used his name.’

  ‘Can you help or not?’

  ‘Well, now. I haven’t seen your mystery girl but I’ll keep a lookout, let you know straight away if I get the eyeball. Unless you want me to recover her for you – for a fee, of course.’

  ‘No,’ Mal said. ‘Information only. Highly prized information,’ he added. ‘Excellently priced.’

  She nodded. ‘Fair enough.’ Mary King stood in one fluid motion. ‘Always a pleasure.’ But she didn’t hold her hand out this time. He was dismissed.

  Outside, he wondered about that. Mary King never usually missed an opportunity to make him uncomfortable. Getting away from her was always a performance. She would hold out her hand, and he’d have to pretend to kiss it or brazenly shake it like he had first thing. Or she’d lean in for a cheek kiss, her smell almost knocking him out, and then she’d laugh as he swayed on his feet like a punch-drunk boxer.

  Walking towards town, he mulled it over. Perhaps he’d really pissed her off this time. No, if it was that bad, he wouldn’t have made it out of the building so easily. He’d checked for a tail, too. Nothing. In fact, he decided as he came in sight of Calton Hill, it was almost as if she’d suddenly wanted him gone. As if she was hiding something.

  The bad feeling wouldn’t leave, the skin on the back of his neck prickling. He always trusted that patch of skin, so he doubled back to Mary King’s office, took a seat by the window in a nearby cafe, and watched. After a couple of hours he was rewarded by the sight of a car pulling up to the kerb outside and one of Pringle’s lackeys getting out of the back. The creature was buzzed into the office building, and stayed for half an hour before getting back into the waiting car and being whisked away.

  Mal was preparing to leave the cafe when the main door opened and Mary King herself stepped out. She looked relaxed, but he knew that her surface appearance meant less than nothing. She projected whatever she wanted to project – her skin and bone was just a borrowed suit, animated with dark magic and a well of power she had sucked from the world over decades.

  She was alone, which was unusual, and she moved away down the street rather than hailing a taxi or getting into a private car. Mal left the cafe and began following her, still not sure what he was hoping to achieve but working on instinct, when he saw something far more interesting. His mystery girl.

  She was walking with her blonde friend in the opposite direction and on the other side of the street. They were moving fast and within seconds they were swallowed by the crowds of people on the pavement. He made his decision instantly. He had a job to do for Pringle. His last job, he had now definitely decided. He would apprehend Rose MacLeod and, assuming she was as non-human as he expected, pass her straight onto Pringle and wash his hands of the whole situation. If she was human but with some sort of power, like the unfortunate Laura Moffat, he would rethink. He liked that word. He knew, deep in his heart, that it would end the same way. If he didn’t complete the job, Pringle would have him killed, and, besides, he couldn’t protect her from Pringle for more than a week or two. There was no option which ended well, no puppies and rainbows to aim for, but the word ‘rethink’ gave him the smallest, briefest illusion of choice.

  * * *

  Mary King didn’t often walk the streets – she preferred a nice ride in a flash car. Something red and shiny like fresh blood. Although, she had to admit that strolling the pavements was a far more pleasant experience now than in days past. No more wading through filth, no more odour of unwashed human and sewage. Well, she amended, as a vagrant-scented individual with questionable personal hygiene sloped past, less odour, at least.

  She needed to think. Mal Fergusson, the broken-down son of a hunter, had dared to visit her office and, although she could scarcely believe it, he had appeared to be asking for her help. What could be so important about a missing girl? Then, to make matters worse, she had called for Pringle but he had insulted her by sending one of his whelps. She felt the flush of fury and embarrassment and something darker beneath – fear. Pringle may as well have removed his trousers and waved his member in her face. Disrespect. The lackey had come bearing lies, saying that Pringle hadn’t engaged Mal Fergusson for a job in months. Mary King had hoped the feel of the city stones beneath her feet and the arching grey sky above would help, but as she took a cobbled lane deeper into the New Town, her mind remained unquiet. Was Pringle challenging their truce? Or had he simply grown old and sloppy and uncaring? Was it an act of war or the ravings of a old monster?

  She arrived at her destination and felt the knots of tension in her neck loosen as she gazed upon it. It was half past midday, and a bell sounded somewhere within the school. Children flowed from the doors and into the playground. They wore dark green sweatshirts with the school crest embroidered on the front – a unicorn and a stag up on hind legs facing one another.

  Mary King barely registered the symbolism, though. Her entire being was focused on the faint glow which came from the very young. When she had first settled in the city, there had been enough shining light to go around. It
had been a haven of superstition and ignorance and blind faith. People left bowls of milk out for the pixies, wore white heather for luck, and washed their faces in the dew on the first day of May. Mary King had grown fat and strong, enough to last her through the lean years which had followed.

  Children under the age of ten, as most of these primary kiddies were, had a little shine. They were open and ready to believe with attention that was sparky and new. They had an intensity which would wane soon enough. Ordinary children didn’t have much, it was true. The glow which Mary King could see was barely even detectable in most of the small people who were currently engaged in a spirited game of wall tig, but amongst the grey, small lights shone. They were murky, like candles at the bottom of a muddy lake, but they flickered nonetheless, and she felt her hunger sharpen in anticipation of a meal.

  The gate to the playground was locked but it was more a visual comfort to the law-abiding and something to stop the smallest and stupidest of the small people from running into traffic. Mary King gave thanks that she hadn’t washed up in America, where an armed guard would doubtless have barred her way, and reached over the top of the gate to slide the bolt open.

  The tots nearest were three girls. Seven or eight, perhaps, although children had been getting steadily larger and they may have been younger. Either way, she had only to lay her hand briefly on top of their heads to siphon their meagre gleam. The girls were staring at her, now, suprise just beginning to show on their round faces, but she moved on.

  There was one adult supervising the playground, a tired-looking woman clutching an insulated mug with fingerless-gloved hands. She glanced at Mary King and then, as Mary King wished to remain undisturbed, her gaze slid over her and away.

  A boy was stood over by the wall of the grey school building. He was slight and pale with gingery hair and a half-eaten banana clutched in one fist. ‘Hello,’ Mary King said, and the boy looked up. His face wasn’t open and trusting like a well-fed milksop, but sharp and wary like the kiddies who used to swarm her streets. She felt a pang of nostalgia for the old city, the streets which had been built over in the name of progress. The cramped accommodations which had been deemed insanitary and unmodern had held a certain crammed-together convenience, and the atmosphere had been thick with power. Folk fervently believing in anything and everything to ward off death’s icy fingers and shiny attention had been easy to come by when the biggest form of entertainment and wonder had been a vagrant in a bright coat pulling a half-dead rat out of his stinking hat. She smiled one of her nicest smiles and the boy visibly relaxed.