The Secret Dead (London Bones Book 1)

by SW Fairbrother

  ‘Yeah, he visits me every year when he comes down to stay with his dad. He was round a few days before Christmas.’

  ‘Do you know anything about someone claiming to be his brother?’

  Per crossed his legs. Somewhere in my imagination, they clanked. ‘Claiming? Ben brought some guy called Oliver round. Ben said he was his brother. I got the idea he was the result of one of Malcolm’s old affairs. You know what Malcolm was like.’

  ‘That I do. I guess with the amount he played around, it was only a matter of time before he screwed someone infected.’

  Per looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Sorry, that wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘No, you’re right. I know what he was like.’

  I took out my phone and showed him the photo of Ben and the mystery man playing table tennis.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. Didn’t surprise me I guess, because he looks like a Brannick.’

  I looked at the photo again. Both Ben and the mysterious Oliver were skinny, in both face and body, but otherwise I didn’t see a resemblance. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He looked like I imagine Alister would have.’

  That was the son who died in the car accident. ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Sure. I remember Alister and Leslie. Ali was a sweet child.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got contact details? An address or phone number?’ I asked. My brain was whirring. Ali. Why hadn’t I seen it before? Ali was only a step away from Ollie.

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Well, thanks. Let me know if you hear anything.’ I stood up, suddenly eager to get home.

  ‘Absolutely. And let me know when you find Ben. He’s a good boy, no matter what the papers say. He wouldn’t have murdered that girl. No chance.’

  Perhaps not, I thought. Ben had an older brother. I’d known that the whole time. I’d just thought he was dead. Perhaps we’d been looking at the wrong deaths from the beginning.

  34

  I left with a promise from Per that he’d call me if he heard anything. There was no sign of the street weasels as I made my way down the urine-scented stairs. It was fully dark by the time I stepped outside, but with enough light pollution to make out a yellow tint to the cloud ceiling: snow. I shivered and pulled my coat closer.

  A car zoomed past, hip-hop blaring from the speakers. Every now and then I had the urge to leave the city. To take Siggie and run away, just the two of us. But no matter where I went, she’d still need carers and I’d still need money. At least in London I lived rent free. Even if it did snow occasionally. I made my way back to the station, expecting to feel snowflakes on my face at any moment, but the sky held itself back. With the exception of light shining underneath the living room door, the house was cold and dark when I let myself in.

  An episode of Big Brother blared from the TV as Lorraine cycled Sigrid’s legs back and forth. My sister lay on her back on the carpet and chattered about tennis balls.

  I leaned against the doorway, ‘Everything okay today?’

  ‘Fine. She’s been a bit antsy, but fine.’ Lorraine laid one leg down and gripped the other by the thigh, then she moved the leg from side to side. ‘We’re running out of nappies though.’

  ‘I’m due another pack from the clinic on Friday. Will they last till then?’

  Lorraine wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t think so, sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll just have to buy some.’

  ‘If you need help, sweetheart...’

  ‘I’m fine, Lorraine. Thanks. I’ll get them.’ I hesitated, then said, ‘I know you want to get home, but I’ve got something I need to do this evening. Would you mind staying an extra hour?’

  ‘No prob.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I wanted to finish watching this anyway.’ She nodded her head towards the TV.

  ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

  Light shone down the stairwell from the attic. I checked the fresh lock I’d put on my bedroom door. Still secure. I used the toilet, then locked the bedroom door behind me.

  I prefer to die in my own bed. It’s safe and secure, and I don’t have to worry about anyone fiddling with my body while I’m gone. I pulled off all the bedding and changed the bottom sheet for a plastic one designed for those who wet the bed. I’m not normally gone long enough for it to be a problem, but the thought of death sweat soaked into my bedding gives me the icks.

  I lay down and closed my eyes. Remnants of the last death still infected my body. An undercurrent of nausea swirled in my stomach, and I had what I thought of as a pre-headache. Dying came as a relief. I stretched and became aware of weight on my body. I felt a moment of panic before I realised the harpies covering the bed like a pile of stinky soft toys were their usual docile selves. This is why I don’t like dying in my own bed. I shifted my weight, and they toppled off, claws catching at my skin like they were a bunch of cats annoyed at being tossed off the bed.

  The door to the bathroom was closed, but the sound of water sloshing was audible. I trotted past it and the kitchen, where my not-real mother berated Stanley about some imagined infringement.

  Outside on the front step, I breathed a sigh of relief. The river swelled and lapped at my feet, and a moment later a white-sailed ship wove into sight.

  I stuck out my thumb.

  The Boatman grinned at me. ‘You called.’ His voice was deep, but soft.

  ‘Hi.’ While I was growing up dead, I fancied myself in love with Charon. The Boatman is tall, dark haired, and beautiful, and had been unnecessarily kind to a not-dead girl who didn’t know where else to go. At the time, I thought it was because he had a soft spot for me, but he’s nice to everyone. It’s part of the job description.

  He smiled at me. ‘Anywhere in particular? Or are you just coming along for the ride?’

  I smiled back and gave him directions to John Line Terrace.

  A thought occurred to me. The Boatman sees everyone. ‘Hey, you haven’t seen my mother have you?’

  ‘Not recently.’

  ‘Define recently. A week? Year? Decade?’

  ‘I don’t know. A good few years at least.’

  The little knot in my stomach—the one I’d hardly been aware was there—relaxed. Maybe the crazy old baggage was gone for good. Maybe she’d moved on to whatever came after the underworld. In my heart I knew it was too good to be true, but by my reasoning I was due a little luck.

  I stood on the deck of the boat and breathed in the hot, heavy air. The boat was now a little river cruiser putt-putting through flooded suburban streets. The dead waved at us as we went.

  We stopped frequently to pick up new passengers—an old man in a hospital gown with his bum peeking out the back, a cyclist in a crushed helmet, an obese man still breathing heavily and clutching at his arm. Charon welcomed each aboard politely and showed them a place to sit. I don’t know where he takes them. He won’t tell me. The only thing I can think of is that the newly dead have to undergo some sort of induction process, but that would just be silly. The ship slid to a stop, and I reached for the ladder Charon threw over the side.

  Five minutes later I stood on the pavement outside the car dealership. Its brick walls were solid, as was the graffiti and the broken glass under the boarded-up windows. Not a flicker.

  The warped boards bent under the weight of my kick and disintegrated into wet flecks of cardboard. I half-hopped through the window, careful to avoid jagged triangles of broken glass. Inside it was dark and smelt of damp and wet bird.

  Harpies covered every inch of floor, squashed up against each other, in some cases standing on each other’s heads, their eyes half-lidded. They watched me with lazy interest but made no move. Whatever had had them riled had passed. Above me the creatures perched on every possible inch of the exposed beams and shelves. Every now and then one lost her balance and fell into the feathered mob below with a damp squawk. Human-like tongues licked the air.

  I waded through the throng to find b
ird-women perched on their sisters’ shoulders outside in the car park. The flock numbered thousands. The cars against the far wall were feather-covered mounds watching me with human faces.

  One was familiar. It smiled at me and stretched out dirty wings. She flapped across the swarm towards me and landed on another’s shoulders.

  I shivered. ‘I don’t like this version, Siggie. It’s creepy.’

  My sister chirruped at me. Her blond hair was matted and tipped with mud. ‘They won’t let you get close, Vivsy. And there aren’t any doors to run through this time.’

  I looked back at the cars, or at least at the feathered shape of them. Every single harpy eye focused on me. I backtracked to the street and to Malcolm’s house, where I found the obese woman still in the kitchen. I stood in the doorway and watched her as she made a sandwich, a half-drunk glass of water at her side.

  The snake was gone, but there was someone else with her: a not-real teenaged boy with blond hair and an overbite that showed two large rabbit-like teeth. I took the spare seat. Neither the woman nor the not-real boy paid me any attention. The fat woman prepared another sandwich. She liberally slathered butter on two big thick slices of white bread, followed by a squirt of mayonnaise, lettuce, cheddar, tomato, ham, and cucumber. She didn’t bother cutting it in half. Instead she ate methodically, not wasting any time, starting at one end and going up and down the sandwich until it was done. She interspersed every second bite with a long slug of water.

  When she finished, she stood and went back to the countertop and helped herself to a bowl of soup from a simmering pot on the stove. Then she filled her water glass from a jug in the fridge and sat down to eat again.

  I’d dismissed her as an old death. And she was. But people do in death what they couldn’t do in life, and what this woman wanted was to drink gallons of water and eat like her life depended on it.

  I started gently. ‘Hello, I’m Vivia.’

  She ignored me and swallowed the soup straight from the bowl. A full roast dinner appeared on the table.

  ‘Can I ask you some questions?’

  The fat woman speared a roasted potato, raised it to her mouth, and chewed slowly. There was no sign of recognition. No blink or acknowledgement. I might have been the ghost.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’ I pulled her plate away.

  That got her attention. She glared at me and pulled it back, but the moment she had her food, I was forgotten again.

  I pulled it back again. If there’d been a handbook of how to talk to dead people, stealing food from the ravenous would probably not be on the approved list, but I couldn’t think of any other way to get her attention.

  She pulled it back with a hiss. This wasn’t getting us anywhere. I pulled the plate again and held it out of reach.

  She screamed with fury and lunged at me. I got a glimpse of her face elongating, the nose diminishing, fangs extending.

  I scrambled backwards, and in my haste my chair tipped over and I banged my head against the edge of the table. Dead snake breath huffed in my face as her fangs scraped my nose.

  I scuttled backwards on all fours and hit the kitchen wall. The giant snake watched me then, content I wasn’t going to bother her again, lost interest in favour of a line of snuffling white mice on the table. The enormous serpent slithered onto the table and opened her jaw. The mice were surprisingly obliging. The teenaged boy had morphed too. He was now a small ribbon-shaped serpent with bright emerald scales. He had already helped himself to mice, if the fat lump halfway down his scales was any judge.

  I don’t know much about snakes. I’d recognise a cobra because they have a hood, and I could probably identify a rattlesnake if I could see the tail end. The giant snake didn’t have a hood or a rattle, but she was big. Her head was a longish diamond shape, and her skin was a yellowish khaki covered with brown patches. It was difficult to estimate her length due to the coils, but I thought she was at least ten foot from tail to jaw, and thick bodied. I stared at her until I was sure I’d remember. Maybe a python, I thought. Didn’t they get big enough to eat goats or small children? There were neither on the table, but she was making short work of the mice, and as she swallowed the last, a grey not-real rabbit hopped its way through the back door, leapt onto a chair and then the table, all the while unconcerned about the giant snake in the room.

  I couldn’t watch. She could eat not-rabbits to her heart’s content, but I’m squeamish, and the mice were enough to give me the heebies. I turned my face away. There was a single short squeak, and that was enough to have me reaching for the key around my neck.

  35

  Once I’d recovered and stripped the bed, I reached for my phone and dialled Obe.

  ‘Hi, Viv? You got any news?’

  ‘Maybe. Actually, I’ve got a bit of an odd question really. Leslie and her son were also snake shifters, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Do you know what type of snakes they were?’

  There was a short pause while Obe considered the question. ‘Leslie was a ball python. Alister was something unusual, a vine snake I think.’

  ‘Thanks. How big was Leslie as a snake?’

  ‘About four foot. Why?’

  ‘It’s just something that’s come up. I’ll let you know if it means anything.’

  I put both types into Google one after the other and confirmed it. The two snakes I’d seen in the underworld were a ball python and a vine snake. I knew Leslie was dead. That wasn’t a secret, but she was supposed to have died in a car accident a long way from home. The dead often head home if they die away from it, but only if they have a good reason. I couldn’t think of any reason they would go home just to eat themselves into obesity.

  The image of the suitcase in the boot of the car came to mind, along with the neat criss-cross scars on the lid as if fangs had bitten it, trying to get out. If you were to lock a snake shifter in a suitcase and leave it there, it would die of thirst and hunger, and then revert to the human form and fill the case in a way it could never do alive.

  And Alister? Dead children always stay close to their dead mothers. The vine snake and boy had been projections. And now there just happened to be a boy, who matched what Alister might have looked like at eighteen, who had turned up claiming to be Ben’s brother.

  I slid my finger up my phone to unlock it. It was past eleven p.m. Dunne was likely home with someone’s foot in his face. The moving corpse was still a mystery, but if I was right, Leslie Brannick was the body in the suitcase. She’d been dead for fifteen years, and that wasn’t going to change. I lifted my finger from the phone. Dunne might also be pissed I hadn’t passed on the information about Per Ogunwale. I took the cowardly route and sent him an email detailing my theory about Leslie and my visit to Per.

  I looked up at a tap at the door and saw Lorraine leaning against the doorframe. ‘I’ve put Sigrid to bed, but I didn’t have time to bathe her. You okay if I do it tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thanks, I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, love. I’m just lucky to have you next door. It’s a real peace of mind knowing my Barry’s being looked after.’

  I smiled and nodded. ‘Looked after’ wasn’t quite right. Barry was busy spending his afterlife watching endless EastEnders reruns and eating a lot of pizza, which I understood wasn’t so different from what he’d done in life. Apart from the massive coronary at the end, of course.

  After she let herself out, I wandered into the kitchen and replenished Vinegar’s food and water. I located a tin of tomato soup after a moment’s rummaging and poured it into a bowl. I buttered a hunk of bread while the soup heated up in the microwave.

  I leaned against the counter and rubbed my eyes. Leslie Brannick was dead, but probably not in the way everyone thought. Her son was likely still alive, but where had he been for the last fifteen years? And who on earth was the other body? The one that was still moving, even if it shouldn’t have been.

&nbs
p; I ate in front of the TV, interrupted only by the cat bopping his head against my hand as I ate. The news about Ben’s wings had broken. At the sight of the globby flesh, I changed channels and half-watched a rerun of a sitcom with a too-loud laugh track.

  I fell asleep halfway through and surfaced around three a.m. with tomato soup on my legs, a heavy cat on my lap, and the TV blaring. I pushed off Vinegar, who gave me a dirty look, changed my pyjama bottoms, switched the TV off, and went to bed.

  I woke to bright white light streaking through the cracks in the blinds where it made bars on the opposite wall. Sometime while I’d been sleeping it had started to snow again, and the room was filled with that bright light particular to snow days. The window was wide open, letting in the cold. I had a vague recollection of opening it sometime in the night, feeling suffocated by dreams filled with snakes and hunger.

  Usually when I think it’s going to snow, I hang towels over the window before I go to bed to block the light, but I’d been half asleep and hadn’t thought about towels or anything else. I lay very still on my side, stomach churning and only partly due to a post-death hangover. We’ve all got our little hang ups. Snow on the windowsill is mine.

  It was snowing the morning I killed my sister.

  36

  When I was twelve, I murdered my sister. I knelt on her chest and held her head under soapy water until she stopped thrashing and the little bubbles around her nose and mouth were still. It was her idea and I had only the best intentions, but we all know what they say about those.

  Bringing people back from the underworld is a doddle. Bringing them back without profound psychological and spiritual damage? A little trickier.

  It could be done. My mother did it with Stanley. He returned without the tumour that killed him. And I’d had some practice. Vinegar was hit by a car when I was eleven. I brought the cat back without any problems. He also came back without arthritis. It seemed a simple enough process.

  Turned out bringing back a cat was a lot easier than bringing back a human.