The Secret Dead (London Bones Book 1)

by SW Fairbrother

  The knife had left a long rip in my shirt. I lifted it to see a graze four inches long. Not worth worrying about, even if I’d been alive. It stung though.

  My reflection in the mirror didn’t look great. I looked one way, then the other. Not obviously dead, but that wouldn’t last long. I wondered what Per had done with his discarded legs. It would have been a terrible waste if he’d just dumped them. It was a stupid thought. It was unlikely he still had them, or some other organically grown, ethically sourced human meat in his freezer.

  The worst part was I knew I had to be missing something. I was a hag. I might not have always been very good at it, but coming back from the dead was coded into my genes. I should have a get-out-of-jail-free card. I just had no idea what it looked like.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket and wiped blood off the screen. I ignored the six missed calls and glanced at the time. Four hours until cremation. I put the toilet lid down and sat on it, face in my hands.

  I didn’t know what came next in the afterlife, but I had the horrible feeling I’d seen Adam’s soul dismantled in front of me. I’d never killed anyone, but suddenly the thought of true death was scarier than it had ever been before.

  Someone tapped softly at the door. ‘Vivia? Can I come in?’

  I was so used to my sister’s incomprehensible rambling that it sounded eerie when her words actually made sense. She opened the door before I could answer.

  She didn’t look right in the living world. She was too real. Her eyes met mine. They didn’t wander all over the place. Her limbs moved normally. There was no sign of the jittery, incomprehensible creature I’d grown used to.

  She sat on the edge of the bath. Her wing tips whispered along the bottom of the tub.

  I had so many things I wanted to ask her. I started with, ‘Why now? If all you had to do was hold on, why didn’t you come back before?’

  ‘It wasn’t the right time.’

  ‘Seriously? Seriously? It wasn’t the right time? Is that the best you can give me? Do you know how hard it’s been looking after you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.’ Sigrid ran her fingers along the rim of the bath. They were long and thin, and not at all swollen and sausage-shaped.

  ‘What about your body? Do you have two now, like Ben did? How does that work? Am I still going to have to look after it?’ I threw up my hands. ‘No, forget that. It’s your dead living body. You look after it.’

  She met my eyes. ‘That body’s dead. You’ve been ignoring your phone. Lorraine’s been trying to get hold of you.’

  I rubbed my eyes. ‘I have no idea how I’m going to explain this.’

  ‘You don’t have to, Viv. You’re dead, remember?’ She said it gently, but her words punched me in the gut nonetheless.

  She was right. I was dead. I didn’t have to explain anything. All I needed was to get to the crematorium in time. No more responsibilities or duties. The only duty I had was not to kill anyone. A few days ago that would have been a doddle. Now it seemed a little harder.

  Since I’d been responsible for Sigrid’s death, it was only fair she take responsibility for mine. ‘Will you fly me to the crematorium?’

  ‘No. You don’t have to be a zombie if you don’t want to. You’re a hag.’

  ‘How would you know? You’re not one. Neither is Charon. Everyone seems to think it’s just a matter of willpower,’ I said bitterly. ‘If it’s so easy, you tell me how to do it.’

  ‘Of course I don’t know,’ Sigrid said, ‘but you won’t have been the first hag to have been bitten. One of your own kind will know.’

  I thought of the only other hag in London. ‘I’m not asking Anastasia. She’d turn me in in a minute.’

  Sigrid burst out laughing. ‘Viv, you’re my sister and I love you. I do. But sometimes you can be incredibly stupid. Anastasia’s the only living hag close by, but she’s not the only one. Mum might know. Or one of the aunts.’

  She was right. There were hundreds of dead hags. All I needed to do was find somewhere to stash my body long enough to find an answer in the underworld.

  67

  I stared at the glass box. ‘No, absolutely not. It’s too flimsy. I’d be able to get out of it in seconds.’

  Stanley’s moustache drooped along with his mouth. ‘It’s the only one I’ve got.’

  My eyes kept flickering to my mother’s glass coffin and then to the empty one alongside it. It could be me—present and future. I dragged my eyes back to Stanley.

  ‘Why on earth do you have another one of these anyway?’

  ‘Just in case, Viv, just in case. I’ve been using it as a mini greenhouse.’

  I’d thought it looked familiar. I shuddered. It was bad enough Stanley sat up there all day with my mother without knowing he had imagined me in the attic too. The only thought worse than that was the knowledge that I now thought he looked delicious. Even the cane he was using to hold his bad leg steady made it worse. He was all wobbly like sweet jelly.

  There was a rustling sound. ‘Ow!’

  I looked up just in time to see Sigrid’s wings catching the top of the doorframe. Another white feather drifted to the floor, exposing yet more pink cartilage on the arches of the great white angel wings.

  ‘You know, these things probably weren’t such a good idea,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you haven’t gone yet. Ben wanted to say goodbye.’

  Ben Brannick appeared behind her in the doorway. He stepped into the attic hesitantly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m still sane.’

  ‘Oh good,’ he said. He shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I just wanted to say thank you, and I wanted to let you know you don’t need to worry about Alister calling the police on you. I told him you’re going to stay dead if you can’t find a way to fix it.’

  ‘Thank you. Have you seen your mother yet?’

  He shook his head. ‘I spoke to her on the phone. I think she didn’t know whether to be happy or mad.’ He thought about it. ‘Mostly happy, with a bit of sad too. She wouldn’t stop crying. She said she would go with me and Obe to the police station.’

  ‘What are you going to tell them?’ I was genuinely curious.

  ‘The truth. That me and Alister found those bodies, that Alister knew it was Adam because he could smell it, but we didn’t know who to trust. I still can’t believe no one knew they were there. I know the soul magic supposedly kept people away until it started unravelling, but Auntie Jillie’s a snake too. She should have smelt them once it started coming apart. How come she couldn’t smell them when Alister could?’

  I told him the same thing I told Alister. ‘I think she did. She just wanted to protect your dad.’

  He flushed. ‘By killing Berry? That wasn’t fair. Berry didn’t do anything.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. I’d had a call from Dunne thanking me for the email and letting me know they’d found Berenice’s bones buried at Carapace. Samson had admitted hiding them to protect his sister. They’d both been arrested.

  I felt my heart breaking at the thought of little Finn. He’d lost everyone. His mother, father, cousin, uncle. Only Neil was left, and I wasn’t sure how long he was going to be free. Ben had said he was going to include Adam’s claims in his police statement. I had no idea how they were going to prove it. Finn was likely destined for foster care, like his father and uncle before him, unless they could find someone else to take him in.

  Cramps shot through my stomach. ‘God, I am really hungry.’

  Ben took a step back.

  ‘Not that hungry. Not yet.’ I looked over at Stanley. ‘Promise you’ll build something a bit sturdier. Just in case I get it wrong.’

  ‘I will,’ he said, twisting his moustache the way he always did when he was lying.

  I stepped into the glass box and laid down. It was slightly too small, and my legs had to bend at the knee. The glass felt cool through my shirt. ‘And keep the attic door locked. If you hear anything moving and I don’t respond, cal
l the police.’

  ‘I will,’ Stanley said, still twirling.

  ‘He will,’ Sigrid said. ‘We’ll be okay. Don’t worry about us. It’s our turn to take care of you.’

  Pain wracked my body, and my brain went fuzzy. If I put it off any longer, I’d lose my mind. I closed my eyes. The world spun as my body shut down and I left the world of the living.

  68

  Malcolm sat beside me, our bare feet side by side in the cool water of the pool. A blistering sun shone overhead. Sweat beaded along the back of my neck, but I was quite stubbornly dressed in jeans, rolled up to mid-calf, and a long-sleeved shirt. Not-real waiters darted around, holding trays of cocktails and sun-hardened sandwiches. On balance, it wasn’t a bad death.

  ‘You remember this place?’ Malcolm asked.

  ‘Sure.’ I said, and I did. It had been the location of my first Lipscombe work function. We were supposed to do team building exercises. Instead we all got drunk and sunburned.

  ‘I’m glad you’re dead,’ I said.

  He looked at me, startled.

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I meant I’m glad you didn’t last long in the pit. I’m glad your soul’s passed over.’

  He gave a low chuckle. ‘Me too. They got me too fresh. Rest of the rotters got me down the gullet before my eyes had a chance to adjust to the darkness. Actually, now I think about it, I believe my eyes went first.’

  I shuddered, and he laughed. He’d always been fond of making me uncomfortable. I couldn’t help but laugh with him.

  Malcolm dangled his fingers in the pool and ogled a not-real woman sunning herself on the sun bed opposite. ‘You know I never touched her.’ He didn’t look at me.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rosa, of course. Who did you think I meant?’

  I shrugged. I could feel the skin on the back of my neck beginning to burn. ‘How’d you get infected then?’

  He glanced at me, then looked away again. ‘Promise not to laugh?’

  I smiled despite myself. ‘No.’

  He grabbed a cocktail from a passing tray and glugged half in one go. ‘It was Patricia Stull.’

  ‘Seriously? Please don’t tell me that’s the real reason you were avoiding her.’

  ‘Could have been.’ He gave me a sideways glance.

  ‘And you didn’t even think to use a condom? Jeez, Malcolm.’ I shook my head at the waste of it all.

  ‘Oh, come on, Vivvie. You know how it goes. Heat of the moment and all that.’

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ I said, but I was smiling.

  ‘I know. When do you think you’ll go home?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. When I figure out how to do it without eating my family.’

  He laughed again, but this time it had no humour in it. ‘I know that feeling. God, I thought I’d have more time, you know? It’s so unfair. When Ben brought Alister to me, I thought I had a second chance. He was my firstborn. It doesn’t matter how many other children you might have, you never forget the one you lose. It was a dream come true.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And worst of all, I didn’t believe him. Not even when he showed me Leslie’s body in that car. I couldn’t believe my own nephew would do something like that.’ He snorted out a laugh. ‘I believed him after Adam held that pillow over my face. And even then I was too scared to call the police. Too scared they’d throw me in the pit. I just didn’t know what to do. I should have done it anyway.’

  He sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. ‘Is it normal to have this many regrets after you’re dead?’

  ‘I think it is,’ I said.

  He patted my knee and left his hand there. I moved it. Somehow it didn’t irritate me the way it once had. It was nice to talk to a familiar face. ‘You sure your body’s safe?’ he asked.

  ‘I hope so.’

  I didn’t want to talk about my body. It gave me the heebies. Me, the woman who was used to coming back to life partially decomposed, who’d had a body in the attic for years.

  Malcolm ran his fingers through his hair, and I caught a whiff of coconut conditioner. ‘I didn’t say thank you. For looking after my boys. I appreciate that. You didn’t have to do it.’

  ‘It was a pleasure.’

  ‘I owe you one. A big one.’ For once I didn’t catch even the slightest hint of innuendo.

  ‘Thanks, Malcolm.’ But there was nothing he could do. He was as dead as I was.

  The underworld sun baked my skin. I could feel it burning and growing red, but I didn’t want to move. Going back with a sunburn was the least of my worries. It might even be a boon. Maybe I could use it to practice my haggery and finally learn how to get the underworld to do as it was told.

  My thoughts strayed back to the living world. Some things were better there. Sigrid was alive. So was Ben. I wanted to go back. I didn’t mind being dead, but who would want it to be permanent? I didn’t want to find my mother or my aunts or any of the other hags. They were all crazy, ancient, and scary, and getting a life out of them would likely come at a price I wouldn’t want to pay.

  So I stayed instead and waggled my feet in the cold water. I tried not to think of the living world where my body decayed in the darkness next to my mother, two mildewy Snow Whites waiting to be awakened.

  Thanks and Acknowledgements

  This story has been the result of a substantial distillation process whereby I wrote it, then a lot of other people helped me improve it, little by little, until it reached its current state.

  Firstly, thanks to everyone at Critters. Sending out my work for the first time was terrifying, but it’s thanks to you that I discovered positive feedback is like happy drugs.

  My lovely beta readers, Susan Boesner, Valentina Buffetti, and Darrell Johnson, provided me with invaluable feedback, as well as support, and I am very much in their debt.

  I have to give special thanks to everyone at Red Adept Editing Services, especially Lynn, Joann, and Laura. This is a much better book for their involvement, and I am very grateful for all their patience and hard work.

  Final thanks have to go to my husband, Brent, without whose unquestioning support, I’d likely still be struggling on the first draft.

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for reading The Secret Dead. I hope you enjoyed it. If you have the time, a review on Amazon would be hugely appreciated (even if it’s only a line or two).

  A Murder of Crones, the sequel to The Secret Dead, is out now. You can read the first two chapters at the end of this book, and find the rest here.

  Want to know when I’ve released a new book? Sign up to my newsletter here. No spam or non-relevant waffling emails. I promise.

  I love to hear from readers! Pop by my website at http://swfairbrother.com/ and say hello. You can also find me on pretty much every social network site that attracts procrastinators: Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, Goodreads.

  A Murder of Crones

  S.W. FAIRBROTHER

  1

  One of my most vivid childhood memories is of the dark and the damp, accompanied by the scent of wet fur. Then my mother’s voice told us to hush, and the door above shut with a snick. Her footsteps receded, and the only sounds left were our breathing and the dub-dub-dub of my sister Sigrid’s heart as she held my head tight against her chest. Cold water trickled down the wall behind me and soaked into the back of my shirt.

  On the other side, Harriet—the source of the wet fur—said, ‘Where’s the light switch?’

  ‘Ssh.’ Sigrid’s grip on me tightened.

  ‘Come now, girls. It’s not like there are any windows. No one can see in.’

  ‘Ssh!’

  In the complete darkness, I couldn’t see the weasel-woman smile, but I could hear it in her voice when she said, ‘And no one can hear us. We’re completely underground.’

  ‘Those are the rules,’ I said, ‘until Mum says it’s safe.’

  ‘Come now, little hag. You can’t tell me you two just sit quietly in the dark every s
ingle time.’

  Neither of us answered. We did just sit silently in the dark. It was what we had always done. I’d even grown to like it—the damp, earthy scent, the rare quiet, nothing but the sound of us breathing. I usually fell asleep.

  ‘Huh-uh, little hag. Look. This’—Harriet rapped on the wall; it made a hollow sound—‘was built so light couldn’t escape. All these old bomb shelters are sealed like that.’ Her clothing rustled as she stood. Her fingers whispered along the walls. ‘Your mother doesn’t understand. She is how old? A zillion? And she can’t die. Or, rather, she can come back if she does. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be truly afraid, or what it’s like to be a child and scared of the dark…bloody hell, where is the damned switch?’

  There was more rustling, then a scraped click. A small flame flickered to life at the top of Harriet’s cigarette lighter, and I had my first opportunity to get a good look at her up close.

  Harriet had been camping in the garden under the oak tree out back, where her dome tent was in the process of ruining Stanley’s lawn. She wasn’t usually allowed in the house—none of the weasels who camped out during the summer ever were. My mother included them in her delusions. When they were here, they had to go into the shelter too. Sure, Harriet had been around, and even argued with our mother a few times when we were close by, but we weren’t allowed to talk to them. We were hardly allowed to look at them.

  Keep away from them, girls. They’re bad as rats… or worse. They’re dirty.

  Harriet didn’t look dirty. She kept the short fur that covered her lanky figure clean and neat. I thought that if I were to stroke her cheek, it would feel as silky soft as a kitten’s. Only the soles of her feet and the palms of her hands were completely hairless, but they looked soft too—pink and smooth like those of the hamster someone had once brought to school. Her black eyes flashed in the flickering light, and frustration showed on her triangle-shaped weasel face.