The Mayfly: The chilling thriller that will get under your skin

by James Hazel

  She was talking to him. The woman who had been making toast. She was concerned, perhaps even a little annoyed at something.

  He had a vague feeling of unease. He knew the man at the table and the woman by the counter, who was now tending to his burnt hand.

  His hand throbbed.

  ‘Jesus, Charlie,’ said the woman. He was surprised he could hear her so well through the window. He noticed that the kettle was black. Had it not been red earlier? ‘You need to stop doing this. Can you hear me?’

  Priest heard her, but the voice was now muffled, like a train platform announcement.

  There was a black spot in the corner of his eye moving slowly across his vision. A darkness descending. A pain ran down the right-hand side of his face, enough to make him check if he was bleeding. His stomach felt like a giant hand had taken hold of his gut and was twisting and wrenching it out of place.

  ‘I’m worried about you, Charlie,’ the woman was saying. ‘It’s getting worse. It’s just – you know – I don’t want . . . I don’t know. I’m just worried.’

  ‘What worries you?’ he said.

  ‘You swear you never remember what happens. You just live for hours in like a vacuum. Doesn’t that scare you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what is it? A dream?’

  Priest thought about it. No, it wasn’t like a dream. In a dream – especially a vivid one – reality is fabricated. There is no sense in a dream that anything is wrong. The stage is set, the backdrop complete. But, critically, when consciousness returns, so does reality and you are left with a sense of relief or disappointment that what preceded wakefulness was only a dream. In this world, reality bleeds away slowly and is replaced by a hollow, colourless world utterly distinguishable from a dream.

  He was aware that time was passing.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not a dream.’

  ‘Do you know who I am? Right now?’

  She was sitting very close to him.

  ‘Yes. You’re Sarah. My sister.’

  ‘Good.’

  He blacked out.

  When the darkness subsided Priest found himself lying fully clothed on an unknown bed surrounded by crimson-coloured walls holding shelves covered with books.

  Fuck.

  He had no idea what time it was and the light hurt his eyes. William’s description of emerging from a disassociation episode rang in his ears. Take the worst hangover you’ve ever had, multiply it tenfold and then imagine downing a bottle of vodka in one. The last thing he remembered was phoning Okoro in a taxi but he couldn’t remember the conversation. He vaguely recalled drinking coffee in Sarah’s kitchen. That probably happened, although derealisation warped his memory.

  Jesus. I really don’t like coffee.

  The last few hours were like trying to remember a place he had only been to once in the fog.

  He hoped he wasn’t at Sarah’s house but the marketing textbooks suggested he was. He held his head in his hands, trying to focus. He tried to sit up but a pain had taken hold in the back of his head and he fell back down on to a lumpy pillow. He stank of sweat, his legs felt heavy. He felt ashamed, again.

  ‘We are the same, brother,’ said William in his head.

  ‘Hi, Uncle Charlie.’

  He had no idea how long Tilly had been standing at the doorway. Despite the pain, he forced his head up and managed a smile, which she didn’t return. She had a beaker of something in one hand and her bunny in the other.

  ‘Hi, sweetheart. Hope I didn’t scare you.’

  She came through and placed the beaker delicately on the bedside table. She seemed to fade in and out of focus as she walked across the room like an apparition. Priest had to concentrate to keep her in one piece.

  ‘I got you juice,’ she explained. ‘Mummy said don’t bother you but you might be thirsty, right?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you and, as it happens, I’m really thirsty.’

  She giggled as he drank greedily from the beaker, sloshing it down purposefully to draw more laughter. He relaxed a little. And he was thirsty, too – parched. It felt as though he had eaten nothing but salt since breakfast. Seemingly, Tilly had made the juice herself from cordial mixed with two or three teaspoonfuls of water at best. It tasted of syrup but he didn’t mind.

  When he had finished, she hopped up on the bed next to him. He wondered if Ryan was in the house. Probably not if Tilly had come through to see him, which was a relief. He could hear the gentle clash of dishes downstairs – Sarah making dinner for them.

  ‘Mummy said you were poorly. Are you OK now?’ Tilly asked with genuine concern beyond her six years.

  ‘I’m much better, thank you, darling. I think your juice made the poorly go away.’

  ‘That’s good. Would you like to come bowling with us later?’

  ‘Oh, that’s very kind but no, thank you. I have to get back home.’

  Tilly looked disappointed. ‘We’re not going bowling anyway.’

  ‘Then why did you ask?’

  ‘I thought maybe if you wanted to go then Mummy would take us.’

  He laughed and kissed her on the forehead. She wrinkled it and giggled. For a moment, he saw Sarah staring back at him. And William, before he had started killing people.

  ‘Welcome back,’ said Sarah. She was standing in the doorway, although Priest had no idea how long she had been there either.

  ‘Sorry,’ Priest groaned. ‘I think I –’

  ‘Vincent Okoro phoned. He was worried about you.’

  ‘I was talking to him before –’

  ‘Yes. Funny how the whole world runs around worrying about you, Charlie, and what do they get in return?’

  Priest bit his lip but didn’t reply. He couldn’t work out what to say. Sarah rolled her eyes and motioned for Tilly to come out of the room. The little girl hesitated but, seeing the look on her mother’s face, scurried out.

  ‘I’ll make you a sandwich.’ Sarah sighed. She turned to leave.

  ‘I don’t deserve you, Sarah,’ Priest managed to call after her.

  She looked back over her shoulder and grinned. ‘You’re damn right, you don’t.’

  24

  Hayley was finding it difficult to breathe. Her lungs had deflated and her windpipe had contracted dangerously so she had to resort to snatching short gulps of air in between agonising periods of stillness. The hooded figure was standing over her, his hand massaging her naked shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry for scaring you earlier,’ he said.

  Hayley closed her eyes. She wanted to scream until her throat burnt away, but she couldn’t move. She was still lying flat on a metal table with a white sheet draped over her naked body. Her stomach hurt and she could taste blood in her mouth. How long had she been here? She had drifted in and out of consciousness for hours, occasionally waking to find the hooded man staring over her, murmuring softly. Now she was fully awake, he stayed in the room.

  ‘What do you want?’ she gasped.

  His hand was under the sheet now, moving further down to the top of her breast. She tensed every muscle in her body, forced herself to writhe as much as she could, to fight against the straps holding her down. Anything to stop what was happening.

  But her efforts were futile.

  ‘I want you to help me, Hayley,’ the hooded man explained.

  To her horror, he gently peeled the sheet down to her waist, exposing her top half to the cold air of the room. He leant across her, the hood against her neck. Even through the material she could feel his hot breath on her skin.

  Jesus? She opened her eyes, the brightness of the artificial lighting momentarily blinded her. Jesus, are you there? She had never doubted that before. So why, in this desperate moment, did she doubt it now? Please help me, Jesus. I . . .

  She was light-headed, the room was spinning. She realised that she was hyperventilating, her brain swimming with excess oxygen. Much more and she would drown.

  She wheezed. Every word was excruc
iating. Her lungs felt as if they were going to explode. ‘Are you . . . going to rape me?’

  The hooded man laughed gently in her ear. My God! His hand was on her breast, his fingers digging into her skin.

  ‘No. That would be most unbecoming of me.’

  Then what? Her stomach convulsed and she thought she might retch. What do you want from me? Jesus! What does he want from me?

  He removed his hand and stood upright beside her. From behind his back, he produced a metal tin and positioned it at the end of the bed. He was humming tunelessly to himself.

  Hopelessness suddenly overwhelmed her; her stomach churned again. She turned her head to the side and vomited. Jesus, why have you abandoned me! The warm, acid fluid spilled out over the table and down her chin and neck. She gasped for air.

  The hooded man did not move. He just watched her through the two slits in the hood until she had finished before moving around to her other side and examining her arm. He reached down and took out something from the metal tin at the end of the bed. Something that made her blood freeze.

  I’m going to die. Jesus, I’m going to die.

  The hooded man held the needle up to the light and checked it carefully. Gently, he squeezed the syringe. A clear liquid dropped on to the bed.

  ‘What’s that?’ she panted.

  ‘Something very special, Hayley.’

  ‘No!’ Hayley cried out in pain and anguish, fighting against the straps around her ankles and wrists. It was no good.

  He pressed the needle into her arm.

  There was nothing at first. Then she saw it. Her veins, engorged from the stress of trying to resist, blackened. A dark shadow began to spread across her arm from the point where the needle had penetrated her. Something was taking control of her, consuming her. Swallowing her whole. The Devil is inside of me! It crept across her like a black vine wrapping itself around her arm, right up to her shoulder.

  Then every nerve in Hayley’s body erupted in inconceivable pain.

  25

  Georgie reflected on the previous evening out while getting ready for work. Following Fergus’s altercation with one of the bouncers, they had been ejected from Dojos prematurely and found themselves in the corner of a bar down the street. She hadn’t enjoyed any of it; the evening had served as a reminder of how detached she had become from her so-called friends.

  Martin had largely ignored her. Until Charlie had turned up, that was. Was he worried that their secret wasn’t as secure as he thought? She pinched the bridge of her nose; her eyes were still stinging.

  She decided to let her hair fall over her shoulders today. She wasn’t sure that tying it back was sending out the right message. Too much I’m in control. But wasn’t that what she was supposed to be doing? Taking back control?

  Georgie resolved to do two things after work – first, find another house, by herself. Her income wouldn’t enable her to buy anything, not when a one-bed flat the size of a shoebox cost half a million pounds locally, but she might be able to lodge or maybe even rent somewhere just outside the city’s central zone. And Charlie was a generous employer. Forty-five grand a year plus bonuses for a newly qualified and inexperienced solicitor was well above the average. Second, she would confront Martin. Let’s talk about what happened that night, one year ago.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Li was half dressed, garbed luxuriously in a silk teal dressing-gown embroidered with a red-and-gold dragon down the side. It had probably cost more than Georgie’s whole wardrobe. Her hair was wet. Georgie wondered if she had woken up alone.

  ‘Good morning,’ Li said brightly. She looked perfect, as always. Certainly not the way someone who had only had two hours sleep should look. ‘Can I borrow your straighteners? Mine are on the blink.’

  Whatever she did, Li’s hair would dry perfectly. She hardly needed straighteners. But Georgie was prepared to indulge her. If she moved, she might even miss Li. A fleeting thought crossed her mind – would Li like to move in with me? Together, with Georgie’s salary from Priest & Co and Li’s income from escorting and her father’s credit card, they could probably afford somewhere more central.

  ‘Sure. They’re over there,’ Georgie said, gesturing to a chest of drawers covered in books.

  Li fumbled around in the drawers for a moment. ‘They’re still in the box. Do you use these?’

  ‘Not really. I don’t have many – you know – girly things.’

  Li laughed good-naturedly. ‘I don’t know how you survive, Georgie.’

  Georgie shrugged. ‘Somehow, I guess.’

  ‘Mm. So what about Martin and Mira, then?’

  Georgie carried on getting ready. Perhaps that way Li would get the message and the conversation would be short.

  ‘Yeah. It’s something, eh?’ Georgie said without enthusiasm.

  ‘I heard them. His room’s above mine. Fuck, made even me blush!’

  ‘Wow.’

  Georgie collected a pilot’s bag full of papers and books. Her guide to the Civil Procedure Rules, two spare counsel’s notepads, a copy of Archibald and a copy of Chitty. One of the reasons why she had taken the job at Priest & Co had been the opportunity to work in both civil and criminal law. Li stood around for a moment, evidently not sure what to do next.

  ‘You’re not . . . you know?’ Li was watching her reaction carefully.

  ‘Not what?’ asked Georgie curtly.

  ‘You know! Bothered or anything?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Oh, Georgie. About Martin and Mira getting together. About them spending the whole night fucking like rabbits in the room down the hall?’

  ‘Li!’

  ‘I’m just looking out for you.’

  This was probably true, but Georgie knew full well that Li was also very keen to satisfy her own curiosity.

  ‘It doesn’t bother me in the slightest,’ Georgie said. It didn’t sound particularly convincing, even to herself.

  ‘You’re not . . . jealous?’

  Georgie hesitated, trying to gauge Li’s expression. Did she know? ‘It’s . . . more complicated than that.’

  Li smiled, but her eyes were disbelieving. Georgie thought better of saying anything else on the subject. She put on her glasses and made for the door.

  ‘Sorry, Li. Got to dash. Busy day.’

  ‘Busy day with that very handsome boss of yours?’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘The guy you spoke to last night? That was your boss, right?’

  ‘That was Charlie Priest.’

  ‘Fuck. How do you manage to stay so cool all the time around him?’

  ‘I – I’ve never –’

  ‘Thought about it? Oh, come on, Georgie. Even you . . .’

  ‘Even me what?’

  Georgie glared at Li. She could be such a nosy busybody sometimes. Georgie resolved not to ask whether she was interested in sharing a flat. This is why I’m not a people person. People annoy me too easily.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Li. She at least had the decency to look a little sheepish.

  26

  Jessica Ellinder was waiting by her car when Priest stumbled out of his apartment block and into the frost-covered road. Even in the weak, Sunday morning light, she looked impatient. Her breath misted in front of her.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said as he approached.

  ‘Sorry. I’m not good with mornings.’

  Jessica looked him up and down. ‘You’re wearing a suit jacket over a T-shirt.’

  He looked down. ‘Apparently.’

  Jessica climbed in the driver’s side. Priest paused before opening the car door and taking the passenger seat. It was bolt upright.

  ‘How do you –’ Priest looked around for some way to adjust the seat.

  ‘It’s the one above the lumbar support. Sorry, Wilfred usually likes it like that.’

  She had insisted on driving. The precaution was entirely justified – Priest’s old Volvo had never travelled further north
than Watford and he doubted its capability to get them safely to Cambridge.

  ‘Wilfred’s your dog?’

  ‘What led you to that conclusion?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘You’re single, and Wilfred’s a lousy name for a horse. And horses prefer their seats reclined.’

  She sighed. ‘I’m single?’

  ‘No ring,’ he explained.

  ‘I could very well not be single but have no desire to wear a ring, or indeed any reason to.’

  ‘You’re single,’ Priest grunted. I note that you didn’t take offence at the presumption that you have a horse, too. ‘I checked with Terri Wren this morning. Hayley still hasn’t shown up. That was why I was late.’

  ‘I heard the news. Philip Wren’s death is being announced as suicide. He suffered from severe depression. There’ll be a service after the body is released. The family will be setting up a trust fund for mental illness.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Maybe. But whoever killed Miles did it in spectacular fashion. Why switch MO and fake a suicide?’

  Priest had already calculated the possibilities. All of them seemed as unlikely as each other.

  ‘You and Wilfred often take drives together?’ he said eventually.

  ‘If you stick your head out of the window and yelp at the postman on the way it’ll be like any other road trip for me,’ she said venomously.

  They stopped to refuel and Priest resisted the temptation to buy a packet of cigarettes. He made do with a Coke. She had coffee. He had offered to operate the pump and she had looked at him strangely as if to say, ‘You think I can’t refuel my own car?’ After that they had sat in silence until they reached the outskirts of Cambridge and entered the maze of sandy, baroque buildings and narrow, car-repelling streets. Students in skinny jeans wobbled dangerously on bicycles around them as they drove slowly into the centre.

  ‘I had Solly build up a profile of Hayley based on her social media activity,’ said Priest.

  ‘That doesn’t seem like a very accurate way of profiling someone,’ she mused.

  ‘It isn’t.’