Dead Push (Kiera Hudson Series Two#7)

by Tim O'Rourke

  “Because people don’t have wings, Kiera,” I told her.

  “Perhaps,” she said, more to herself than to me.

  How much did Kiera know? How much did she remember? Were her wings breaking through a result of the cracks Noah was making?

  Kiera slowed the car to a stop and killed the engine. She pushed open the car door and climbed out and I followed. It was raining hard, and as Kiera headed through the puddles towards the train in the distance, mud splashed over her boots and up the hem of the jeans she was wearing. It was a freight train which had struck the victim. Its engine was long and black and pumped thick clouds of diesel into the overcast sky. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the train that had carried me here. Wind blew across the open fields on either side of us, and I thrust my hands into my coat pockets.

  We reached the train and the whole scene seemed surreal to me. I had seen a lot of dead people in my life – some of those I had killed myself – but it was bizarre to see the upper half of this teenage boy’s torso sticking out from beneath the train, whilst one white hairy leg lay further along the track wearing only a black shoe and sock. But the most peculiar thing about the whole incident was that the kid under the train was wearing a rubber Maggot Frogskin mask. Maggot had replaced Mickey Mouse in this pushed world, I reminded myself.

  I think Kiera saw the look of bewilderment on my face and said, “Why don’t you go and speak with the driver.”

  “Sure,” I said, turning away from the dead kid wearing the mask. I made my way along the tracks to the driver’s cab. I knew the whole point was to find out from the driver what had happened. Was the death of the kid a deliberate act on behalf of the deceased, suicide for instance, or was he being pursued or was he pushed in front of the train? In which case the area would be declared a crime scene and a full murder enquiry launched. But if what Kiera said was right about the wolves masquerading as cops in the town, they probably wouldn’t give a diddly shit about how the kid ended up dead under the train. To them it would just be another dead human.

  I established pretty quickly from speaking to the distraught train driver that the kid had been standing by the tracks as he approached.

  “I blew up on the horn to warn him that I was approaching, but he just waved at me, pulled on one of those cartoon rubber masks, and stepped in front of my train! In all my years, I have never seen anything like it,” the driver said, trembling and upset.

  I made my way back to Kiera, my boots crunching on the ballast, to find her pulling the mask from over the deceased’s head. The rubber mask made a squelching sound as it peeled off the kid’s face.

  “The driver said the kid just stepped out in front of the train,” I said.

  “Freaking wolves,” Kiera cursed under her breath.

  “What’s this got to do with the wolves?” I asked.

  Instead of answering my question, she said, “C’mon, give me a hand to get him out from under the train.”

  We bent at the knees and began to pull the upper torso free from under the train. I couldn’t get what Kiera had said about the wolves from my head. Had she used that seeing thing she did in my world to figure out a wolf had been involved in this kid’s death?

  “Come on, Potter, don’t wimp out on me now. I need your help, these things are heavy.”

  “Sorry,” I said, pushing the remark Kiera had made about the wolves from the front of my mind.

  We had found some I.D. in the kid’s wallet which had made identifying him easy. His name was John Baker and he had been sixteen years old. Once the ambulance crew that Kiera had summoned to the scene had left the mortuary with the remains of John Baker’s body, we made our way to his home address to inform his relatives of his death.

  We climbed from Kiera’s car and made our way up to the front door of the small house. It looked more like a shack than someone’s home. Before we’d had a chance to knock, the door was flung open by a woman in her early thirties, who had a chocolate-smeared toddler clutched to her chest.

  Kiera produced her police badge from her coat pocket and showed the woman.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly, officers,” she said in a panic-stricken voice.

  “Why do you think we‘re here?” Kiera asked her.

  No one had informed this woman about the death of the boy, as far as we knew, that’s why we were knocking on her door.

  “The note! I’ve just found John’s note – says he’s gonna kill himself… so I called the police station…” She then stared into Kiera’s eyes. The woman holding the child must have seen the sorrow in them.

  “No! No! No! I don’t want to hear it… Go away…” and she started to push the door closed on us.

  Kiera quickly put her hand out and prevented the woman from closing the door. We quietly made our way into her home.

  John Baker had been this woman’s younger brother. He had managed to escape from one of those schools run by the wolves. The school had been called Ravenwood. We sat and listened as Baker’s sister told us how her brother hadn’t been the same since returning from that school. Although he had managed to escape, he had suffered from nightmares since his return.

  “He felt guilty, you see?” the woman said.

  “Guilty, why?” Kiera asked.

  “He left his best friend, Sam Brook, behind. They had grown up together.”

  I knew she was talking about Kayla’s friend Sam. Was I surprised by this connection? Not really. I guessed it was the two worlds overlapping like Murphy had said.

  John Baker’s sister described how she had often found him sitting alone at night and crying.

  “I begged him to tell me what had happened there,” the woman sobbed. “But all I got was nonsense.”

  “What kind of nonsense?” Kiera asked, taking a notebook from her pocket.

  “He spoke of a place he called the Rat House,” she said. “He would wake at night screaming in fear. Kicking and thrashing out with his legs and yelling that the rats were going to eat him.”

  “Did he describe anything else?” Kiera asked, making notes.

  “Not really,” she said, shaking her head and wiping her tears away.

  The toddler the woman had been holding now ran about the room saying over and over again, “Maggot Frogskin! Maggot Frogskin!” The kid stopped only to search through a toy box on the floor.

  I looked back at the woman as she sat and tried to stop the flow of tears streaming from her bloodshot eyes.

  “Did your brother ever tell you how he managed to escape the wolves without being matched?” Kiera asked over the sound of the kid chucking toys around the room.

  “No,” she said, then after some thought added, “I thought my brother had gone mad.”

  “Why?” Kiera asked.

  “John told me that the teachers often checked the children’s hands for missing fingers, and he’d heard rumours that some of the girls had their backs checked to see if they had wings.”

  Kiera shot me a look. I turned away and watched the kid.

  “Mummy, Mummy! Maggot Frogskin?” the kid asked, patting his mother’s knee.

  “Charlie, I haven’t seen your Maggot Frogskin mask. Go and see if it’s in your room.”

  Hearing this, I got up and left the house. Standing alone outside, I lit a cigarette. It was then I understood the comment Kiera had made beside the tracks about the wolves. The kids they didn’t destroy through matching with them killed themselves because the wolves haunted their nightmares forever more.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jack

  Isi-bore didn’t return above ground for a few days. Part of me was glad about that. I occupied myself during the day by tagging along behind Melody, and by night I visited Mrs. Last. She didn’t like the shallow grave I had her buried in, but she eventually stopped screaming when her mouth became clogged with earth and dirt. I killed her on the third night when the cops started combing the woods I was holding out in. They wouldn’t have caught me, but this was the world where
the Vampyrus had taken it upon themselves to hunt down wolves like me. I didn’t want any freaking bats snooping about. Anyway, Mrs. Last had bored me, unlike Melody. She had started to interest me. On the morning after the whipping her mother had given her, I followed the girl to a tattoo shop on the outskirts of town. It was called ‘Red Ink.’ I liked that. There was a bar across the street, so buying myself a beer or two, I spent a couple of lazy days sitting across the street and watching Melody come and go from the tattoo parlour. Now what would Momma say if she knew? I wondered with a wry smile. What would Isi-bore say? Perhaps that’s how he came about his own tattoos – the black flames that scorched his chest, arms, and neck in the world I knew him from. The longer Melody stayed in the tattoo parlour, the more I became curious as to what kind of tattoo she was having adorned on her young body. Perhaps she was having ‘Fuck you, Momma’ stencilled in red ink across her forehead? Perhaps she was having it adorned across her arse – so her Momma had something to read the next time she was giving Melody a good whipping? And that’s what fascinated me about Melody. Unlike Isi-bore, the girl seemed to have some guts. She was something close to a rebel, even though she looked and dressed like a nun. I’d always wondered what really went on under a nun’s habit. So with my curiosity getting the better of me, I swigged the last of the beer from the bottle and crossed the street to the tattooist.

  Standing back from the window, I peered inside. Melody was lying face-down with her head turned away from the window. A thickset man, who himself had practically every inch of his body covered in tattoos, was bent over the girl as he inked hundreds of roses down the length of her back. The roses were bright pink.

  I thought of what Noah had said, and now had no doubt that he’d been warning me not to hurt Melody Rose. Did Noah believe that I killed the girl? Then rubbing my temples, I turned away and headed back across the street to the bar. Did I kill the girl? Is that how she died? Why would I kill her? I wondered, taking a seat at the table by the window so I could keep an eye on the tattooist.

  “Why did you kill me?” someone asked, and I looked up to see the bride was now waitressing my table. “Another beer?”

  “Why don’t you leave me alone?” I growled, leaping up from the table and sending it toppling over onto the floor.

  I staggered back out onto the street, my brain aching. It felt like somebody was wringing it out like a wet cloth. Unable to bring myself to look back to see if the bride was following me, I headed back up the road and out of town. I reached the woods circling the lake, and collapsed against a tree. I waited for sundown and crept deeper into the woods. That was the night I finally put Mrs. Last out of her misery.

  On the third day, Isi-bore stuck his head and shoulders out from below the grate. He looked pale and gaunt – like he had been ill in some way. I peered from behind a nearby tree and watched Isi-bore crawl out from beneath The Hollows. He closed the grate, hiding it from view with a handful of dead leaves and twigs. As I guessed he would, Isi-bore headed straight for the lake. The wind was blowing cold and hard, and his long coat flapped about his shins.

  He has a coat at last! I noticed. Perhaps mummy reminded him to wear one, just in case he caught a cold.

  I watched him race along the shore, then search the bush where he and Melody snuck away to work themselves into a frenzy over the gardening books Isi-bore stole from the local library. The boy came out of the bush and looked in both directions along the shore. I guessed Melody might be getting herself tattooed up, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I wouldn’t even if I could. It wasn’t my secret to tell. Pulling his coat tight about himself, Isidor headed back through the woods in the direction of Melody’s home.

  The boy lingered by the front gate. Then watching him draw a deep breath, he finally plucked up the guts to push it open and stroll up the front garden path. He knocked on the door while I hid amongst the trees. After what seemed like forever, the front door slowly swung open a fraction. I could just make out the lined and wrinkled face of Melody’s mother peering out at Isi-bore. From my hiding place it was difficult for me to hear exactly what was being said. With the wind gusting in the tree branches above me, I could only get snippets of the conversation. I heard enough though to understand that Melody’s mother was denying she even had a daughter. Was Melody dead already? Did that mean the photographer was on his or her way to the grate? But the photograph – it was of Melody and Isidor – I hadn’t seen any picture taken of them. So did that mean the girl was still alive? My brain started to ache again and I pressed my fingertips against my temples. I wished now that I had asked more questions of Lilly Blu before I’d accepted this stupid fucking mission.

  “You were too busy thinking about killing her,” a voice said over my shoulder, and I didn’t have to turn around to know it was the bride who was taunting me.

  “How many ways have I got to tell you to fuck off,” I snarled back at her. She must have finally got the message because she was gone already.

  Needing to know if Melody were dead already, I sprang forward, taking on my wolf form. Just like I had in the woods, I slunk from my hiding place and around the side of the house.

  “You do have a daughter, and her name is Melody...” I heard Isi-bore say.

  “Yakadee – Yakadee – Yak!” the old bitch cackled. “I ain’t listening because I never had no daughter! Now get off my porch!”

  With my long, black tail arrowed out behind me, I jumped down over the wall and peered in through the basement window. I pushed it open with my long whiskered snout. As a wolf I was far too big to squeeze inside like I had before. I heard the front door slam shut from the other side of the house. I bounded back over the wall, and keeping flat like a lion creeping up on its prey, I made my way around the edge of the house. Peering around the wall, I watched Isidor, make his way back down the front garden path, then suddenly stop.

  Did he know I was here?

  He turned around, but instead of looking back in my direction, Isi-bore looked up at the house. A stupid-looking grin appeared on his face.

  The fucking retard thinks this is funny, I thought.

  Isi-bore then raised his hand and waved up at one of the bedroom windows. Then, without warning he took off his coat.

  Another coat lost, I thought. Doesn’t this kid feel the freaking cold?

  Isi-bore stretched open his arms and revealed his wings. No sooner had they unfolded, his feet were lifting off the ground and he was floating upwards towards the window. I peered around the wall and looked upwards. Melody was at the window. She opened it.

  They spoke, although from the ground I couldn’t hear what it was they said. Isi-bore reached for her hand and pressed it flat against his chest.

  Now that did surprise me. He wasn’t even wearing a T-shirt. The boy was letting Melody touch his bare flesh. Perhaps things were looking up for these two. He then got even more daring as he leant through the open window, took Melody in his arms and swooped away with her in the direction of the lake.

  How the fuck was I meant to follow the boy and girl if one of them could fly? I panted, setting off across the fields at great speed. With my long pink tongue lolling from between my jaws, I reached the treeline surrounding the lake. I sat on my giant haunches in the shadow of the trees and watched Isi-bore and Melody standing together on the shore, by their secret camp. With fingers shaking, I watched Isi-bore reach out and slowly remove the girl’s bonnet. Her long hair fell down her back. In the pink light of the fading sun sparkling off the lake, it made her hair shine like glitter.

  Isi-bore gently sunk his hands into the thick curls of her hair. His wings rippled in the breeze, swooping down off the mountains in the distance.

  “Do you like it?” Melody asked him, looking shy.

  “It’s beautiful,” he told her.

  Melody tenderly brushed her fingertips over his wings and down the length of his arms. “That’s why you fled that day, wasn’t it?” she said.

  “Yes,” he told her. “I coul
d feel myself changing and I thought you would be scared of me.”

  Hearing this, I realised the true reason Isi-bore had fled that day on discovering Melody had been whipped by her mother. It wasn’t because he lacked courage. He was going to change into his true Vampyrus self. He’d wanted to keep the fact that he was a monster hidden from Melody.

  “You’re not scared of me?” I heard him ask her, now that he had found the strength to truly be himself in front of her.

  “How could I be scared of an angel?” Melody whispered, looking up into his eyes.

  And again I wanted to be sick. I dropped down, placing my snout on my giant paws. But this time, I didn’t feel sick because of their display of tenderness and love for each other – I felt sick because I envied them.

  “Thank you,” Isidor smiled down at her.

  “Thank you for what?” Melody breathed.

  “For liking me for who I am. For not laughing at me because I couldn’t read and write,” he told her.

  “Thank you for not being cruel to me for how I dress and the way I live. Thank you for taking the loneliness away. I was so tired of being lonely, Isidor,” Melody told him.

  I couldn’t stop the yelping sound that came from deep within me. I buried my snout beneath my paws and tried to block out the sound of my mother’s voice that was now screaming in my ears.

  “Paint! You can’t paint! Even Father Paul was getting sick of you! He kept looking over at me and shaking his head in despair!”

  I placed my paws over my ears to block out her voice. Father Paul had helped me to paint like Melody had helped Isidor to read. He hadn’t laughed at me that night, nor had he looked at my mother with despair – just like Melody hadn’t laughed at Isidor because he couldn’t read or write. It was me who had laughed at Isidor. It was me who had called him a dumb-fuck. It was me. It was me.

  You ruined Father Paul's evening and everybody else’s. Now get to bed! My mother screeched inside of me.

  I hadn’t wanted to go to bed because I hadn’t liked being on my own. I hated the loneliness I’d felt as a boy. I had learnt what true loneliness had been that Christmas my mother had left me alone in that café. I could still feel the emptiness at being left out of the fun they were having together. I understood Melody’s loneliness. It was like a wide, black hole was sucking your soul out. Like Melody, I’d felt lonely. There is nothing worse than that feeling. Melody was so fucking lucky. Isidor and Melody were both so fucking lucky to have each other. And I couldn’t help but feel myself hate them for that.