by Naomi Clark
“You say she mentioned Rhian Ellis by name?” he continued.
I nodded. “Her boyfriend, Baxter, too. I know they knew each other–it came up when I was investigating Rhian’s disappearance.” I thought back to the hot, distant day when I’d found Rhian in that bath tub, throat slashed, organs stolen. I’d never have guessed where I’d go from there, but on reflection I don’t know why I’d expect anything else. My life had been getting weirder and weirder since I first visited Shoregrave–on another missing person case, as it happened. It was probably a sign. No more missing person cases. I’d have to add it to my business card.
We wrapped up the interview quickly enough. My repeated line of “I don’t know. I was drugged” seemed surprisingly satisfactory to the detective. Anna would have grilled me harder, but I doubted Anna ever wanted to be alone in a room with me again. The detective packed me off with a warning that I might be questioned again later.
I sloped outside for a cigarette, leaning back against the sun-baked bricks of the police station while I rolled. I didn’t notice Anna until she cleared her throat to get my attention. I was too focused on the smell of tobacco and the thought of my next drink. I glanced at her, afraid to make full eye contact in case the Voice took it as an invitation.
“How are you feeling?” she asked me. She didn’t really look at me either. Her gaze was fixed somewhere past me, on the parked police cars and garbage-strewn pavement.
I shrugged. “Pretty crappy. You?”
“About the same. Still too many loose ends to tie up.” She tugged at her ponytail and sighed. “There’s nothing to tie Searle to any deaths except Rhian’s.”
If they nailed Tamsin for it, that would be great, but it wouldn’t help the families of the other dead girls. I knew how it went. People wanted answers. Hell, in my honest moments, I knew that was why I became a PI, to give people answers. Not justice–justice was subjective, but the truth. The real reason their daughter died, their husband cheated, or their business partner fleeced them. A little knowledge, a little insight could go a long way to putting your mind at rest.
“It could be worse,” I offered lamely. “It could be raining.”
We said nothing for a long time, while I smoked and Anna studied the gathering gray clouds overhead. Then I couldn’t stay silent any more. “Anna, about what happened...In the basement. I was...I can’t—”
“Don’t, Ethan.” She looked at me properly for the first time. “You’d been drugged and tortured. I’ll read your statement, but I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
I shifted my weight uneasily. “I’m sorry. I just…I just want to say I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she said, avoiding my gaze again. “Just…leave it.”
I can’t. Call me stupid, but I have to keep scratching the wound. “Can I buy you a drink? Take you to dinner? Just do something to do...I don’t know...”
“Make yourself feel better?” She laughed then, rich and warm, and patted my arm. “Sorry, Ethan. Let’s just pretend we’ll always have Paris, okay? Now go home, rest up, and forget about it.” With that, she slipped back inside, leaving me staring at the end of my cigarette.
I didn’t have much choice but to go home, really. Since Anna had driven me here, I didn’t have much choice but to walk to the nearest bus stop to get home. Nothing beats sitting on a sweaty, sticky bus surrounded by sweaty, sticky old people to really depress you. Leaning my head against the grime-smeared window, I took stock.
I had a sneaking suspicion Anna wasn’t okay with my little rapey episode, but I knew we’d never talk about it again. I figured that was for the best. I never wanted her to find out about the Voice. She’d have me slapped in a straightjacket and carted off to the crazy house before I could say electroshock. I wondered how the Voice would deal with therapy. Badly, probably.
I guess the upside was that I’d solved Baxter’s case as completely as I could. The cops had Rhian’s killer in custody and I was sure forensics would nail the crazy bitch for the murder. That was a good thing. I saved a few hookers from ending up with their innards in jars. It also meant I could hassle Baxter for payment now without feeling like a heartless bastard. One for the “pro” column.
In the “con” column, I was still stuck with the demon. I would still have the nightmares, the constant whispering in the back of my head urging me to kill, hurt, rape, and maim, which meant I’d still be watching horse porn and resisting the urge to eat my gun most of the time. All in all, things could have worked out better, I concluded with a sinking heart.
My cell phone buzzed in my jacket pocket and I fished it out to stare at an unknown number. Unknown numbers were usually banks or credit card companies, and both meant I owed someone money. I hesitated, and then answered. Fuck it. Things could hardly get worse, could they?
“Mr. Banning, it’s Father Crane–Daniel. How are you?”
I blinked in surprise. I knew I’d left Crane all jazzed at the possibility of casting out my demon, but I hadn’t really expected to hear from him again. I’d figured that was just post-exorcism jitters. “I’m pretty awful,” I told him. “You?”
“Good, very good. I have news! I’ve been doing some research and think I might be able to help you after all. Are you able to come back to the church? Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“I’ll have to cancel a few dates,” I told him. “Break a few hearts, but yeah, I think I can make time for you. What’s up?”
He laughed. “I don’t want to get your hopes up too much. Just come to the church tomorrow at three, and we’ll talk.”
He said his goodbyes, before I could tell him that if he didn’t want to get my hopes up, maybe he shouldn’t make cryptic phone calls telling me he could help. Still, I guess now I had something to look forward to besides horse porn.
I settled back in my seat, trying to ignore the jolting rhythm of the bus, and allowing a small sliver of hope to creep through me. There had to be a way to get rid of the Voice. Whether it was black magic, God, or electroshock, I’d find it. I couldn’t go through life spending my cash on whiskey and X-rated videos like a bored, horny teenager.
“You won’t live long enough to,” the Voice whispered, but it didn’t sound convinced. Sounded tired, in fact, like all this drama had been just too much for it.
“Fuck you,” I said loudly. The little old man next to me hit me with his umbrella. I smiled brightly at him, surprised to discover I felt pretty okay. Tamsin was going down. Crane was on my side. Anna had given me permission to pretend we’d always have Paris and Mutt waited at home for his curry leftovers.
It could be worse, I decided as rain started rolling down the bus windows and thunder cracked overhead. It could always be worse.
About the Author:
Naomi Clark lives in Cambridge and is a mild-mannered office worker by day, but a slightly crazed writer by night. She has a perfectly healthy obsession with giant sea creatures and a preference for vodka-based cocktails.
When she’s not writing, Naomi is probably either reading or watching 80’s cartoon shows, and sometimes she manages to do all three at once.
Find out more at
http://naomijay.blogspot.com/.
Also from Damnation Books:
Afterlife
by Naomi Clark
eBook ISBN: 9781615720538
Print ISBN: 9781615720521
Horror, Paranormal
Novel of 82,614 words
Yasmin Stoker is a ghost tour guide who spends her days showing tourists around Shoregrave’s haunted hotspots. She also happens to be a wraith who spends her nights hunting Revenants, newly-risen flesh-eating vampires. On one of her regular hunts, she witnesses a mysterious ghostly girl pulling the body of a teenage boy underground. Who and what is this girl, and why is she attacking men around the city? Yasmin investigates, but i
t quickly becomes clear that somebody wants to keep her from finding the killer and they’ll do anything–including ambushing her with ghouls and cacodaemons–to stop her.
With only a persistent private eye and a taciturn vampire (one of the Immaculate, no less) to help her, Yasmin must deal with fanatical necromancers, crazed ghosts, and a sexy history teacher in her quest to solve the mystery. And along the way she uncovers some heartbreaking truths about her own existence.
Also from Damnation Books:
Round Midnight and Other Stories of Lost Souls
by Nickolas Cook
eBook ISBN: 9781615721818
Print ISBN: 9781615721825
Horror, Urban Fantasy
Story Collection of 119,878 words
The night has a music of its own. Sometimes, terrible and dark; other times, full of revelation and unexpected beauty. In this collection, you will find both cosmic terrors and horrors of the mind and heart. You may even find the answers to questions you never wanted to ask. Listen…can you hear the music of the night calling you?
