Pretty Little Dead Things

by Gary McMahon

  At first I thought the clock had stopped ticking again, but it was still going. I could barely speak, but hid my horror well. "Hoods? What, you mean like monks?"

  "Don't be silly, Usher. The witness described two youths in dark hoodies following the girl for part of her route and then vanishing minutes before we think she was taken."

  "Oh. I see. That puts a new spin on things, then, doesn't it?"

  "Indeed." He sat back in his chair, preoccupied – which was the only reason, I think, that he failed to notice my mildly stunned reaction to the mention of hoodies.

  "Right then: Spinks. How are you fixed for a prison visit this afternoon? I can come and pick you up myself and we'll get there for around three o'clock."

  "That's fine. I'll be ready when you arrive."

  "Just one thing." He leaned forward again, serious. "Don't mention any of this to Baz Singh. I know that you're still on his payroll, and that's your business, but what we've discussed here is mine and I do not want some cheap wannabe gangster party to this level of information, even if it does concern his daughter's death. That man is trouble, and I don't want to give him an excuse to get involved more than he already is. Imagine the PR nightmare we'd have on our hands if we had to arrest the grieving father of a murdered girl."

  I stood up, sliding the mobile phone into my coat pocket, where it didn't quite fit. "I'll say nothing. This is between you and me."

  "Thank you – and I'll see you later. Make sure you stick some extra credit on that bloody phone."

  I left the office and walked down the stairs, too afraid to climb into the small metal box of a lift. The world was closing in on me again, and I felt threatened from all corners. The only person I could possibly trust was the woman I'd upset this morning, and I was afraid to make contact with her again until both our emotions were under control. I wished that I could drop the act and go to her, but then I realised that it was not an act at all. I could barely grasp how I felt about Ellen, but one thing was certain: there was love between us, and that counted for a lot, even in a world as dark as this one was rapidly turning.

  PART TWO

  THE ONLY WAY UP IS DOWN

  "Remember you shall die." Anon

  SIXTEEN

  It has been said that ghosts exist only because we believe in them, but I'd argue that the flipside of this rather glib theory is equally as true: we only exist because ghosts believe in us.

  Before the accident I had not so much as encountered the notion of consensual – or consensus, if you want to be pedantic about it – reality. In those days I was content to plod along like everyone else, believing in the world I saw around me and represented on television, and not even realising that all it took for that version of reality to shatter was for enough people to believe in an alternative.

  The world was so simple then: black and white, with easily defined edges. Now it isn't so straightforward, and nothing I see or feel can be trusted. It's all open to interpretation, and sometimes interpretation is all I have to go on.

  Our reality – the one we choose to believe in – is merely a layer, and beneath it and on top of it are other layers, each one equally as real. These different realities exist simultaneously, barely interfering with the other layers, but often, where these separate realities touch or fold or crease, seepage can occur. They can even tear or break, and that's where the real problems start.

  I'm sorry to destroy everyone's nice rosy view of things, but ghosts are not the forlorn souls of the departed. They are just beings that have transformed and moved on to another layer, and when we catch sight of them what's actually happening is that reality is warping, twisting, folding, creasing – or even tearing apart at the seams.

  That's when they come through – the lost ones, the ones who have wandered off the beaten track and somehow crossed over into another layer of reality, our layer. They cling to their old forms, trying to convince themselves that they belong here, but most of them just want to go home. Some of them, however, go looking for trouble and tend to fight against any attempt made to intervene.

  Part of my job is to repair the damage, and to help the ghosts on their journey to wherever it is they need to be. The most absurd thing about it is that I don't even know where I'm supposed to be going or how I might get there.

  "You're quiet." Tebbit wanted to talk but my thoughts were focused elsewhere.

  "Sorry, I'm preparing myself. Trying to clear my mind and attune my senses. I'm sure you wouldn't want me to miss anything."

  Tebbit made a noise in his throat that I took as some kind of affirmation. He clearly wasn't sure if I was being serious or not, and to tell the truth nor was I.

  We were in an unmarked police car on our way to see Byron Spinks. Tebbit had picked me up, as promised, and I only made him wait fifteen minutes before coming out to meet him – purely for the hell of it, you understand.

  The car joined the Armley Ridgeway and we left it at the exit leading to the prison. Tebbit had sorted out the arrangements in advance, so we were expected. The guard on the gate waved us through without so much as a smile as soon as Tebbit announced himself and flashed the requisite ID and paperwork.

  I pulled out the mobile phone Tebbit had given me and started to fiddle with it, opening and closing the screen, pressing buttons, holding it to my ear. "It's a wonderful thing, this little device. I know I should hate it, but it's just too damned clever to dislike."

  Tebbit chuckled as he negotiated the narrow approach road. "Glad to hear that, Usher. At least I won't have to worry about you going silent on me again."

  "I'm touched by your concern," I said, flicking the phone. "I managed to retrieve my own number, charge the thing and top it up with some credit early this afternoon. Did you know there's even a camera on here? I only found out because I accidentally took a snapshot of my left nostril."

  Armley Prison loomed large in the windscreen, an intimidating grey stone structure with something of the gothic about its sullen presence. Tebbit stared at the building; there was a look of intense loathing on his face that was softened by what I thought might be admiration. He'd sent so many criminals here, and possibly failed to send so many more, that his feelings regarding the place were clearly mixed.

  Tebbit parked the car and we got out, both of us staring up at the jail. The old grey stones were stained by time, holding within them the regretful tears, guilty screams and possibly repentant prayers of all who had been sentenced to spend time there at Her Majesty's Convenience. The place was more haunted than just about anywhere else I had stood: ghosts skulked between the bricks, lay nestled under the rafters, and stared down from the turreted roof as we passed beneath them.

  But I wasn't here to see any of them. I was here on other business. The business of the living.

  "You look scared." Tebbit stopped and watched me, his eyes narrowing.

  "I am. Always. There are so many spirits here… and so much pain and heartbreak. It's a hideous feeling to be standing here, in the shadow of such desperation." I looked at the ground and tried to compose myself, blanking them out. My tattoos were going wild, as if trying to peel away from my skin and go slithering out of the prison grounds. I recited a quick verse I remembered from The Tibetan Book of the Dead and then raised my head to stare down the building. The building stared back, not budging an inch, and I realised the folly of my bravado. The best I could hope for here was to get out unscathed.

  The check-in process was interminable. Even though Tebbit was a Detective Inspector on a pre-arranged visit, we still had to go through the pantomime of an intensive search-andquestion routine. I have my rites and rituals; the system has its own, and their gods, too, must be appeased.

  Corners were being cut and people were looking the other way just to get me here, to interview the man alone, but still we had to endure the rigmarole, the pretence that this was all official and above board. Everyone knew that it wasn't; they were all aware of who I was and what I did. The worst kept secret in town, that's me.


  Much later I found myself outside a small room with a narrow steel door. On the other side of that door sat Byron Spinks, a man accused of a particularly nasty murder – a man who had asked for me specifically, and who refused to speak to anyone else.

  "He's been more or less uncommunicative since he got here. Won't tell anybody anything, and sits facing the wall in his cell chanting some kind of prayer. I didn't even know he was religious until we locked him up." Tebbit walked towards another door, this one made from sturdy timber and with a reinforced glass window framed in the upper portion. "I'll be in here. There's a two-way mirror, and I'll be able to see and hear everything. He said he won't talk unless you're alone. You'll be fine, though. He's cuffed to the table."

  I nodded, not sure what to say. Tebbit walked through the door and closed it loudly behind him.

  "This way, sir," said the enormous prison guard who stood behind me. His eyes were as hard as stone and he looked like he could bench press Mike Tyson. "I'll be right outside the door so can be in there in a second if you start to feel uncomfortable. I wouldn't worry, though. He's been meek as a lamb since his arrival, apart from that nightmare he had. The only thing he's asked for is to see you." The guard unlocked the steel door and stepped to one side.

  I glanced at the guard, smiled, swallowed, and lunged into the room before I could change my mind. It was a very small room and the lighting was poor. One wall was taken up by a huge mirror – I assumed this was the two-way viewing system, and Tebbit and others were even now sitting behind it, studying my every move, absorbing each nuance of every little thing they saw.

  The room was like a film set. The walls were painted the standard prison-grey; the ceiling was a slightly lighter shade, and stained with nicotine from a million historical cigarettes. Byron Spinks was sitting behind the desk, silver handcuffs around his big wrists and a chain leading from them to the underside of the table, where it was no doubt fixed to metal rings which were in turn bolted to the heavy piece of furniture. The table legs were bolted to the floor. The chair legs, too: eight bolts, two for each leg.

  "Hello, Byron." The door slammed shut.

  Byron Spinks blinked at me, his dark-stubbled head looking grimy and swollen. He was wearing a simple grey T-shirt and dark blue jeans – modern prison-issue fatigues. He smiled. "Mr. Usher?"

  "Yes, Byron. I'm Thomas Usher. I believe that you asked to see me?"

  His smile was genuine. Probably the most unnerving thing about the expression was the fact that it was real, not faked for the occasion. "I'm so glad to see you."

  "May I sit?" I indicated the chair opposite.

  "Please." He nodded briskly; an eager child keen to have an authority figure join him in his games.

  The chair was hard, uncomfortable. My buttocks began to ache after only a few seconds pressed against the moulded plastic surface. "What can I do for you, Byron? I must admit that I was puzzled to hear you'd asked me to come. After all, we don't know each other, do we?"

  Other than the sound of our voices, the room was silent. There was no air-conditioning system, not even a fan; and no radiators were fixed to the walls. It would be hot in here in the middle of summer and freezing cold during the winter months. Presently, it was chilly enough for me to leave my coat on but not unbearable.

  "I know you," said Spinks. "At least, I know of you."

  My throat was dry; it felt like it might close up at any second. "And how is that, Byron? Where have you heard about me?"

  The smile did not waver. He clenched his big hands on the desk and I was glad that he was chained. His forearms flexed, the muscles bulging, and I almost expected his biceps to pop. "They told me."

  "They? And who are they?"

  "Them."

  This was getting me nowhere. "Who, Byron? Who exactly do you mean?"

  "Them out there and Them in here." He raised a hand to gesture beyond the walls, and then pointed at his own head, indicating that he also meant the voices inside his skull – the ones that perhaps had told him to kill? But no; I didn't believe that. There was more going on here than a simple crime of passion. Intimidating as he was, I doubted that Spinks had killed his girl.

  I decided to change the course of the conversation in the hope that it might help me get some sense out of the man. There was a tattoo on his left bicep, vaguely tribal in design: thick black Olde English lettering in the shape of an M and a T. "That's nice work. I have a few of those things myself."

  He glanced at his arm, at the ink, and a look of shame crossed his face. "That's an old one, from years ago. I don't like that any more. I should get it removed. I don't like to talk about it."

  I remembered the phone Tebbit had given me. "Do you mind if I take a photograph of your ink, Byron? I like to document tattoos – let's call it a hobby. I like to think of myself as something of a connoisseur of skin art." I had no idea why I was doing this, but there was something about the tattoo that seemed important, and its wearer was not talking. His ink called to my ink like another animal of the same basic species.

  "Go ahead," he said. "Knock yourself out."

  I took out the phone, fumbled for a while as I tried to locate the correct function, and then took a snap of Spinks's arm. "Thank you." I put away the phone, hoping that I'd managed to save the photograph in its memory.

  "I have a message for you," said Spinks. The smile had now faded. His hand dropped back to the table.

  "From whom?"

  "From Them."

  No surprises there, then.

  "When did you receive this message, Byron? In here? In the jail? Was it from another prisoner?"

  He shook his head; the skull looked so very heavy, heavier even than his conscience. "Last night. I had a dream. One of Them came to me and told me to deliver a message. A personal message. I wasn't allowed to pass it on through anyone else, just to tell you to your face." He shifted in his seat, suddenly on edge. "They said that if I delivered the message They would let me go. That I could be free. I want to be free, Mr Usher. I so want to be free. It's been years since I could call myself a free man, and it's what I've been waiting for." Tears filled his eyes, spilling over onto his sharp cheeks. He didn't wipe them away; just let them fall, an anointment, of sorts, or perhaps a form of self-cleansing.

  "So give me the message, Byron." I did not want to hear what he had to say. Everything in me was screaming to get up and leave; my tattoos burned like acid; the voices in my own head were yelling so loudly that all I could hear was a dirge.

  Byron Spinks leaned forward, as if he was about to whisper. His eyes were wide, fearful, and yet brimming with hope. "Memento mori," he said, his voice sounding different, the timbre slightly off, the way he formed the words all wrong somehow, as if he were trying to impersonate himself and not doing a very good job of it.

  I tried to push the chair backwards, forgetting that it was attached to the floor, and succeeded only in pitching bodily over the side and onto the floor. I scrabbled there on all fours, like a crab, losing all sense of my limbs as they struggled to push me upright. The words echoed inside my head, unlocking doors that should never be opened, moving along passageways that had not seen the light of day in a long time.

  Byron Spinks was silent. The smile had returned, but this time it made him look retarded, as if his brain had been fried by an electrical charge. He pursed his lips, as if blowing a kiss, and slowly closed his eyes. There was ash on each eyelid. Black-daubed fingerprints made by a nightmare hand.

  I got to my feet and headed for the door, shaken and paranoid and wishing that I had never come here, to this awful place.

  "Wait." It was Spinks. He sounded normal again – whatever that word even means. "There's more to tell."

  I turned around to face him and waited for the rest. All I wanted to do was leave, but I was deep inside this now – locked inside a crazy whirlwind of events. "Go on." My voice was strained, breathless. I was shaking with adrenalin.

  "I didn't kill Kareena."

 
"I know you didn't, Byron. But who did."

  "Them."

  I bowed my head, sick of it all. Sick, sick, sick.

  "We were out there shooting a homemade porn video. She liked to get it on film, you know. It made her hot."

  I kept staring at the floor, waiting for him to tell me something I didn't know or had not already guessed.

  Sick.

  "I filmed them all at one time or another – all those dead girls."

  I lifted my head and looked at him. His face was solemn, almost serene, in the dim light.

  "Candice, Sarah and Kareena. I filmed all three. Met them other two at the Blue Viper, and sweet-talked them into going on camera…only Kareena didn't need no convincing. She was already into the scene." His jaw was tight; the muscles there twitched like buried insects.

  "What do you mean? How was she already into it? Do you mean pornography? She was into pornography before you even met her?"