But then he blinked and looked at the lady sitting next to him, and wondered why he’d just felt so peculiar. Like that feeling…
“Someone walk over your grave?” the woman suggested.
He nodded, couldn’t help but stare at the black bindi on her forehead. “Yeah, weirdest feeling.”
“Maybe it’s the bitter,” she said playfully. “Perhaps you’ve had enough already.”
Booth took another long swig from his drink and when he next put it down on the bar, over half of it was missing. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, suddenly embarrassed by his thirst.
“So,” she urged, “What is it you do?”
“I work in insurance.”
“Really, what kind?”
“Oh, you know all sorts really. Property, car, burial. Not especially interesting but it pays OK.”
He scratched the back of his head where an itch had taken hold. “And you?”
“Sometimes a lady of leisure; sometimes I work for my friends at the market.”
“Meeting someone?”
“No, why?”
Booth felt his cheeks turning red. “Nothing, I thought… ”
“That’s incredibly old-fashioned of you.” She laughed. “That’s the thing my grandparents would have thought. Can’t a woman come out on her own to have a drink?” She wasn’t annoyed, not really. At least Booth didn’t think she was—amused by his reaction if anything.
“Look, can I get you another?”
Her glass was half full. He downed the rest of his then caught the attention of the bartender. “Same again?” he said, confirming with the lady that that would be OK.
“Sure,” she replied, then finished her own drink and placed it away from her.
“This sounds stupid, I know, but have we met before? You seem familiar.”
“Don’t think so. I guess I’ve got that kind of face.”
She didn’t though. Her face was one of a kind beautiful. A nagging image of Helen came to mind and he brushed it aside with ease; the alcohol made it easier to dismiss his doubt like that. He looked at her manicured nails, wondering when the last time Helen had made an effort like that. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Booth wondered whether she’d notice if he took his off and slipped it into a pocket.
“What’s it like then?” she said, eyes wide. Teeth shining through that smile.
“What’s what like?”
“Insurance? I bet it’s dull isn’t it.”
He nodded although he really didn’t find insurance dull at all. He enjoyed going to work at the office and chatting with his co-workers. Sitting at a computer all day syphoning through insurance quotes and claims might not be exciting to most people but it sure beat working in a district factory.
“Yeah, it’s rubbish,” he replied. “Keep meaning to look for somewhere else but you know how it is, hard to move on once you’ve comfortable somewhere.”
“You know what you need—is to step out of your comfort zone.” She let the words linger between them a moment longer than felt natural. Then she continued, “I mean, that’s what they say isn’t it? If you’re too comfortable in your job, it’s time to step out of your comfort zone and see what else you’re capable of. So, Booth, what do you think you’re really capable of?”
That itch at the back of his head returned. He scratched at it frantically, scared that he was starting to look flea-ridden. “I don’t know… ”
“I bet you’re good at loads of things.”
“I think I should probably go.”
Her expression changed, an annoyed glance, her eyes came together, pupils piercing.
“No. It’s not time to go. We’re just getting to know each other.” And then she put her hand on top of his, and he reacted.
He yanked his hand out from under hers and stood up, pushing the stool back as he stepped away. He shook his head, thinking they must have started doing something dodgy to the bitter to keep costs down. That headache that had been lurking all day, was back. More than that though, the room had started to waver and undulate. He put a hand on the edge of the bar to steady himself.
“Woah, tiger, take it easy.” She stood and put her hands out in case she needed to steady him. He moved back before she could, and excused himself, heading for the toilet.
The loos were empty. After taking a piss, he washed his hands at the basin and realised he was shaking. What the hell was he thinking? She was pretty—no, that’s doing her a disservice, she was gorgeous. But, he pushed his hands against the basin and stood up straight, looked himself in the eye and told himself that his days of other women were over. He couldn’t afford to lose Helen.
What an evening this was turning out to be. After what he’d been talking about with Geoff he felt the need to clear the cobwebs before going home.
Geoff. Geoff. He didn’t know anyone called Geoff. Yet there was still this image of a man with a trimmed beard wearing a lab coat. He knew this person well, he knew he did. But—
That itch had returned at the back of his head. He rubbed at the irritation then caught his reflection again. A face he didn’t recognise looked back at him. He imagined himself wearing a lab coat and working at a bench with—eyes?
It wasn’t the drink. It was something else. Was that what going mad felt like? Tentatively he cupped his hands under the taps and lowered his head, then splashed the cold water at his face. Then again. Straightening, he walked to the paper towel dispenser and grabbed a handful to dry his face.
The woman at the bar had been leading him on. He could see that now. He decided to explain to her that he wasn’t interested and then he would go home to Helen and apologise for being late. But, returning to the bar, he saw their drinks had already been cleared away, the stools occupied by new faces and no sign of the woman.
It was like she’d never been there at all.
9:01 PM
The evening air did little to make Booth feel better. If anything, he felt more light-headed and drunk than he could possibly be on a couple of pints.
The light was fading and he found himself wandering through streets he barely recognised. He’d done this route home in far worse states than this and knew it like the back of his hand. Yet, when the rain started falling, he wiped his face and realised he was lost.
How long had he been walking? His legs were aching like he’d been on them all day. He checked his watch. Jesus. The walk home should only have taken twenty minutes. Where the hell was he?
The rain smashed against the pavement. Booth was drenched. The streetlights were on and the roads were quiet. The rain drowned out any noise from the rest of the street making Booth feel like the last man alive. He hurried on along the shimmering streets, the orange glows from the street lamps throwing an otherworldly glow into the night.
Booth knew a shortcut. He knew lots of them. He’d grown up in Crosby and knowing the shortcuts was the only way to stay ahead of the police, then later the Volunteers. He turned left into College Road, barely registering the silhouette of a woman across the street stepping out of the shadows. A few cars passed, taxis probably. Booth stuck out his hand and stepped into the road in a drunken attempt to get their attention. A horn sounded and tyres slipped then skidded across the road to avoid the sodden obstacle.
Damn it. He hurried, slipping on the wet pavement and knocked himself into a shop doorway. A bundle of blankets shouted incoherent abuse at him.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
The alley he was aiming for wasn’t far. He staggered across the street, but his toe clipped the curb and he crashed forward. Pain coursed through his hands and knees. The rain pelted down, raging on his unprotected back. When he got to his feet, the world spun.
“Jesus, how much did I drink?” he slurred. That bitch in the bar must have spiked his drink. His head pounded.
Entering the alley, everything seemed hard, like walking through mud except it wasn’t just his legs that were struggling, it was his mind as well. Each thought came slowe
r than the last. He needed help. He needed to be home.
He misjudged the edge of a pothole and soaked his foot. Stumbling forward, he managed to avoid falling over the bags of rubbish left behind a row of houses that fed into the alley.
A rat darted in front of Booth and he stopped and stared at the scuttling creature.
The alley is full of them.
He just needed to look at the bags of rubbish along the brick walls to know that packs of rats were waiting for him to get too close.
Do rats attack when panicked?
He thought they might do. They’re so small that they must work as a pack. That’s how they hunt people isn’t it? People do go missing.
Rats eat people.
He’d seen it on a documentary once.
They eat people whilst they’re still alive.
That hadn’t been in the documentary but he still knew it to be true.
Billy told you in the pub. His friend worked at the street cleansing department and they’d found remains.
Who was Billy?
Billy at the pub. The old man who comes and chats to you over a pint of Smiths. You’ve known him for years.
A searing pain fired across his temple and he smacked the palm of his hand against his head, trying to push the pain away.
“Help,” he whimpered, for that’s all he could manage. Booth shut his eyes and let the rain shower over him, not caring now how wet he was.
Footsteps. Booth opened his eyes to see a woman step from the dark, the shadows clinging to her like a death shroud. Booth couldn’t look at her for more than a second before losing focus and closing his eyes again.
“Help,” he croaked.
Don’t stand still or the rats will smell you. They aren’t afraid of you. But you’re terrified of them.
When next Booth could look, he saw the woman hold her fingers to the side of her head. His eyes swam into focus.
It was the woman from the pub.
You have to protect yourself or they will eat you, and there won’t be enough to bury.
Booth looked for a weapon, anything would do. There were bin bags beside him and he kicked them, looking for a piece of wood, anything that he could use to bat aside the hordes of ravenous rats that he knew were coming for him. If they’re hungry enough, and these surely were, they would eat the soft tissue of the nose and crawl up inside. From there, it was an easy task to work up through the soft tissues to get to the brain, or down the windpipe to the lungs.
He kicked over another bin bag and that’s when he saw it. A rat as big as a small dog. An ambush.
The lone rat is the most dangerous. It has to fight harder to take down its prey. They go for the eyes.
The eyes. The rats would go for the most delicate, most vulnerable part of their prey first. He’d known that.
Booth grabbed a piece of broken pallet board. The rat quivered and stood up on its back haunches, sniffing at its prey. No more than three foot away, it could reach him in seconds.
“Easy now,” he said under his breath.
He wanted to run. That was the better option. Anyone could outrun a rat, even a drunk.
The rat will catch you when you fall over.
Booth shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts, but pain struck across his temple and colours swam in front of his vision. The woman was close, keeping to the shadows. “Please, why are you doing this?”
Run.
Booth ran, dropping the wood as he did so. Not caring which way he went, he just wanted to get out of the dark and away from the rat.
You might trip.
Booth slipped on the wet cobbles and he fell again. His knees cracked on the cobbles but he barely felt the pain. He scrambled up, but his feet refused to obey and they slipped uselessly on the cobbles. Booth clawed out at anything to help him get upright and his hands latched onto more bin bags, sinking into the black plastic. With an extra burst of effort, he pushed himself to his feet, hearing scratching all around him now. The rat had company. He couldn’t see them, but with the noise they were making, there had to be dozens. Booth banged on a gate leading to someone’s backyard. It fell open and he collapsed inside.
There’s only one way to protect yourself.
Booth whimpered. He wanted to shout for help.
If you open your mouth, the rats will jump in and start eating you from the inside.
Tears streamed down his face and mixed with the rain. He didn’t know what to do.
You know what to do.
But he couldn’t do that.
They’re coming.
And they were. The rats were close and they would attack him if he gave them that chance. He closed his eyes, crawled towards the corner of the yard, knocking aside an old rusting barbecue and settling into the sanctuary provided by the corner. He hugged his knees.
It’s not enough. They’ll get you. You know what to do—so, stop being a wimp and do it. Be a man about it.
Yes, he knew what he had to do. He didn’t want to die. The rats were after one thing. The softest, choicest parts of him.
With shaking hands, Booth directed his fingers to the corners of his eyes, where they met his nose. Without further deliberation, for thinking about it hurt most of all, Booth dug his fingers into the soft corners and clawed at the soft, vulnerable tissues.
More, faster, they’re coming for you, do it now.
All the time keeping his screams trapped in his throat, Booth dug and clawed and ripped out his eyeballs, surprised at how easily they dislodged when the right pressure was applied. His vision was gone, blinded.
But, as the blood flowed from his eye sockets, and oblivion beckoned, he knew the woman in the blue dress was close.
9:48 PM
Frazier Growden lay back in the bath and rested a flannel on his face, feeling the soft cloth rub against his three-day stubble. He’d sort that later but right now he was just going to lie there and enjoy soaking in the tub. He’d finally taken the hint from Emilia and gone to see his doctor. The man might be a fool, an expensive fool at that, but Emilia had told Frazier that if he didn’t sort himself out, she would arrange a house call for him.
Dr Stubbins had diagnosed stress. Of course he was stressed. No wonder his doctor was so bloody rich if all he did was state the bleeding obvious. It would be more of a surprise to Frazier if he could run his various enterprises without stress. Yes, he’ll admit those chest pains last week had taken him by surprise and the headaches had been more frequent than usual. But he was a man in his forties, overweight, and under-exercised.
If only his business empire ran itself, he might find ways to slip out of the country and get some of that time in the sun he’d been promising Emilia for the last couple of years.
She was also a permanent source of stress, yet he didn’t quite have the balls to mention that. It hadn’t been unknown for her to limit their bedroom activities whenever she was in a mood with him.
And if he was dwelling on the reasons for his stress he could hardly forget about his run in with the teep, Jack Winston, at the habitat block last month. And there was more to Jack Winston, much more. The retinal scan Frazier had managed to get from him at the ATL meeting would confirm it.
Jack’s interruption at the meeting had been a major embarrassment and threatened Frazier’s credibility. Attendance numbers had been dropping over the last few weeks and shit like this only undermined his position as leader of the country’s biggest anti-telepath movement.
He dunked his head under and held his breath for a minute, enjoying the sense of isolation it afforded him. If only day-to-day life was as straightforward as bobbing your head under the water to wash away the anxieties.
Paul Westcoat had called him earlier. The plan was coming together nicely. Soon, the pieces would be in place and he’d be able to take further action. The wait was the hardest thing for Frazier to deal with. Ever since he’d first flirted with the idea of striking back, he’d known how he would do it: what message he would send. And to
a man with money, albeit hidden away in various locations to prevent disclosing it, most things were still possible. But some things couldn’t be hurried. Paul had tried to tell him that when he’d spoken to him on the phone earlier. Frazier had shouted the man down and ended the call. You couldn’t show weakness. His employees needed to know their place, and their place was always an inch below his boot.
He resurfaced and took a deep breath, some water sloshed out of the side of the bath onto the floor.
In the distance, he heard the front door open and close.
“Emilia?” he yelled.
“Frazier, where are you?”
He shouted again, and moments later the bathroom door opened and Emilia floated in on a cloud of perfume and optimism. A woman who’d disarm you with her smile, before ripping out your neck with her teeth. Emilia may be the perfect woman.
“Oh, taking it easy then?” She came and perched on the edge of the bath, heels clicking on the tiles. “What did he say?”
“Who?” Frazier replied, making her work for the information she’d been dying to hear all day.
“Don’t give me that,” she snapped, “Stubbins. I made you that appointment. Don’t tell me you didn’t go.” Her face clouded, eyes pulled together.
“Oh him. Yeah, he says I’m fit as a fiddle. Nothing wrong with me.”
Her hand dove under the surface of the water and squeezed between his legs. He gasped in discomfort. “Tell me what the old fart said or I’ll rip it off.”
“OK,” he winced, grinning all the time, “he says you’ve been working me too hard and I need a few days away from you.”
A gentle twist and he grabbed her wrist. “OK, OK. He says I’ve probably been overdoing it, need to take it easy for a few days.”
The pressure released. She gave him a final gentle stroke before withdrawing. She smiled and nodded. “I told you. What’s the point of having monkeys if you continue to run the zoo yourself?”
“I’m not sure that quite works.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. And I will, soon.”
The frown returned. “What do you mean soon?”
The Remnant Vault (Tombs Rising Book 2) Page 4
