DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘He went for me!’

  ‘You frightened him. He was defending his home.’

  Siân insisted on searching every room before she would be satisfied. ‘I thought—’ She bowed her head and sagged against Frank.

  Frank shot Geri a worried look. Geri gently brushed a tear from Siân’s face. ‘We’ll go home now,’ she said.

  ‘But the police—’

  ‘You can give your statement tomorrow. I’ll talk to them after I’ve dropped you off.’

  Siân was silent and passive until they reached the bottom of the stairway and stepped onto the roadside. Without warning, she shoved Frank away and began screaming, calling Ryan’s name over and over again.

  * * *

  Less than half a mile away, Ryan heard the ambulance klaxon and stirred briefly from his stupor. He should be afraid. He knew, in theory, what he should feel, but instead he felt nothing. No pain, no fear — fear was too abstract a concept to hold on to. He was drifting. Floating effortlessly.

  He exerted himself, trying to experience the outrage, the anger, the burning humiliation he should feel, but there was no answering emotion. He understood what was happening to him, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

  Later — how much later? Minutes? Hours? There was no time in his drowsing state — cries ripped through the night: the screams of a vixen, scavenging the city boundaries. But it seemed in his daze that the coughing barks called his name over and over. Ryan! Ryan! Ryan!

  5

  It was just after four when Geri got home on Tuesday. Nick was on the early shift, and she wanted to give them both a chance to make up after the argument on Monday. Exhaustion was also a factor: after dropping Frank and Siân home, she had given her statement to the police, not arriving home herself until after three a.m.

  During a few hours of troubled sleep, she slipped into a recurring loop in which she lost the school party she had taken to see Romeo and Juliet. She searched frantically backstage, finally losing herself in a labyrinthine system of corridors and dressing rooms and returning to school to face anxious parents who demanded to know where their children were.

  It was a relief to wake up to face the real difficulties of the day, despite her tiredness and Nick’s back turned coldly to her in bed.

  Now, after struggling through a day in which her pupils seemed more quarrelsome and fractious than normal, she was at home again. Tired but unable to sit still, she marked a few books, made herself a sandwich and tidied up the mess Nick had left in the kitchen; apparently, he had been home and gone out again. She couldn’t get the events of the previous night out of her head. Siân seemed so certain that something terrible had happened to Ryan, and the feeling was contagious. She kept imagining him in one of the empty properties in the old trading area, unable to help himself — Siân was sure Barry had slipped something in Ryan’s drink in the pub on Saturday night, and although Siân hadn’t been there, Frank had, and he seemed very shifty when Siân questioned him about it on the journey home from the tenements.

  She went through to the hall and telephoned the hospital. The telephonist couldn’t tell her anything about the old man they had admitted on Monday night.

  ‘He was an emergency admission,’ Geri said. ‘It must have been around midnight.’

  ‘Haven’t you got a name?’

  ‘No,’ Geri said, ‘but I do know he was taken to casualty. Can’t you check with them?’

  ‘One moment.’ The line clicked abruptly, and Geri was left on hold for several minutes. The hall was freezing, and she struggled into her coat, making the hole in the lining bigger.

  The next she heard from the switchboard was, ‘Royal Infirmary, how may I help you?’

  It seemed that the telephonist had forgotten her. ‘I was waiting for word of a man admitted to casualty—’

  ‘Just one moment,’ the woman interrupted. ‘I’ll try to connect you.’

  Geri opened her mouth to protest, but it was too late. The line was ringing, and she had to explain again, this time to a charge nurse in the A & E department.

  ‘Les? The tramp?’ He paused. ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘I found him,’ Geri said.

  ‘Well you saved his life. He’d have died of hypothermia if he’d been out much longer.’

  ‘Will he be all right?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by “all right”. He’ll be his old self in a couple of days . . .’

  The implication was clear, and Geri felt an urge to explain or defend the way the old man lived. But she said nothing.

  ‘He’ll be all right, love,’ the nurse said, relenting a little. ‘Most of the blood was from a nose-bleed. It wasn’t the injuries made him pass out, it was the booze.’

  Geri thanked him and hung up. At least that would be one less thing for Siân to worry about. She tapped the phone receiver with her index finger, undecided for a moment. Siân’s mother hadn’t been exactly friendly the previous night. But she decided that not to phone would be the coward’s way out, and quickly looked up the number, punching it in on the keypad before she could change her mind.

  Mrs Walsh was not openly hostile, but her reception was distinctly frosty. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘I was wondering how Siân is.’

  ‘How d’you think she is, after what she’s been through?’

  ‘Could I speak to her?’

  ‘She’s in bed.’ Evidently, she was unwilling to disturb her daughter.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell her that the old man is all right. I telephoned the hospital—’

  ‘He wants locking up!’ Mrs Walsh interrupted. ‘It’s a pity she didn’t hit him harder. Bloody animal!’

  ‘Siân was worried,’ Geri tried again. ‘When she realized—’

  ‘Realized what? That he lives like vermin, among vermin? She should never have been in that godforsaken hole — and you should’ve known better than to take her!’

  ‘Mrs Walsh, I didn’t—’ But the line was dead.

  Geri paced. It seemed suddenly hot, despite the cold of the hall. A pile of books on the window ledge caught her eye, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to settle to marking homework and, pausing only to drop a discarded newspaper on top of them, she grabbed her keys and went out.

  Adèle had already left her usual pitch near the funeral parlour. Geri was disappointed: she had hoped to enlist her help, but she pushed on. Arcades, cafés, and the railway station Vince had said — all places where runaways might be found. Ryan wasn’t a runaway; she knew it in her heart. He would never stay away from home, worrying his parents and girlfriend — not if he had a choice in the matter.

  That thought gave Geri’s search greater urgency. She ducked into perhaps twenty cafés and half a dozen arcades. Sometimes it was difficult to get a response from the kids, and it was hard to say how much the glazed look of the arcade junkies was down to over exposure on the machines and how much to chemical stimulants.

  How many of them went to school? she wondered. And what excuses they would give for homework not done — not that homework would take high priority for these boys. She thought she recognized a face in one of the arcades, but he melted into the shadows and was gone before she had the chance to talk to him.

  At the station, a gang loitered by the drinks machine. They looked around as Geri approached and one or two jeers went up. She braced herself, her heart thudding — these boys did not know her; she couldn’t call upon her school reputation to demand their respect.

  ‘Want a drink, love?’ a tall, weasel-faced youth asked. ‘Giz the money, I’ll get it for you.’ The other lads laughed gleefully.

  Geri ignored him and looked at the other four. ‘I’m looking for a boy who’s gone missing, she said. ‘He’s seventeen, he’s got dark brown hair, and he’s about six foot tall.’

  ‘Sounds like he could look after himself,’ one boy commented.

  ‘You his mam?’ A stocky, dark-eyed boy with a skinhead cut asked the question.

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nbsp; The weasel gave him a shove. ‘Dickhead — she’s not that old!’

  The stocky boy squared up to him. ‘Fuck off!’

  Weasel backed down immediately, looking away, but he repeated. ‘I’m just saying she’s not old enough.’

  ‘Fancy her, do you?’

  This provoked uncouth laughter. ‘Have any of you seen him?’ Geri persisted.

  ‘Might’ve.’ It was the weasel again.

  Geri held her breath. This was the first possible sighting she’d had all evening. ‘Where?’ she asked, unable to hide her eagerness.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Depends how sure you are,’ Geri said, holding on to the five-pound note in her jacket pocket.

  The boy moved away from the machine. ‘Tall lad, well built,’ he said. ‘Brown hair. Looked older than seventeen, though.’

  Geri held out the note, almost grateful to this cruel-faced boy. ‘That’s Ryan,’ she said. The boy took the money while the others watched expectantly.

  He screwed up his face in concentration, clutching the note tightly in his fist. ‘Nah!’ he exclaimed. ‘Haven’t seen him.’

  Then they were off and running, jostling Geri out of the way, whooping and shouting, darting through the crowds on the concourse, like a pack of hounds.

  Geri regained her balance and watched them go, feeling foolish and angry, but more than anything bitterly, bitterly disappointed.

  She returned to her car, defeated, but something made her rebel against the failure of the night, and she drove out towards Derby Street. Barry Mandel had seen Ryan get off the bus here and, like Siân, Geri had an irrational notion, only half-formed, that simply being near the place would give her some insight into what had happened to him. The cobblestones of the side streets popped like bubble-wrap under her tyres, and she drove in exaggerated swerves to avoid the many potholes. How could Adèle ever find safe haven in its empty, rotting landscape?

  It was almost a relief to find the buildings secure. It wasn’t until the fourth or fifth that her resolve was tested: the wood of a door had perished entirely and the lock had fallen away on one side.

  Geri pushed the door; it opened. She checked over her shoulder, but there was nobody about, and she flicked on her torch and shone it into the interior. The floor was piled with splintered beams and dirt from a roof fall; the building reeked of burnt wood. She took a deep breath and stepped inside, letting the door swing to gently. The place had been lived in, and recently.

  She heard a faint shuffling coming from outside. At first, she thought it was a rat. It came again, louder this time — a footfall. Heavy, booted.

  Geri cast about, the torch bobbing wildly. The building was no more than a shell: flat, empty, featureless. The door creaked.

  Oh God! Nowhere to hide.

  She killed the light and felt her way to a corner of the floor. Perhaps it was just a drunk, looking for somewhere to sleep. Whoever it was, he was bound to leave when he saw the ruinous state of the place.

  Had he heard her? Her heart hammered painfully in her chest and she had to put a hand to her mouth to stop a whimper.

  A strong beam of light probed the space, picking out the empty beer cans, a yellow polystyrene burger carton, slate and broken bricks. It swept the area methodically, getting dangerously close.

  Geri crouched lower and lower, hardly knowing how her knees supported her. Then the beam was in her face. She sprang forward.

  ‘Stay away from me!’ she yelled, raising the torch over her head. Her voice was harsh, barely recognizable, even to her own ears. ‘Stay away!’

  The beam played over her face a moment longer, and she braced herself, gripping the torch tighter.

  ‘Geri?’

  Relief flooded through her. She knew that voice.

  ‘Geri?’ it repeated. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Joe!’ She flung herself at him, sobbing and laughing. For a moment, he was too stunned to react, then, slowly, he put his arms around her and comforted her.

  ‘This isn’t the way to find him, pet,’ he said, when she was calmer. ‘You’ll not find him like this.’

  Joe Langley was a security guard and this building was on his rounds. Joe helped out at the youth club; always reliable, always cheerful, Joe had kept the club going when otherwise it would have shut through lack of adult support.

  Geri refused his offer of a lift home, but he insisted on following her in his security firm’s van as far as Derby Street. By the time she got home she was ready to drop. At the gate, she noticed something fluttering on the door post, next to the bell. She peered at it as she went up the path, digging in her pocket for her keys. Then the security light came on, and she saw it clearly: A scrap of paper torn from a pocket notebook. It was pinned to the door frame by a syringe. The syringe was half full of blood. Trembling, Geri glanced about her. She was alone. On the top step she stopped, her keys still in her hand, her breath making ragged bursts of mist in the air.

  Three Hints for Healthy Living

  1. Get plenty of sleep.

  2. Eat five portions of fruit every day.

  3. Keep your long fucking teachers nose out of other peoples business.

  A cool, objective part of Geri’s personality noted the lack of apostrophes: one of her sayings, frequently quoted back at her by the kids was, ‘If in doubt, leave it out.’ Had one of her pupils sent this? Her hands were shaking so badly that she couldn’t get the key in the door and had to ring the bell.

  Nick answered the doorbell. He was about to turn away then, catching the expression on her face, he stepped outside and took her arm.

  ‘What . . . ?’ he asked. She nodded at the note, pinned to the door frame next to him. He reached up, but she grabbed his arm.

  ‘There’s blood in the syringe.’

  ‘Sick fucks,’ he muttered, then, with remarkable gentleness he helped her inside. ‘You go and sit down,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘Leave it,’ she said, clenching her teeth to stop them chattering. ‘I want Vince to see it.’

  * * *

  Ryan sat opposite. His eyes, falsely animated by the flames of the fire, were ocean blue. He wanted to kiss those long-lashed eyelids closed.

  He stood, and Ryan looked up groggily. He felt his heart rate surge, looking down at him kneeling there, stupefied, helpless. His erection was almost painful. He sat next to Ryan and put his arm around him, groping gently at first, then with more urgency; nuzzling at his neck, his hand on the boy’s thigh, moving to his crotch. Ryan struggled, tried to pull away.

  He pulled the Ryan’s hands behind his back and pushed him towards the fire. His own face, pressed close to Ryan’s ear, felt the searing heat, and his skin seemed to shrink from the flames.

  ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘You’ll enjoy it more.’

  Ryan pushed back, but he was disorientated and weakened by the cocktail of drugs.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘Please . . .’ The hot air must have caught in his throat and he began to choke.

  ‘Do as you’re told, and I’ll let you up.’

  Ryan whimpered and he was assured of the boy’s co-operation. He planted a kiss on Ryan’s cheek, satisfied, rather than offended by the lad’s shudder of revulsion. He sat back on his haunches, holding the boy to him while he decided what he wanted Ryan to do for him.

  His breathing quickened, and he felt the blood rush to his face. Was it the anticipation of sex? Or the knowledge that Ryan was going to die? He stood before the boy, holding him gently — just enough pressure on the back of his neck to keep him from pulling free, urging him on, gripping his ears at the climax, and even as the euphoria of ejaculation faded, planning how it would be. He would be gentle, reverent. He wouldn’t leave a mark on him.

  He looked down at Ryan, retching and sobbing on the floor, and said, ‘We’re gonna party.’

  6

  ‘Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.’

  Liam finished his speech with a flourish. />
  ‘Good,’ Geri said. ‘Now before we move on to poor, love-sick Romeo’ — she got the expected groan at this — ‘Who can tell me what the last speech was about?’

  She was feeling better than she had right to, after last night. Vince had come straight round and had taken the note away with him. He told her she had probably upset one of the suppliers with all her questions on the street — the police had got wind of her inquiries even before she had moved on from the cafés to the railway station — and he seemed to think that, as long as she stopped trying to play amateur detective, they would leave her alone.

  ‘But why would my questions upset them?’ she demanded.

  ‘Punters might think you’re police — The pushers worry that you’ll arouse police interest in the places where they do business. It’s unsettling. Affects their profit margins.’

  ‘How did he know where I live?’

  ‘You told some of the boys you were a teacher. Maybe someone recognized you—’

  ‘Jay!’ Vince looked at her, questioningly. ‘It must have been him. One of my pupils,’ she explained. I saw him in the arcade in Mill Street.’

  Vince made a note of the name and left her to Nick’s ministrations. He was less solicitous than he had been prior to Vince’s arrival, and Geri thought she detected a whiff of jealousy, but at least they had remained on speaking terms.

  * * *

  A sharp rap at the classroom door announced Mrs Golding. All eyes turned to the plump, grey-haired woman in the doorway. The look on her face was enough: she had come for Dean. He was slouched across his desk, one arm flung out to the side, his head resting on it. When he saw Mrs Golding he sat upright, watching her as if she were a snake about to strike.

  ‘Miss,’ he said, watching the deputy head, but talking to Geri. ‘He’s telling them off.’

  ‘Dean . . .’ Mrs Golding said. She had a sharp, businesslike manner, but she knew when to be gentle.

  ‘’Cos they’re always at it, fighting and that, bickering back and forth.’ The urgency in his voice turned to desperation. ‘Miss—’

  ‘Dean—’

  ‘The lads wanna prove they’re hard, so they’re always looking for a ruck, taking offence — say it’s a nice day, they’ll ask if you’re being funny.’