Face of Evil

by George Morris De'Ath

  “Thank you,” Lydia replies, quietly.

  “I can’t see,” says Evelyn Devere, her breath rattling, cloudy eyes twitching side to side.

  “Hello, Mrs Devere,” says Lydia, stepping close to the bed. “My name’s Lydia.”

  “Lydia Tune?” Evelyn squeaks. Lydia notices that her nails are bitten to the quick, cheeks sunken in, loose folds around her eyes. What teeth she has left are broken and hollow.

  “Yes,” says Lydia.

  “Come sit down,” says Evelyn, raising a hand with some considerable effort and swinging it towards a bedside chair. Lydia sits as she’s asked, smoothing her blue silk shirt and black skirt.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” says Lydia.

  “I am… disturbed,” Evelyn says, every word an effort. “I am… haunted… by my son.” She turns her shrunken head towards Lydia. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Lydia replies, taking out her phone to begin the recording. She hates doing this. Feels like a vulture.

  “What a… lovely ring,” Evelyn breathes. Lydia looks down at her ruby, glinting as always, but particularly dark today.

  “Thank you,” she says, “it was my mother’s.”

  “Mmm…” says Evelyn, thoughtfully. “Something to remember her by.”

  “Tell me about your son,” says Lydia awkwardly, not wanting to drag this out any longer than necessary.

  “Which one?” Evelyn shifts underneath her many sheets. Her attention is failing already.

  “Jason.” Lydia takes her notepad and pen from her bag.

  “Ah yes,” says Evelyn, “he was a good boy. Good as gold. Always looking out for his brother.”

  “Really?” Lydia asks, surprised.

  “Oh yes,” Evelyn nods. “Inseparable, those two. Went everywhere together.”

  “Were they alike?” Lydia asks.

  Evelyn shakes her head very slowly. “Finn was a quiet boy. Shy. Jason was the loud one. Very… protective of his little brother.”

  “Do you think,” Lydia pauses, hating herself more by the second, “do you think Jason feels responsible for what happened to Finley?”

  “It wasn’t… his fault,” Evelyn croaks, “but… he changed after that. And after… Adam left.”

  “Adam was your husband?”

  Evelyn nods, and her head wobbles so alarmingly that for a split second Lydia is afraid it might fall off. “He couldn’t… cope.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Lydia. Evelyn raises her hand again, but not as high this time. She doesn’t have much left in her.

  “Long time ago,” she says. “Have to move on.”

  “So you noticed a change in Jason’s behaviour?” Lydia asks.

  “When?” Evelyn looks confused.

  “When he was a child,” Lydia says, gently.

  “Oh… well he acted out… at school, but he was always a good boy at home.” She turns her head to look at a vase of white tulips on the bedside table.

  “Was he involved in any other traumatic events?” Lydia asks. “Accidents, that sort of thing?”

  “Accidents…” Evelyn thinks. “There was one time he got his finger caught in a garden chair. There was blood everywhere… drama. But he was fine.” She chuckles.

  “Okay,” says Lydia, making a note. Suddenly Evelyn Devere’s hand shoots out and grabs her wrist and Lydia lets out a startled gasp.

  “He’s a good boy, deep down,” says Evelyn, staring straight at her. “Please understand that.”

  “I… Okay.” Unsure quite how to react, Lydia places a comforting hand on top of Evelyn’s, but the old lady withdraws hers slowly and closes her eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Lydia asks, gently. “Should I fetch the nurse?”

  “No need,” Evelyn murmurs. “I’m fine.”

  “Mrs Devere, I have to ask you,” Lydia says uncomfortably, “is there any history of mental illness in your family?”

  “Not on my side, dear,” Evelyn smiles. “Though, maybe we’re all a little bit crazy by the time we get to the end.”

  “Maybe,” Lydia agrees. “What about your husband’s family?”

  “Adam?” Evelyn thinks. “His mother was a loan shark. Mary, that was her name. Used to beat up grown men!”

  “Really?” Lydia scribbles in her pad.

  “She was a mad one, I reckon. She once…” Evelyn succumbs to a hacking cough. “She once stabbed Adam in the leg for having his feet on the table.”

  “She stabbed him?” Lydia raises an eyebrow.

  “Said she just cleaned it!” Evelyn chuckles again.

  “Did Jason take after his father at all?”

  “In looks, maybe,” says Evelyn, smiling. “Adam was a handsome man. But Jason was always his mother’s son.”

  “Do you think he loves you?”

  “Of course he does.” Evelyn prickles at the question. “I’m his mother.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Lydia, “it’s just that sometimes people like Jason are incapable of love.”

  “My son…” Evelyn says with conviction, “has a good heart.” She lays back in bed, looking away from Lydia. “A mother knows these things.”

  Lydia can hear the emotion in the old woman’s voice. It would be cruel to press any further. “Thank you for talking to me, Evelyn,” she says, packing up her things. “I hope it wasn’t too difficult for you.”

  Evelyn doesn’t respond. She’s staring at those tulips again. Lydia takes the hint, and leaves quietly, pulling back the mint green curtain behind her. Already she is hatching a plan to break this story open based on what she has just heard. It will be risky, but Lydia Tune feels the time is right to take a few risks.

  Twenty-Nine

  No Good Deed

  Lydia stretches out her arms, pale hands gripping the leather steering wheel, squinting to focus on the road ahead as the vein in her temple throbs like an electric current. Driving usually helps ease the pain, clear her mind and cleanse the pulp that clogs the cortex.

  Either side of her people walk the streets, going about their daily routines, getting coffee, Christmas shopping. Ordinary people. Mediocre. She will never understand why people settle for lives like this when they have the potential to be so much more. How can they be happy with so little? In Lydia’s mind they have succumbed to a vicious circle; they fail to care about themselves, and as a consequence the world stops caring about them. Would it really matter if the Krimson Killer knocked off a few more? They are just the extras in life’s story. In her story.

  Lydia knows she is a narcissist. When you know what you truly are, it is easier to make a mask that fits well, and Lydia wears many masks. One for the world, one for her family, one for her friends, at least when she had any. But she never shows anyone her true face. Few people do.

  Her thoughts drift back to what Alex said about daydreaming, and she realises that she doesn’t have a clear idea what happiness looks like to her. That she’s never been able to picture it. Her goals were always linked to her career, to her success. She just assumed that by the time her story was over, it would all have been worthwhile because she had faith in her work. But seeing Alex again after all these years, spending time with him, enjoying his company, has made her question her approach to life.

  As if summoned by her thoughts, a family crosses the road in front of her when she stops at a red light. Mother, father, two kids – a boy and a girl. The typical nuclear family, wrapped up in coats and scarves and carrying bags laden with gifts. The Christmas theme makes Lydia balk, but then she sees their faces. They are so happy, smiling, laughing, faces pink and creased with genuine joy. She realises with a pang that she has never known that feeling. Could it be that she never will? Would that mean that her life had been wasted? Perhaps she deliberately doesn’t think about such things because she knows deep down that she will want them, as everyone else does. They all want to be loved. Is that what she wants?

  Lydia’s troubling train of thought is cut short as her phone rings
. She pulls over into a space outside a quaint little shop to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Tune?” asks a voice she recognises from earlier in the day.

  “Nurse Maggie?” Lydia replies, confused. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s Evelyn Devere,” says the nurse, sounding shaken. “She passed away this afternoon.”

  “Oh my god. How?”

  “That’s the thing,” Maggie whispers, “it’s being written up as heart failure, but her eyes were bloodshot and she had skin under her nails.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It looks like she was smothered,” Maggie says urgently. She sounds scared.

  “Surely you don’t think that I—”

  “Of course not,” says Maggie quickly. “I saw her after you left, she was fine.”

  “What do the police say?”

  “There are no police. She was an old lady with a broken leg. There’s nothing to go on, besides anyone could have just walked in.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair,” says Lydia, surprised at her own genuine concern for a woman she barely knows. “Everyone deserves justice, no matter how old they are.”

  “Like I said, they have nothing to go on,” says Maggie, a note of despair in her voice. “There’s no working security cameras except the ones out front; budget cuts as usual, and we get thousands of people coming and going every day. Be like looking for a needle in a haystack. That’s why I’m telling you. I know about your books, you know, how you get to the bottom of things. Maybe you can figure out who did this.”

  “Oh,” Lydia sounds surprised. “This isn’t the kind of thing I usually—”

  “If you can. Like you say, it isn’t fair. Look, I have to go.”

  “Okay. Listen, I’m sorry about all of—” There’s a click. The line is dead.

  Lydia sits quietly for a moment, in her car, in the snow, outside the little shop. She feels sad about Evelyn. She seemed like a kind old lady, and nobody deserves to die alone and afraid. But already Lydia’s mind is moving past that, trying to figure out how she can use this situation to her advantage. Have the hospital called Mortem yet? Have they told Jason? Perhaps there is a window here to crack this beast’s back and finally get to the dark heart of his story.

  Thirty

  Spider’s Web

  A rickety fan chopping through the cold evening air is the only sound to be heard as the wolf circles his cell in the cavernous room below, his restless gaze shifting between the fading rays of light spilling in through a high, small window, and a large, shimmering spider’s web stretched across the corner of his room. In the centre of its silvery strands, a fat, unfortunate fly struggles to free itself as its doom creeps towards it cautiously, letting it tire itself out before moving in for the kill. The prisoner freezes as he watches the spider wait, and wait, and then lunge, sinking its fangs into its prey and rolling it up tight in a silken shroud.

  His expression now becomes one of sadness as he licks his dry lips, hands twitching, when suddenly his senses are on high alert. He whips around; eyes trained upon the only door, expectant, predatory instincts stirred. Sure enough, the handle turns and the beast’s mouth begins to water.

  “I could smell you before you even parked your car,” he growls, baring those yellowing teeth.

  “Hello, Jason,” Lydia replies calmly, approaching the cell. “How are you?” The wolf doesn’t reply. His shoulders rise and fall slowly, and she can hear his deep breathing from twenty feet away. He’s upset. Does he know?

  “Oh I see…” Jason Devere turns his head slowly to look at her. “You want to play nice, after your boyfriend came after me?”

  Lydia makes a show of looking him up and down. “You look fine to me,” she says pleasantly. “Are you in pain?”

  Jason steps towards her, pressing himself against the bars, but Lydia is a few feet out of reach. “Constantly,” he breathes.

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “And how is your…” he touches the back of his own head, “little scratch?” His face works furiously as he fights to control his rage. He radiates power. Up close, it’s quite terrifying.

  “I’m quite recovered,” Lydia replies, forcing a smile.

  “Find out who did it yet?”

  “Not yet. But I will.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Jason,” says Lydia, beginning to pace a small area in front of him, “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Questions, questions,” replies Jason, pacing alongside her, as though the bars of his cell are some kind of mirror. “Well go on then, I haven’t got all night.”

  “Oh no,” says Lydia innocently. “No questions. Not today.” She watches Jason’s face as he processes this remark, enjoying the confusion it betrays.

  “Then why are you here?” he snarls.

  “Well,” Lydia begins, dragging out the tension as much as possible, “you see, I went to visit your mother this morning.”

  “You what?” Jason lunges towards her, his eyes daggers. “What did you say to her?”

  “It was more what she said to me,” Lydia replies, getting as close as possible in order to read his responses without getting grabbed.

  “And what was that?” Jason breathes heavily.

  “She wanted me to know that you’re not a monster.”

  “She didn’t use that word!” Jason roars. High above, a guard on the walkway stirs. “What did she tell you?”

  “I assure you she did,” says Lydia casually. “She said that you weren’t a bad boy, that you’d just had bad things happen to you.”

  “Well that’s life, isn’t it?” he replies, spitting out every word as though it were poison. Lydia takes in his suffering, raw and genuine, and she feels a pang of guilt. You couldn’t tell him anyway, a voice in her head says, soothingly, you’re not allowed. You shouldn’t know. Maggie would get in trouble.

  “Not for most of us,” says Lydia, peering into his feral eyes. “At least, not exclusively.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Jason,” she slips on her kindest mask, “don’t you want the world to know that you’re not the monster they think you are?”

  He glares back at her, his body shuddering as he fights to control his racing heart. “What if I am?” he growls softly.

  “But you aren’t,” Lydia says gently. “Your mother knows it. I know it.”

  “You know nothing,” he spits.

  “She knows that you love her, Jason,” Lydia presses on. “She knows that there’s goodness still in you. Please, show me that kindness and your mother can be at peace.”

  “Stop talking about her!” Jason bangs on the bars of his cage with an open hand.

  “She feels responsible,” says Lydia, “and she can’t bear it. Your redemption is all that she wants.”

  “Shut up!” he smacks the bars again, this time with a closed fist.

  “Please, Jason, let me help you. Let me help your mother. I promise I won’t let you down.”

  Jason turns away, his hands raised to his face, shoulders hunched. It’s hard for Lydia to tell because of his long, filthy mane of hair, but she thinks he may even be… crying.

  “Jason?” she prompts gently, after a moment.

  “Alright,” he says quietly.

  “Alright… you’ll help?” she asks, trying to cover her excitement.

  “I’ll tell you what you want to know,” he says, turning around. If he has been crying, there’s no trace of it now. “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You let me tell it in my own words. Unedited. You publish them just as I write them.” He leans up against the bars again, but softly this time. At peace.

  “Done,” says Lydia. “I will have them bring you a pen and paper.”

  “Come back tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll be done by then.”

  “Alright,” says Lydia. “Thank you.”

  “I’m not doing it for yo
u,” Jason says. Lydia meets his cold eyes, and for the first time she sees the truth behind them.

  “I know,” she says, then turns and walks back towards the door, trying her best to remain calm while her skin crawls with electricity. Finally, she has the beast caught in a trap.

  Now all she has to do is spring it.

  Thirty-One

  Thank Goodness

  The morning sun looming large over Decanten looks pale as the snow beneath it from Lydia’s vantage, a window on the top floor of Mortem Asylum. Storm clouds roll in from the east, creeping towards the white-hot orb until they have completely engulfed it, throwing the world into milky shadow. The outskirts of the city, just a moment ago populated by red brick buildings, green trees and tiny, twinkling festive lights, are instantly drained of all colour. Muted. Sombre. Almost as if they have died.

  Something like a gentle breeze passes along the corridor behind Lydia, and her heart quickens. Old buildings like this tend to be full of leaks and gaps, tiny pockets of decay that allow nature inside. But this feels different.

  “Any luck?”

  Lydia spins around to find Gretchen Engel standing no more than a foot from her, red hair spilling over her usual doctor’s coat, patient file in hand.

  “Oh, Gretchen!” Lydia replies, touching her chest and breathing a sigh of relief. “You startled me.”

  “I can have that effect,” Gretchen replies, peering idly out of the window.

  “I think I’ve made some progress,” says Lydia. “Once I changed tactics.”

  “Oh?” Gretchen raises a curious eyebrow.

  “A little guilt works wonders,” says Lydia, folding her arms and feeling a little satisfied with herself. “And you’d be surprised how many serial killers have mummy issues.”

  “Very clever,” Gretchen replies, looking Lydia up and down coolly.