Pretty Little Dead Things Read online

  The place was only half full, which meant that we got to choose a seat in the window – which, being a basement window gave us only a view of the stubby retaining wall and some fancy cast iron railings. Still, it was a nice place, and the food was never less than excellent. I ordered a nice bottle of red wine and we sipped it as we perused the menu, our attentive waiter standing quietly off to one side.

  "What are you having?" Ellen glanced at me over the top of her menu, her blue eyes darkening a shade in the dim, cramped room.

  "Are we having starters?"

  She nodded, her smile hidden by the cardboard rectangle upon which was painted a bunch of grapes and a wine bottle. "I'm starving. Missed lunch because I had a meeting."

  I glanced at her. "Anything important?" Her dark eyes darkened further still, and I wished that I'd kept my mouth shut.

  "I'll tell you later. I don't want to spoil the food." She ducked her head behind the menu and I ran my eyes across the lines of Italian recipes, my hunger abating.

  I had a bruschetta starter followed by a simple peasant's pasta dish of tagliatelle, vine tomatoes and garlic. Ellen started with a tuna and bean salad and her main course was something with chicken – I can't recall exactly what, but it certainly sounded tasty.

  We ate in silence for a while, and when the main courses arrived I observed that Ellen's eyes were moist. She'd clearly been crying before we met – I'd noticed that immediately back in the hotel foyer – but nothing had been said or done since that moment to prompt such an emotional response.

  "My super-ghost senses tell me that all is not right in the world of Ellen Lang." I set down my cutlery, leaned across the table and rested my hand on her wrist. She hadn't taken a bite for several minutes; her hand remained immobile at the side of her plate.

  "I didn't want to go into this here, while we were eating, but something major has happened and I really don't know who else to turn to."

  I squeezed her wrist and took my hand away, giving her some space. "We're old friends, Ellen. God knows, I owe you a lot more than I could ever repay… which means that I'll do anything I can to help you, whatever's going on."

  She sighed, lightly, and put down her fork. Then she took a huge swallow of wine, almost emptying the glass. I topped her up and waited.

  "Have you seen the news lately, Thomas?" It was the second time she had asked me the same question in less than twentyfour hours.

  My mind flashed on the images of the dead girls, the ones whose ghosts were even now hanging in my home. "A bit. Not much, though. I'm working on something that seems to be taking up a lot of my time." I thought it a pretty good answer under the circumstances; it didn't let on too much of anything. Not that there was much to let on anyway.

  "I never really told you where I grew up, did I? Just that I was a local girl, Leeds born and bred." Her eyes glimmered.

  "No, you never told me. I don't think it ever came up in conversation. You don't know the street where I lived as a boy, either."

  She nodded, her mouth a thin line bisecting her face. "Well, I was born on the Bestwick Estate. You look surprised."

  "No," I said. "Well, perhaps a little." I smiled, not wanting to give her an excuse to stop what she was trying to say.

  "Well, my parents were poor – the whole family was, actually. But dad worked day and night, all kinds of terrible shifts, just to put me through medical school. It was a hell of a financial strain. I still have family there, on that horrible estate. It's much worse now than it ever was when I was a girl, but it was always rough."

  I waited, uncertain if she wanted me to comment or was merely pausing for breath.

  "You might have seen on the news today that a young girl has gone missing, a nine year-old called Penny Royale. Well, Penny is my cousin Shawna's kid, and they're all distraught. The whole family. "

  I waited for the distant sound of a hammer falling but it didn't come. The news was relatively shocking, but I'd always known that certain members of Ellen's family were not exactly upstanding members of society. One of her brothers had served time for manslaughter when he was nineteen, and an uncle once robbed a post office in Manchester.

  "Anything to say?" She blinked slowly, her eyes still moist but her face more relaxed, as if by simply unburdening herself of this narrative she had found some kind of solace.

  "I did see that news story, and to be honest it barely registered on my consciousness. I thought it was just another missing child. It's a sad indictment of modern society, the fact that I can even dismiss it in that way, but that's what I did. Have the police been any help?"

  "Not much. Oh, they're trying their best, I'm sure, but in a situation like this people's expectations and the limitations of the authorities rarely correlate. I spent this afternoon out there, at Bestwick, trying to console our Shawna. It was an impossible task, and left me worn out. I almost didn't come this evening, but I knew that if I spoke to you, of all people, I'd feel better."

  Was she admitting that she was using me as an emotional support, or did her words represent some kind of backhanded compliment? I was so unused to social relationships that I had no clue. All I could do was wing it and hope for the best. "I'll take that as a compliment." I smiled.

  "It was meant as one. Pudding?" The non sequitur stunned me for a moment, and then I realised that once again our waiter was hovering, dessert menus clutched in his hand.

  "Yes, why not. I think we could both use the light relief."

  After I'd paid the bill (despite Ellen's argument that we go Dutch), we went across the road for a drink. There was a little bar that I knew from way back, and it was always dark and quiet – the perfect place for a chat.

  "So, give me the details," I said, my fingers wrapped around a cold Guinness glass. Whisky, red wine and now Guinness: my head was going to be pounding tomorrow. But at that point I didn't care, not about anything but Ellen's soft face and her sorrow-filled blue eyes.

  "Penny was on her way home from school. It's a short walk, and all the local kids go the same way, so it isn't a problem for a nine year-old to be walking the route alone, certainly not in broad daylight."

  Or so everyone thought. Of course, I didn't say this, but the words echoed in my mind, refusing to shut up.

  I sipped my drink and glanced into a far corner. Shadows were gathered there, shaped a little like a human form. I knew there was a ghost there, and that it was watching me, but I had other, more important things on my mind. Thankfully this one kept its distance. Some of them are polite like that. Some of them.

  Glasses clinked; someone across the room coughed into their fist; the jukebox came on, the volume low, and I heard the opening bars of a Johnny Cash song ease its way into the room.

  "Nobody saw anything. They don't know who took her, or where she was when she vanished. By all accounts Penny is an odd little girl – odd, that's the exact word they used. Basically, she's a loner, likes her own company, and loves books. She's very bright…" Ellen's voice trailed off; she was unable to finish.

  "Just like you at that age?" I didn't need an answer, but Ellen nodded anyway.

  "Okay, it's clear that you want to ask me something. The only thing that's puzzling me is your reticence."

  Ellen looked up at me, her blue eyes, her red lips, her pale, pale skin catching and holding the meagre light in the room. "There's a press conference tomorrow, at the community centre. If you're willing, I'd like you to come along with me, to hold my hand." She smiled, but it was fleeting, and filled with such an immense pain that I could barely even hold her gaze never mind anything else.

  "Moral support? Is that all? Surely you need more than that. Come on, Ellen, just ask me." I knew; I had known all along. It always, always comes down to this.

  Ellen stared directly at me, her gaze unflinching. "I want… I want you to tell me if she's dead."

  NINE

  I looked at Ellen across the table, staring into the warm depths of her eyes. The things stirring there, reflected in her pupils
, were clearly memories. But they were mine and not hers. Only mine.

  I am due to leave hospital in three days. The surgeons have mended whatever was broken and patched me up so that it is difficult to see the joins. But more is broken than my insides, and perhaps something old and previously ignored has even been fixed. I have to think of it this way – in terms of physical properties and parts of me that I cannot name. Otherwise I might go insane.

  One of the nurses picked up on what had happened with the dead motorcyclist, and she has been questioning me ever since. After a concerted effort on her part, I finally broke and told her what I saw and what I did with the knowledge. I expected mild concern, even laughter. What I got instead was utter belief. Nurse Haggard believes in what she calls the flipside; her late mother had some kind of latent mediumistic skill and she is herself (so she claims) slightly attuned to the dark. She feels things, senses subtle changes in the atmosphere, but has never actually seen anything that could be described as a ghost.

  Before the accident I would have called her a kook. Now I think she might be even closer to the truth than I am.

  I have reluctantly agreed to accompany Nurse Haggard to the house of a friend, where I can test my burgeoning ability. This friend of hers – a Mrs Taylor – wants me to contact her dead son.

  I lie in bed fully clothed, waiting for my chaperone. I can barely believe what is happening; when did my life turn into such a series of weird events? None of this seems real; it is all so strange and complex.

  After midnight she comes to me, this dark nurse of night, and she walks the ward like a spectre. "Are you ready?" she asks, leaning over me and casting her cold gaze across my body.

  I nod, terrified to speak in the hospital gloom. I am not ready; of course I am not. Not ready for any of this…

  "Are you sure you want to do this? You can back out at any time. No one will think any less of you."

  "I'm sure," I say, not sure at all. Not wanting to even think about any of it. The lights above my bed and strung along the ceiling flicker, as if mocking my reply. I stare at them, feeling the strobe effect as it throws my senses into disarray, and they settle at last. In my newfound state, I cannot be sure if it was caused by an electrical fault or some kind of otherworldly presence. Perhaps it is best that I don't know.

  Nurse Haggard helps me out of bed. I am still a little stiff, especially since I have been lying down for such a prolonged period of time. The muscles in my arms and legs tend to seize up, the barely mended bones beneath cowering under layers of knotted flesh.

  Layers and layers… layers of flesh and of fantasy. Layers of something I am unable to grasp.

  She leads me out of the ward and into the corridor. I have spent the last few days in a communal ward, and most of the other patients are either asleep or do not care that I am out of bed. Someone is mumbling in their sleep. A young man with both legs in plaster a few beds down from mine twitches as he dreams of motion, like a dog chasing rabbits in its sleep.

  "This way," says Nurse Haggard, allowing me to lean on her sturdy shoulders until my muscles loosen. She is a broad woman, heavy around the waist and with large, firm breasts. I am not attracted to her at all, yet I feel an erection stirring in my trousers. Self-disgust prompts me to push Nurse Haggard away, and she shoots me a look of confusion before hurrying ahead to check that the route is clear.

  She is too keen, this woman, and too ready to exploit whatever it is I can do. If I can do anything at all, that is, and the first time wasn't simply a fluke.

  We are not accosted as we leave the hospital building and walk to the car park. There are a few loiterers – those waiting for loved ones to be operated upon, nightshift doctors and nurses – who barely even look our way as we pass. We are just two people walking the halls at night: there is nothing unusual in that.

  Nothing unusual on the surface, at least.

  Nurse Haggard's little canary-yellow Fiat is parked in a staff space near the main gate. I clamber into the back, flopping into the cramped seat, and realise that I am breathing heavily, as if I have run a mile. It is going to take me a long time to fully recover, despite feeling as if I am well on my way to full health.

  Nurse Haggard starts the tiny car and backs it out of the space. The trees along the inside of the wall shudder in the headlights and something – an owl, or some other night bird – takes flight from a low branch, ejecting a white spurt of shit onto the dusty bonnet. Nurse Haggard does not even notice the defilation of her vehicle, but I smile nervously, wondering if it is some kind of omen of which I need to take note. The car judders slightly; the engine is cold after being parked there for most of the day, but Nurse Haggard gives it some accelerator and things even out.

  Evening-out. That's a concept I've come to hate. The surgeons and physiotherapists all tell me that things will "even out", that my mind will begin to heal as soon as my body is better. None of them seem to believe that I have seen something ephemeral – something ghostly. In the end, I stopped telling them and pretended that it had been a simple hallucination caused by a combination of stress and painkillers.

  Sometimes lies are the only truth people are prepared to hear. Sometimes lies are better.

  Nurse Haggard takes us along streets I do not recognise, up through Chapeltown and the rougher areas where the Yorkshire Ripper once plied his trade. Before long she stops the car outside a long terrace of Victorian houses, each one set back from the road at the end of a stubby little patch of garden. We sit in silence for a while, listening to the sound of the night. A man walks past on the opposite side of the road, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. His thick dark beard makes me think again of the Ripper, of dead and eviscerated prostitutes with hammer blows to their skulls and staring eyes that have seen the long, pale face of their own demise. Lengthy shadows lean from darkened corners, and then duck back into their hiding places.

  The man hurries by, a rucksack hanging loose over one shoulder: a night shift worker on his way to clock in.

  "Shall we go in?" Nurse Haggard turns around in her seat to stare at me. I can barely make out her features in the darkness; her eyes are sunken hollows in a head that could be not much more than a grinning skull.

  I nod. "Yes," I say, because I know that she will be unable to see me properly in the back of the car, leaning back in the seat that stinks of sex and old cigarette smoke. I don't really want to go inside, but think that it must surely be better than the atmosphere in the car.

  I follow Nurse Haggard out of the car, along the street, and through a low metal gate that squeaks when she pushes it open. It isn't a scary squeak, like the ones you hear in films, but something high-pitched and almost comical. I watch her wide back as she walks towards the front door of a large double-fronted house with beautiful but grimy bay windows. Grey nets hang in those windows, and I wonder who lives there with Mrs Taylor, the woman who wants me to find her son.

  I am tempted to run, but my body aches. In truth, the fear is submerged beneath a wave of curiosity. Can I really do this? Am I capable of communicating with the dead?

  Nurse Haggard knocks once on the door and it is opened almost immediately. A sallow girl with lank shoulder-length hair and wide, moist eyes steps backwards into the doorway to let us in. The hallway beyond is dark, the stairs wide and not very welcoming. Why is it so dark? Is it simply for effect or because someone has neglected to pay the bills? By the look of the girl, with her yellowish skin and too-thin arms sticking out of an old-fashioned house dress, I decide that the latter option is probably closest to the truth.

  I follow Nurse Haggard inside and the girl closes the door behind us. I never see her again, but I find myself thinking of her often. I don't even know if Nurse Haggard saw the girl – she certainly did not acknowledge her when the door was opened to allow us inside. Was she a ghost, or a living ghost drifting through the rooms of that house, pining after her dead brother/lover and weeping into the watches of the night?

  If this possibility even cr
osses my mind at the time, then I am unaware of it.

  "This way," says Nurse Haggard, in a whisper. The walls are covered in heavily patterned paper, some of it peeling away up near the ceiling. Wooden dado rails trace a line through the maze, showing us where to go.

  We enter a reception room at the end and on the left side of the hall. Inside there is a very fat woman sitting at a low coffee table. She has a glass before her, perhaps filled with water or perhaps with vodka – some clear liquid, at least. The fat woman smiles at me and I feel sure of something for the first time since seeing the ghost of the motorcyclist. "Hello, Mr Usher. I've been waiting for you." Her voice is as squeaky as the gate, and I stifle the urge to either giggle or scream.

  "Hello, Mrs Taylor. I'm… sorry for your loss." I do not mean to be so glib, but I can think of nothing else to say to the fat woman with the glass of clear liquid. I stare at her thin lips, her loose cheeks, and eyes that have never stopped weeping.