The Faceless (2 page)

“Anna... I think he needs to see somebody. He needs help.”

“Eva, we can’t
force
him to see anybody, unless he’s a danger to someone. I mean, do you think he is?” Was he a danger to Mary? That, most of all.

A low, deep sigh. “I don’t know, Anna. Don’t think so. You know he’d never hurt her.”

“I know. Of course.”

“But it’s affecting her. Seeing him like this. Us. And... I don’t know what to do. I need him back the way he was.”

She sounded almost petulant, but Anna bit back any urge to tick her off. “I know.” The static rose to a screech; it and the voices on the crossed line drowned Eva out. “Hello?”

“... interference.”

“Yeah, I know.” She didn’t mention the voices. In case Eva hadn’t heard them; in case they were only in Anna’s head. No. That had been just two months of her life, nearly ten years ago. After the divorce. Gone now. Done.

“Just thought, maybe if you talk to him. He might listen to you. I’m at my wit’s end, Anna.”

“OK. Look, why don’t we meet tomorrow? Lunchtime? The Creamery? We can talk about this properly over a coffee Éclair.”

Eva laughed. “You’re talking my language now.”

“Pleasure’s all mine. It’s the high point of my social life, these days.”

“Well, that’s your fault. Told you before, I’ll give you a makeover. Some guys like their women tall and thin–”

“And flat as an ironing board.”

“Some men do.”

Yes, Eva, but it’s not men I’m interested in
. She didn’t say that. “
Anyway
. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“OK. One o’clock at the Creamery.”

“See you then.”

THE TESTAMENT OF LANCE-CORPORAL CUTHBERT WINTHROP CONTINUED shrapnel wound to chin and fractured mandible whole of chin and floor of mouth destroyed tongue still present in and out of hospital for four years wife left me couldnt face it hell I couldnt face it took the kids with her my little boy crying everytime daddy came near never looked right again managed to get work

O
NE
D
ETECTIVE
S
ERGEANT
was on duty at Mafeking Road; a small wiry man in his late forties, with iron-grey hair and a thin, craggy face. He looked gentle and for the most part was; some thought him a soft touch. A few had learned the hard way he wasn’t.

“Mike.”

Stakowski looked up from his paperwork, tried not to sound as glad to see her as he felt. “Hello, stranger.”

“
Ma’am
to you, you old buzzard.” Renwick, Joan. Rank: Detective Chief Inspector. Age: twenty-nine. “Nice to see you too. How’s it been?”

He shrugged. “Same old. You?”

Hair: Glossy and brown. Skin: still tawny from summer in the Algarve. Build: lean and sleek from morning runs and gym sessions. Face: strong and wide; not quite pretty, but men looked twice. Eyes: blue-grey. Nose: aquiline. She puffed her cheeks out and released a long breath. “Busy. Knackered. Stressed.”

“Owt I can help with?”

“Not really. Got to go to Manchester week after next. Baldwin trial.”

“You’ve time to prep for it, then.”

“Time to get it bloody right. Why I’m knackered. I want them throwing the key away on that bastard. What?”

“Nowt, boss. Just... be careful, you know.”

“Of what?”

“Permission to speak freely?”

“Do you ever do anything else?” A fair point, but then they both went back a long way.

“That’s what you love me for, ma’am. Look... I know what you’re like when you’ve got the bit between your teeth. And that case were a rough one. I remember how it got to you.”

“So do I.”

“Sorry.”

“The concern’s appreciated, Sarge. I’m not looking forward to going through it all again, either. But I’ll be OK. Even got someone to look after me now.”

Stakowski nodded. “Heard there were a new feller.”

“That got round fast.”

“I’m a detective. Should try it sometime, ma’am, you might be good at it.”

Renwick raised two fingers.

“Going alright, then, that?”

“
Yes
, it is, thank you very much. He moved in a month ago, if you really must know. Any further questions? Plans for Christmas?”

“Back to the Wirral, see your old man?”

Her smile vanished. “No. Me and Nick were more thinking a quiet Christmas for two.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, what?”

“Nowt, ma’am.” Pause. “You had another barney with your Dad, then?”

“Sergeant.”

“Sorry.”

A sigh. “Yes, I did.” She shrugged. “That’s the way it goes.”

“You should be spending Christmas with your family, ma’am.”

“Yes, and with a name like Mike Stakowski you should be tearing round New York City having shootouts and chasing the girls.”

“Chance’d be a fine thing. Oh, and you forgot ‘not playing by the rules like those desk-jockeys at City Hall’, ma’am. Otherwise, full marks.”

Renwick chuckled, shook her head. “Why do I put up with you?”

“Because I’m a genius detective and all round charming devil, boss.”

“Yeah, right. Anything else? Or can I get on with my work now?”

“No. I’m just glad you’re doing good. Ma’am.”

A silent moment; they looked at each other. “Thanks, Mike.”

Stakowski shuffled papers. “Long as the bugger knows how lucky he is
.
”

“What?”

“Nothing, boss.”

“Whatever. So, anything tonight?”

“Regular crime-wave. Been a break-in at the B&Q.”

“What’d they take?”

“That’s the weird bit. Plaster of Paris, car batteries, paints. Shedload of other stuff worth a sight more, but they didn’t touch it.”

Renwick’s computer groaned into life. “Christ. This thing was a horse, you’d shoot it.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. What’ve we got?”

“Not much. CCTV was on the fritz.”

“Great.”

“SOCO are still working it. Might find something.”

“Bunch of students off their heads on magic mushrooms. Betcha.”

Stakowski grinned. “It’s a jungle out there.”

“Fancy a brew, Sergeant?”

“Love one, ma’am.”

“Me too.” Renwick opened a file, donned reading glasses. “You know where the kettle is.”

“Don’t strain yourself or owt, will you?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Bloody slavedriver.”

“Heard that.”

“You’re a bloody slavedriver,
ma’am
.”

“That’s better. Now chop-chop. CID won’t run itself.”

“As you wish.”

Stakowski filled the kettle. Outside, the streetlamps’ light thickened into luminous orange cones as mist gathered in the street below.

P
ENCILS AND CHARCOAL
scratched on paper; Kev’s heels clicked on the floor. Otherwise, silence, except for the moaning wind outside.

Even in a sweater, Eva was cold. God knew what it must be like for Mark, stretched out naked on the dais in the middle of the life-drawing class. She could see the goose-pimples. Still, the college paid him for it. His eyes met hers; he winked.

“
Quite
still, Mark,” Kev said primly. “If you don’t mind.”

Mark looked up innocently. Eva felt her face burn. Beside her, Jayne bit her lips and looked down.

Kev came over, bald patch gleaming under the striplights. “Very good, Eva.” He sucked his paunch in, walked on. “OK, let’s take a break, people.”

Mark reached for a blanket. “Aw,” Jayne whispered. “Was enjoying that.”

“You’ll be copping another eyeful soon enough,” Eva whispered back.

“Yeah, but I’m trying to keep my mind on the drawing. Alright for you. You could get a private showing any time you fancied.”

“Bog off.”

“You know he fancies you.”

“He’s twenty-one. Go after a sheep if you put a skirt on it.”

“So? He’s got standards. Some lads wouldn’t bother with the skirt.”

“Well, you’ve always got Kev.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Come
on
. Just imagine that beard tickling you.”

“
Eva
.” But Jayne was already giggling. It was catching, too; Eva could feel it bubbling up in her. “
Honestly
. And you a married woman.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Shit. Did I say the wrong thing?”

Eva forced a new smile. “Forget it.”

“’Kay. Change the subject.” Jayne nodded at the window; it was white with fog. “Lovely weather we’re having.
Shit!
”

“What?”

Kev bustled over. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone was looking in. Bloody perve–”

Something whacked hard against the window. She turned and saw it. A hand, splayed out flat. A moment later another slammed into place alongside it, so hard the pane cracked across. Between the hands, through the mist, what might have been a face began to take shape.

Someone screamed. Eva turned and saw a figure standing in the corner; tall and thin, clad in a black, tattered cape. A soft cloth cap hung down and shadowed its face.

A dark shape hovered in the air beside it like a shadow projected onto mist. Another appeared beside it. And another.

“Oh fuck.” Jayne had grabbed Eva’s forearm; her fingers sank in like claws. “What the fuck? What the fuck are they?”

The shadows were moving. One moved to bar the door. What good would that do? It was a shadow. But it was thickening, growing darker, more solid. They all were. There were a dozen in all, thin black tattered shapes, like the one advancing on them. Liz had stopped screaming; instead she stood rooted, face white, lips trembling, eyes fixed, even when it stretched out an impossibly long, clawlike hand towards her.

The room wasn’t cold anymore, Eva realised. It was warm; hot even. Strange she should notice that. And then the first of them was in arm’s reach, and as it reached for her she saw what it had for a face.

She screamed – everyone else was, even Kev – but then the warmth became searing heat and the world was suddenly made of fire.

“O
I,
S
ARGE
?” R
ENWICK
turned in her chair. “Where’s me brew?”

No reply. At the window, Stakowski was still, leaning forward.

“Mike?”

He turned and looked at her. No smile, no glint in his eye. She went over to him. He pointed. In the distance, she saw it: an orange glow, brighter than the streetlamps, flickering ever brighter through the fog.

It took her a moment to realise what it was. And as she did, behind them, her phone began to ring.

THE TESTAMENT OF LANCE-CORPORAL CUTHBERT WINTHROP CONCLUDED kept my head down literally down so no-one saw lasted another thirty years like that thirty fucking years gin helped gin and whisky but thats what finished it in the end cause of death cirrhosis of the liver and then howling into the dark the void howling we are all here all howling no peace no peace even in death no peace for us none

I
N THE
A
LMA
Street living room the clock ticked. Almost midnight. Martyn sat staring at the TV as he had for the last hour; saw nothing.

Get up. Do summat. But couldn’t. Like having flu. Couldn’t so much as get up. Every little job was suddenly massive. A monkey on your back; gripping tighter, squeezing harder, never letting go.

Eva’d be in the pub now, sipping a Britvic orange juice with her girlfriends, that ponce of a tutor. And that pretty-boy model – Christ, he wasn’t even
thinking
about him. Eva was everything. Even more than Mary. He knew it shouldn’t be like that, but it was. And Eva still turned heads. Men still looked at her. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t cheat. Would she?

The doorbell rang. Relief; she was home, and getting out of the chair was suddenly easy. The bell rang again.

As he turned the handle he remembered: Eva had a key. Why ring the bell, then? But the door was already open, and a blue light flashing in the street outside.

THE PAINTED MASK

‘B’ BLOCK

Dead hair and rodent bones in lightless corners; layers of dust on wooden sills and steel surfaces. Windows dimmed with grime. Thin pale light gleams on motes in the disturbed air and settles on dusty rows of ceramic arms that hang from hooks on the wall, fingers caught seemingly in the act of closing, as if they’ll form fists the moment your back is turned.

CHAPTER TWO

Monday 16
^th
December.

I
T WAS FIVE
miles’ drive from Roydtwistle Psychiatric to Kempforth, over dull brown moors thick with mist. Anna turned Minnie the Micra’s foglights on, palms damp on the wheel; nearly ten years on, places like Roydtwistle still made her feel cold and alone.

“You’re in my room,” she said.

“Eh?” In the passenger seat, Martyn blinked. Jeans, sweater. Two days’ stubble and an old carrier bag in his lap. A wavering smile and dark rings under eyes that flicked from place to place. Her brother. This was her brother, now.

“Mary’s in the spare room. She’ll want to be near you.”

“I can’t take your bed–”

“I’ve got a camp bed in the study.”

“The
what
?”

“Loft conversion. Remember?”

“
Study
?” He chuckled. “Get you.”

If he could joke, that was a good sign. Wasn’t it? “I’ll be fine. Used to it.” He didn’t look sure. “Honestly.” She needed some privacy. Pull up the drawbridge. “I’ve moved all my stuff upstairs anyway.”

Remember your family, lass,
Dad had used to say.
Owt else comes and goes, but your family’s always there
. Something else she’d have to do. The monthly trip to the Garden of Rest. Take Dad some flowers.

The hills around Kempforth came into view as she turned onto Dunwich Road North. Her gaze drifted to the furthest one, lost beneath its thick growth of pines and rowans, like a pelt of fur and bones: Ash Fell.

Eyes front
, she told herself, and drove on.